
Qass- 
Book_ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 







w5 



THE 



Fireside ENCYCLOPiEDiA 



OF 



POETET. 



<OMPRlsiS(; 



THE BEST POEMS OF THE MOST FAMOIS WRITERS, 
!■: X a 1. 1 s 1 1 A X L> A M K ii I c; A X . 



32> 



COMPILED AND EDITED 
BY 

HENRY T. COATES. 





PORTER & COATES, 
PHILADELPHIA. 



/ J 



JEl 






c - * 




Copyright, ists, by Henry T. Coates. 




Westcott & Thomson, 

Stereotypers and Bltctrotyptrs, Philada. 



Henry B. Ashmead, 
Printer, Philada. 



TO MY 
AI. :SIA MAT Ell, 

Haverford College, 

IN ri;mejibrance of 

THE WARM FRrENDSTIIi'S FORMED THERE, 

THE MANY JOYOUS LAYS SPENT THERE, 

ASD. 

ABOVE ALL. 

TIIK LITERARY ASPIRATIONS WHICH SHK KINDLED AND FOSTERED, 

WHICH HAVE SHED A GLADDENED LIGHT OVER THE YEARS 

SINCE I LEFT HER HALLOWED PRECINCTS, 

THIS VOLUME IS 

AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED, 



PREFACE. 



Nine years ago tliis month this work was coninicnccd, principally to while 
away the long fall and winter evenings, whieh threatened to hang heavy on 
the Editor's hands, and, thongh laid aside for months at a time, it has been 
a labor of love ever since ; and now it is with feelings akin to those felt at 
parting with an old and valued friend that he pens these prefatory lines, 
whicii mark the completion of his task. 

It has been his aim to present a comprehensive collection — an En'cyclo- 
PJETHA, in fact — of the poetry of the Englisii language, one that will be a 
welcome companion at every Fireside; and whieh, while representing all 
that is best and brightest in onr poetic literature, should contain nothing that 
would tend to undermine any one's faith or destroy a single virtuous impulse. 

Fully aware of the danger of trusting to the caprices or fancies of any 
individual judgment, the I'^ditor has diligently consulted the works of the 
best critics and reviewers, and has not hesitated to accept such pieces as have 
received their united commendation, or such as, through some jieculiar power, 
have touched the popular heart. Each poem has been given complete, and 
great care has been taken to follow the most authentic and approved editions 
of the respective authors; and though the quantity of s|)ace assigned to each 
ancl the selections made may not, and probably will not, satisfy every judg- 
ment, it is believed that none of the most famous minor poems of the English 
laii^uai'e will be found niis--inir from these i)aires. 

At the very outset it was deemed best to discard the chronological arrange- 
ment followed by most compilers, and to adopt the plan of classifying each 
poem according to its subject-matter, originated by Mr. Charles A. Dana in 
his excellent IIoxiHchohl Book of Poetry. In many cases this lias been found 
exceedingly diflicult; as often, under-currents so run in opposite directions as 
to threaten the entire foundation upon which the title of a poem is based; and 
in many poems the " moral " is dwelt on at greater length than the tale itself, 
so tliat the Editor has often been sorely tempted to end his perplexity by throw- 
ing them into tiiose convenient "olla podridas," " Poenu of Sentiment" and 
" Moral and Didactic Poetry." But with all these drawba(rks the advantages 
of the system are so great that there has been no hesitation in adopting it. 
By it, every taste may be gratified, all moods and humors the l)etter served. 
Here are "Ps;ilms and Hymns and Si>iritual Songs" for Sunday reading, 
Poems of Home Life and Domestic Bliss for the cold winter nights when the 
logs are blazing brightly on the cozy hearth, Poems on Nature for the bloom- 



PHEFACE. 



ing Spring-time and melancholy Autumn, Poems for the lover, and Historical 

Poems, Old Legends, and Ballads for all. 

From tlie days when 

" Adam delved and Eve span " 

to the present, human nature has been ever the same. Kingdoms have risen 
and been forgotten, languages been formed and fallen into disuse, but love, pa- 
triotism, sorrow and death, are the same in all ages and climes. The language 
may be ditferent and the allusions seem strange to our ears, but the same old, 
old story was told by gallant knight to high-bred dame in the good old days of 
Queen Bess as is now whis]X'rcd into the ear of rustic beauty or ball-room belle. 

"Each heart recall'd a different name, bnt all sang 'Annie Laurie.' " 

The same impulses animated Horatius as he faced Lars Porsena's army 
on the banks of the Tiber centuries ago, as actuated the brave boys who 
flocked to their country's standard during the late civil war ; while the parent 
even now mourns for his erring child in the same language of the heart as 
did the sweet Singer of Lsrael for his erring Absalom. For, though long 
cycles have intervened between Shakespeare and Tennyson, Sir Walter 
Raleigh and Longfellow, Herrick and Burns, Herbert and Whittier, rare Ben 
Jonson and Mrs. Browning, one animating purpose breathes alike through 
the voices of the poets of the past and the present. 

As many poems are founded upon some historical fact or some interesting 
incident or legend, a knowledge of which greatly aids the reader in his appre- 
ciation of them. Explanatory and Corroborative Notes have been appended at 
the end of the volume. This plan has been adopted in preference to placing 
the notes at the bottom of the jiage ; as many readers, who are familiar with 
their sidjstance, naturally object to such an arrangement as distracting their 
attention and marring the continuity of the poem. 

The compiler would express his thanks to the various authors and pub- 
lishers who have so kindly permitted him to use the copyright poems con- 
tained in this collection, and especially to Messrs. Houghton, Osgood & Co., 
who, notwithstanding that they publish excellent works of a similar character, 
generously granted the use of the various poems by Longfellow, Whittier, 
Emerson, Lowell, Holmes, Bret Harte, Saxe, Bayard Taylor, Stedman, Stod- 
dard, Trowbridge, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Parsons, Lucy Larcom, Julia 
W^ard Howe, and Phoebe Gary, the brightest galaxy of names ever collected 
together by any American publishing-house. 

Originality cannot be claimed for a work of this character, notwithstanding 
the labor and thought bestowed upon it; all the glory, all the praise, belongs 
to the poets themselves. In the words of Montaigne : " Here is a nosegay 
of culled flowers, to which I have brought nothing of my own but the thread 
(hat tics them." 

H. T. C. 

Philadelphia, October 18th, 1878. 



CONTENTS. 



PACK 

INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS xi 

INDEX OF AUTHORS xxv 

POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD 1 

POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION 73 

POEMS OF LOVE 97 

PERSONAL POEMS 221 

HISTORICAL POEMS . . • 283 

POEMS OF PATRIOTISM 351 

LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY 365 

POEMS OF NATURE 425 

POEMS OF PLACES 501 

"PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS" .... 523 

MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY 613 

POEMS OF LABOR AND SOCIAL QUESTIONS 689 

POE.MS OF SENTIMENT .... 723 

WEIRD AND FANTASTIC POETRY 791 

HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL POETRY 887 

NOTES, EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE 9.55 

INDEX OF FIR.ST LINES 985 



Engravings on Steel. 



Painted by 
SOXG OF THE RIVER james uamilton . 

RETURNING HOME meyer von beemes 

"THERE WERE TWO MILK-WHITE DOVES" count d'oesay . 

"AND THE STATELY SHIPS GO ON" . . . james Hamilton 

THE GIRL OF CADIZ 

THE CAVALIER'S SONG a. cooper, r. a. . 

MARY THE MAID OF THE INN 

IZAAK WALTON FISHING a. coopek, r. a. . 

"YE SAY THEY ALL HAVE PASS'D 

AWAY" JAMES HAMILTON 

"WITH ONE CONSENT LET ALL THE 

EARTH" SMVTH 



Engraved 6;/ Page 
J. M'GOFFIN FrontispieM 

ILLMAN ... 3 

J. C. nUTTEE . 32 

J. M'GOEFFN 88 

II.LMAN . . . 14(3 

E. HACKER . . 313 

404 

J. SCOTT . . 46" 

B. P. XEWSAM 522 



545 



"THOUGH STORMS BE SUDDEN AND 

WATERS DEEP" james Hamilton 

THE SOLDIERS DREAM f. goodall . . 

■WESTWARD THE COURSE OF EMPIRE 

TAKES ITS WAY" james Hamilton 

" NOBODY ASKED YOU, SIR, SHE SAID " . john faed . . . 



J. M'GOFFIN . 699 
J. WALTER . . "01 

, g. h. cisuman 725 
. oreatbach . 896 



Index of the Names of the Poems, 



ALPHABETICALLY ARRANGED. 



Abbot M'Kinnon, The Jamct llngj. S7S 

Abide with Me Henri/ F. /.;/le. 557 

Abiiu Ben Adheiii Leigh Hunt. 664 

Abraham Lincoln Tom Taylor. 280 

Adili»on, To the Earl of Warwick on the 

Death of. Tlwmaa Tlekell. 242 

Address to Certain Gold-Fishes.. //. Co^cn'rfi/c. 4C9 
Address to the Mummy at Belzoni's Exhibi- 
tion Horace Smith. 746 

Address to the Soul A. M. Toptady. 596 

Address to the Toothache Robert liitrna. 951 

Adelgitha Thomas Campbell. 145 

Adonais Percy liynshe Shelley. 25.3 

Afar in the Desert Thoman Printjle. 4S8 

After the Ball Nora Perry. 788 

Age and Song Alffentoii C. Swinbunte, 74.3 

Aged Man-at-Arms, The George Peele. 75.3 

Aged Oak at Oakley, The II.Al/ord. 460 

Age of Wisdom, The W. M. Thackeray. 87 

Agincourt, The Ballad of Michael Drayton. 300 

Ah, how Sweet it is to Love! ./ohn Drydcn. 90 

Alexander Selkirk, Verses supposed to be 

Written by It'm. Catcpcr. 679 

Alexander's Feast Juhn Drydeit. 726 

Alice Brand Sir Walter Scott. 838 

Alleluia John M. Neale. 546 

Allcn-a-Dale .S'lV Waller Scott. 186 

Almond-Blossom Edwin Arnold. 459 

Alnwick Castle Fitz-Orecne JIalleck. 513 

Alonz<t the Brave Matthew Q. Lcwit. 871 

Alpine Sheep, The Maria W. Loiretl. 638 

Althea, To, from Vn»on. ...liichard Lovelace. 124 

America Samuel F. Smith. 354 

American Flag, The Inneph R. Drake. 353 

Amynta Sir Gilbert Elliot. 200 

Ancient Mariner, The Rime of.... ^. T.Coleridge. 855 

.Angel in the House. .An Leigh Hunt. 745 

Angels of Bucna Vistji. The. ..J. G. Whittler. 344 

Angels' Whisper, The Samuel Lorcr. 24 

Angler, The lohn Chalkhlll. 468 

Angler's Trysting-Trcc, The... r. T. Sloddari. 469 

Angler's Wish. The haak Walton. 467 

-Annabel Lee Edgar A. Poe. 179 

Annie Laurie Author Unknown. 199 

Antony and Cleopatra William H. Lytic. 292 



Paoe 
Arab's Farewell to his Horse, The...P. Norton. 490 

Arethusa. Percy Rysehe Shelley. 462 

Ariel's Songs William Shakeiipearc. 794 

Armstr(mg's Goml-Night Inthor Unknown. 656 

Arsenal at Springfield, The..//. It'. Long/'ellow. 520 

Art of Book-keeping, The Thomas Hood. 949 

Art thou Weary? John M. Neale. 577 

As by the Shore at Break of Day T. Moore. 786 

Ask me no More Alfred Tennynon. 192 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows.. 7*. Carew. 192 

At Dieppe 11'. ir. ^ory. 513 

At .Sea J. T. Trowbridge. 785 

At Setting Day and Rising Morn. .4. RamKay.^ 195 

At the Church Gate It'm. M. Thackeray. 2U 

Auf Wiedersehen Jamcn R. Lowell. 217 

Auld Lang Syne Robert Burnt. 83 

Auld Robin Gray Lady .\nnc Barnard. 137 

Autumn, A Dirge Percy Bynuhe Shelley. 436 

Autumn. To .John Keatn. 435 

Autumn Flowers Caroline Sonthey. 449 

Aux Italiena Robert B. lylton. 180 

.Awakening of Eudymion, The 

L. E. L: Maclean. 172 

Babv, The Ilngh Miller. 29 

Baby Bell T. B. Aldrich. 21 

Baby Louise Margaret Eytinge. 20 

Baby May ir. C. Bennett. 20 

Baby's Di'bul, The Jamen Smith. 938 

! Bachelor's Dream, The Thoman lluod. 900 

Ballad of Agincourt, The...,lf.>/.-i,/ Drayton. 300 

Ballad of Bouillabaisse, The. ir..V. Thackeray. 89 

Ballad of Chevy-Chacc, IXin.Author Unknown. ^(I\ 

Bannookburn Robert BnrnM. 297 

Baptismal llytnn Henry Al/ord. 563 

Barbara .Allen's Cruelty Author Unknown. 417 

Barbara Frictchic John C. Whitticr. 343 

Bard, The Thomat Gray. 295 

Baron's Last Banquet, The .4. G. Greene. 621 

j Battle-Field. The William C. Bryant. 676 

j Batlle-IIymn of the Uc^niMicJulia W. Howe. 354 

' Battle of Blenheim, The Robert Southey. 677 

Battle of Fontenoy, The B. Dnwling. .322 

I Battle of the Baltic, The... Thomat Camnhell. 341 

I Baucis and Philemon Jonathan Stci/t. 897 



INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. 



Faok 

Beautiful Snow James W. Watson. 720 

Beauty Fades Wi/liain Dnnnmond. 743 

Bedford, On Lucy, Countess of... .Ben Jonson. 233 

Bedouin Love-Song Bayard Taylor. 177 

Beggar's Petition, The Thomas Moss. 717 

Believe me, if All those Endearing Young 

Charms Thomas Moore. 162 

Bells, The Edgar Allan Poe. 767 

BellsofShandon.../". Mahony (Father Prout). 516 

Bended Bow, The Felicia Hemuns. 412 

Beth-GSlert William Robert Spencer. 392 

Better Land, The Felicia Hemans. 598 

Bingen on the Rhine Caroline Norton. 701 

Bird, To a, that Haunted the Waters of 

Laaken Lord Thurlow. 471 

Birth of St. Patrick, The Samuel Lover. 941 

Black Cock, The Joanna Baillie. 479 

Blame not my Lute Sir Thomas Wyatt. 190 

Blessed Uauiozel, T:he..Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 839 
Blest be Thy Love, dear Lord..../oA;i Austin. 548 

Blind Boy, The Colhy Cibber. 61 

Blood Horse, The Bryan Waller Procter. 486 

Blossoms, To ., Robert Herrick. 459 

Blow, Blow, thou Winter VJ\xiA.. Shakespeare. 438 
Blow ye the Trumpet, 'B\ovi ...Charles Wesley. 552 
Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee, The..,S'/r W. Scott. 318 
Bonnie George Campbell — Author Unknown. 419 

Bonnie Lesley Robert Burns. 145 

Bonnie Prince Charlie James Hotjij. 326 

Border Ballad Sir Walter Scott. 358 

Bound upon th' Accursed Tree../?. //. il/i7maji. 536 

Boyhood Washinrfton Allston. 41 

Boys, The Oliver Wendell Holmes. 82 

Braes o' Balquhither Robert Tannahill. 496 

Braes of Yarrow, The, 

William ffantilton of Bangour. 382 

Braes of Yarrow, The John Logan. 384 

Break, Break, Break Alfred Tennyson. 88 

Bridal of Andalla, The .John G. Lockhart. 209 

Bridal Song Henry Hart Milman. 220 

Bridge of Sighs, The Thomas Hood. 719 

Bridges Author Unknown. 683 

Briefless Barrister, The John G. Saxe. 918 

Broadswords of Scotland, The../. G. Loekhart. 357 

Brookside. The Richard M. Milnes. 169 

Brown of Ossawatomie John G. Whitiier. 279 

Bugle Song Alfred Tmnyson. 500 

Bull-Fight of Gazul, The..../oJn G. Loekhart. 408 

Bumboat-Wonian's Story Wm. S. Gilbert. 892 

Burial Hymn Henry Hart Milman. 595 

Burial March of Dundee Wm. E. Aylnnn. 319 

Burial of Moses. The Cecil F. Ale.vnnder. 580 

Burial of Sir John Moore Charles Wolfe. 252 

Burns Fits-Greene Halleck. 249 

Burns, Ode on the Centenary of../«a C. Knox. 2.')0 
Butterfly, To the Samuel Rogers. 480 

Call, The George Darley. 178 



Page 

Canadian Boat-Song, A Thomas Moore. 737 

Candidate's Creed, The Jaines R. Lowell. 919 

Captain Reece William S. Gilbert. 952 

Captive Bee, The Robert Herrick. 209 

Cardiphonia Hannah Lloyd Neale. 682 

Careless Content John Byrom. 660 

Carmen Bellicosum Gny H. McMaster. 331 

Casablanca Felicia Hemans. 344 

Ca-sa Wappy David Macbeth Moir. 27 

Castara William Habington. 179 

Castles in the Air James Ballantyne. 53 

Cataract of Lodore, The Robert Southey. 508 

Cavalier's Song, The William Motherwell. 313 

Celestial Country, The. Bernard of Cluny 

{ Translation of John Mason Neale). 604 

Celia, To lien Jonson. 195 

Chambered Nautilus, The...O/iV«- 11'. Holmes. 467 

Chameleon, The James Merrick. 686 

Changed Cross, The Author Unknown. 590 

Character of a Happy Life Sir H.Wotton. 661 

Charade — Camp-Bell Winthrop M. Praed. 264 

Charge of the Light Brigade, The..vl. Tennyson. 347 

Charlie is my Darling James Hogg. 325 

Charlotte Pulteney, To Ambrose Philips. 26 

Chaucer, Inscription for a Statue of, 

Mark Akenside. 223 

Cherry-Ripe Robert Herrick. 214 

Chess-Board, The Robert Bulwer Lytton. 85 

Chevy-Chace, The Ballad of.vliifjor Unknown. 301 

Child and Maiden Sir Charles Scdlcy. 189 

Child and the Mourners, The C Mackay. 43 

Child .and the Watcher, Th^..^. B. Browning. 24 
Child embracing his Mother, To a.... T. Hood. 26 

Child of File, The Author Unknown. 385 

Children, The Charles M. Dickinson. 60 

Children in the Wood, The.. Author Unknown. 41 
Children of the Heavenly King..../. Cennick. 574 

Children's Hour. The H. W. Longfellow. 33 

Child Tired of Play, To a N. P. Willis. 33 

Chimes of England, The Arthur C. Coxe. 503 

Chorus — " Before the beginning of years," 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 746 
Chorus — " When the hounds of spring are on 

winter's traces ",..A?^enioH C. Swinburne. 430 

Chorus of the Flowers Leigh Hunt. 451 

Christabel Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 841 

Christ Crucified Henry Hart Milman. 535 

Christmas Nahum Tate. 531 

Christmas Carol Author Unknown. 532 

Christmas Carol John Byrom. 532 

Christmas Hymn, A Alfred Domett. 531 

Christ Risen Anna Lfetitia Barbauld. 537 

Christ will Gather in His Own, 

Author Unknown. 609 
Chronicle ofthe Drum, The.. W. M. Thackeray. 334 

Church of Brou, The Matthew Arnold. 422 

Closing Scene, The Thomas B. Read. 640 

Closing Y^ear, The.. George D. Prentice. 95 



INDEX OF THE SAMES OF THE POEMS. 



xiu 



Paok 

Cloud, The Percy Bi/uhe Shellei/. 446 

CoHd niiU Lucy Tliomat Tickell. 197 

CulogDC Siiiintvl Tttyior Vvieridt/e. 926 

Come away, Come away, l}*:aih..Shake9j}eare. 197 
Come hither, ye faithful, 

£. Catwcll (tramlation). 534 
Come, Holy Spirit. Heavenly Dove.../. ira««. 543 

Come into the (Jarilcn, Maud A. Teinii/aun. 177 

Come, Rest in this Bosom Thomas Moore. 147 

Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing, 

Robert JtohiimoH. 5S5 
Come, we that Love the Lord..../«aac Watts. 550 
Comin' Through the Hyc... Author Unknoicii. 214 

Common Lot, The James Montijomeri/. 618 

Complaining George Herbert. 585 

Complaints of the Poor, The.. Robert Soiithei/. 714 

Comus: A Mask. John Milton. 818 

Content Robert Greene. 660 

Contented Mind. A Joshua Siflvester. 660 

Contrast. The Horace Smith. 342 

Convict Ship, The Thomas Kibble Hervey. 786 

Coral Grove, The James Gates Percivnl. 466 

Corinna's going a-Maying Robert Herrick. 432 

Coronach .S'lV Walter Scott. 625 

Coronation Edirard Perronet. 537 

Cotter's Saturday Night, The.../^o&er( Burns. 5 

Courtin', The James Russell Loiccll. 889 

Court Lady, A Elizabeth B. Broicning. 361 

Covenanters' Battle-Chant Motherwell. 312 

Cowper's Grave Elizabeth B. Browning. 246 

Crabbed Age and Youth.... Wni. Shakespeare. 758 

Cradle Hymn Isaac Watts. 25 

Cradle Song Elizabeth Prentiss. 23 

Crescentius L. E. L. Maclean. 294 

Cromwell, Sonnet to the Lord General. .J/i7(«n. 234 

Crowded Street. The William C. Bryant. 647 

Cruel Sister, The Author Vnknoicn. 418 

Cry of the Children, The E. B. Browning. 61 

Cuckoo. To the. John Logan. 479 

Cuckoo, To the H7//i"'i«i Wordsworth. 478 

Culprit Fay, The. Joseph Rodman Drake. 810 

Cuninor Hall William Julius Mickle. 379 

Cupid and Campaspe John Lyly. 101 

Cupid Carrying Provisions George Croly. 156 

Cupid Swallowed Leigh Hnnl. 103 

Cynthia, To Ben Jonson. 448 

Cyriac Skinner, Sonnet to John Milirm. 234 

Daffodils William Wordsworth. 454 

Daffodils, To Robert Herrick. 455 

Daisy, To the William Wordsworth. 456 

Dai.'y, To the William Wordsworth. 455 

Day is Done, The Henry W. Longfellow. 776 

Days that are No More, The A. Tennyson. 91 

Deacon's Masterpiece Oliver W. Holmes. 930 

Dead Politician. The Francis Bret Harle. 704 

Death-hcd, A fames Aldrich. 625 

Death-bed, The Thomas Hood. 625 



Paok 
Death of the Flowers, The.... H'ni. C. Bryant. 458 
Death of the Old Year, 1be..AI/red Tennyson. 438 

Death's Final Conquest James Shirley. 623 

Dedication to Idylls of the King..^. Tennyson. 280 

Delight in Disorder Robert Herrick. 742 

Delight in God Only Francis Quarles. 576 

Departure of the Nightingale, The..C'. Smith. 478 

Description of Spring Henry Howard. 429 

Deserted Village Oliver Goldsmith. 753 

Destruction of Sennacherib, The. .Lord Byron. 285 
Devil's Thoughts, The. ..Samuel T. Coleridge. 915 

Dianeme, To Robert Herrick. 210 

Dickens in Camp Francis Bret Harte. 282 

Dies Irse Thomas de Cclano. 609 

Dies Iru) Translation of John A. Dix. 611 

Dies Irae Translation of Wm, J. Irons. 610 

Dies Ira) Paraphrase of Sir Walter Scott. 610 

Differences Charles Mackay. 705 

Different Minds Richard V. Trench. 658 

Dirge for a Soldier George H. Boker. 279 

Dirge from "The White Devil"...J. Webster. 638 
Dirge from •* Cymbeline *'... Wm. Shakespeare. 637 

Dirge, in Cymbeline William Collins. 637 

Dirge, "Softly!" Charles G. Eastman. 638 

Disdain Returned Thomas Carew. 180 

Ditty, A — " My truo-luve hath my heart, and 

I have his" Sir Philip .S'idney. 127 

Diverting History of John Gilpin, The, 

William Cowper. 927 

Dolcino to Margaret Charles Kingsley. 782 

Doubting Heart, \.... Adelaide Anne Procter, 684 
Dowie Dens of Yarrow, The.. IfifAor Unknown. 381 
Drake, On the Death of Joseph Rodman, 

Fiiz-Greene Hallcck. 253 

Dream, A Adelaide Anne Procter, 776 

Dream of Eugene Aram, The.. Thomas Hood. 375 

Drifting Thomas Buchanan Read. 784 

Dryburgh Abbey Charles Swain. 264 

Dumb Child, The Author Unknown. 29 

Dum Vivimus Vivamus P. Doddridge. 574 

Duncan Gray Robert Burns. 144 

Duty, Ode to William Wordsworth. 664 

Dying Christian to his Soul. The A. Pope. 696 

Dying Man in his Garden. The G. Sewetl. 6.37 

Each and Ai.i Ralph Waldo Emerson, 707 

Early Blue-Bird, The L. H. Sigournry, 474 

Early Piety Reginald Heber, 575 

Echo and Silence Sir S. Egcrton lirydgrs. 500 

Edinburgh after Flodden.. William E, Ayloun. 304 

Edward, Edward Darid Dalrymple, .380 

Elegiac Stanzas H'i//ium Wordsworth, 505 

Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson.. /?i»rii«. 247 
Elegy on that tHory of her Sex. Mrs. JIary 

Blaizc, An Olirer Goldsmith, 910 

Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog.O. O ddsmith, 926 
Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate 

Lady Alexander Pope. 635 



INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. 



Page 
Elegy, Written in a Country Churcli- 

yard Thomas Gray. 630 

Emigrants in the Bermudas, The..^. Marvell. 549 

End of the Play, The Wm. M. Thackeray. 673 

Entering into Covenant Philip Boddridfje. 562 

Epicurean lleminiscences of a Sentimentalist, 

Thomas Hood. 950 

Epiphany lierjinald Heher. 535 

Epitaph Extempore Matthew Prior. 241 

Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H Ben Jonson. 233 

Epitaph on the Admirable Dramatic Poet, 

W. Shakespeare John Milton. 230 

Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke, 

Beit Jonson. 233 
Epitaph on the Tombstone Erected over the 

Marquis of Anglesea's L*eg...(;. Canning, 946 
Epitaph upon Husband and Wife.T?. Crashaw. 635 
Epitaph upon the Eight Honourable Sir 

Philip Sidney <Sir Walter Baleiffh. 227 

Epithalamium John G. C. Brainurd. 220 

Eton College, On a Distant Prospect of, 

Thomas Gray. 504 

Euphrosyne Matthew Arnold. 213 

Eva, To Ralph Waldo Emerson. 217 

Evelyn Hope Bohert Browning. 196 

Evening. Ode to William Collins. 440 

Evening Cloud, The John Wilson. 442 

Evening Hymn Thomas Ken. 555 

Evening Hymn Georije Wither. 656 

Evening Hymn J,}hn Kehle. 555 

Evening Hymn Frederick W. Faber. 556 

Evening Hymn .S'lV Thomas Browne. 556 

Evening Star, To the John Lei/den. 449 

Evening Star, Song to the Thos. Campbell. 449 

Evening AVind. The William C. Bryant. 442 

Eve of Election, The John G. Whiltier. 675 

Eve of St. Agnes, The John Keats. 127 

Excelsior Henry W.Longfellow. 786 

Execution, The Richard Harris Barham. 939 

Execution of Montrose, The... W. E. Aytoun, 315 

Exile of Erin, The Thomas Campbell. 359 

Exile's Song, The Robert Gilfillan. 362 

Exile to his Wife, The .Xoseph Brcnnan. 13 

Fair Annie of Lochroyan...,4iif^or Unknown. 394 

Fair Helen Author Unknowjt. 402 

Fairies of the Caldon Low, The..Mary Howitt. 809 

Fairies, The Win. Allingham. 794 

Fairy Queen Author Unknown, 793 

Fairy Song John Keats. 793 

Faifh Frances Anne Kemhle. 688 

Faithfulness Elizabeth Lloyd Howell. 680 

Faithless Nolly Gray Thomas Hood. 894 

Faithless Sally Brown Thomas Hood. 895 

Family Meeting, The Charles Spnajne. 19- 

Fancy John Keats. 498 

Farewell ! but Whenever you Welcome the 

Hour Thomas Moore. 85 



Farewell to Nancy Robert Burns. 154 

Farewell to Thee, Araby's Daughter. ..A/oorc. 783 

Farewell to the Fairies Richard Corbet. 833 

Farewell to Tobacco, A Charles Lamb. 917 

Fate Francis Bret Harte. 787 

Fear, Ode to William Collins. 778 

Fireside, The Nathaniel Cotton. 4 

First Snow-Fall, The. ..James Russell Lowell. 437 

Fisherman's Song, The Author Unknotmi. 696 

Florence Vane Philip Pendleton Cooke. 171 

Flower, The George Herbert. 579 

Flowers H. W. Longfellow. 450 

Flowers John Keble. 450 

Flowers of the Forest, The Jane Elliot. 308 

Flow Gently, Sweet Afton Robert Burns. 51S 

Folding the Flocks Beaumont d- Fletcher. 493 

Fontenoy Thomas Osborne Daris. 321 

Fontenoy, Battle of. B. Dowlin(j. 322 

Footsteps of Angels H. W. Longfellow. 775 

For ever with the Lord.. ..Jumes Montgomery. 597 

Forget me Not Amelia Opie. 94 

Forging of the Anchor Samuel Ferguson. 693 

For New-Year's Day Philip Doddridge. 559 

Fountain of Mercy ! God of Love ! 

Anne Flowerdew. 563 
Fragment from Sappho, A. ..Ambrose Philips. 192 

France: An Ode .Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 333 

Friar of Orders Gray, The Thomas Percy. 117 

Friend after Friend Departs.../. Montgomery. 638 
Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder, 

The George Canning. 933 

Fringed Gentian, To the Wm. C. Bryant. 457 

Gaffeh Gray Thomas Holcroft. 715 

Gambols of Children, The George Barley. 41 

Gane were but the Winter Cauld, 

Allan Cunningham. 638 

Genevieve Samuel T. Coleridge, 155 

Gethsemane James Montgomery. 535 

Ginevra Samuel Rogers. 406 

Girl of Cadiz, The Lord Byron. 146 

Give me the Old Robert H. Messinger. 751 

Glenlogie Author Unknown. 406 

Glorying in the Cross Isaac Watts. 536 

Glove and the Lions, The Leigh Hunt. 411 

Glow-Worm, Sonnet to the John Clare. 481 

God Save the King Henry Carey. 355 

God's Judgment on aAVicked W\^ho\)„Southey. 409 

Golden-tressed Adelaide B. W. Procter, 17 

Go, Lovely Rose Edmund Waller, 185 

Good-Bye Ralph Waldo Emerson. 657 

Good Counseil of Chaucer... (?eo_^/-ey Chancer. 688 

Good, Great Man. The S. T. Coleridge. 662 

Good Lord Clifford, The.... Wm. Wordsworth. 225 

Good-Morrow Song Thomas Hey wood. 215 

Good Time Coming, The Charles Maekay. 752 

Go where Glory waits Thee Thomas Moore. 95 

Grasshopper and Cricket, On the J. Keats. 480 



IXDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. 



XV 



PlOZ 

Grasshopper and Cricket, To thcLei'gh Hunt. 480 

Grave, The Jatiuti Moulffomery. 6-11 

Grave of Macaura, The Mary JJuwiiiny. 223 

Graves of a Household, The F. Hemann. 32 

Grecian Urn, Ode on a .JdIiii A'talt. 748 

Grcingar Hill John Dyer. 506 

Groomsman to the Uride smaid. T. \V. Pamoim. 183 

Groves of Blarney. The II. .1. MilUkin. 516 

Guide me, Thou Great Jehovah ! 

William Williams. 573 
Gulf-Weed, The C. U. Feimer. 465 

Hag, The Ituhert Herrick: 875 

Hail, Thou Onco-dcspisdd Jesus. .X Bnkewelt. 539 

Hallo, my Fancy William Clclaml. 884 

Hallowed Ground Thoman Campbtll. 633 

Hanic, Hame. Hame ! Allan CiiniiiHffhatn. 357 

Hamilton, To Lady Anne — Wm. R. Spencer. 781 

Hannah Bimling Shoes ^ney Larcom. 698 

Ifappy ^larriiige, The Etiicard Moore. 4 

Hark! how All the Welkin Rings.. .C. W-,lcy. 533 

Hark, the Glad Sound /'hitip Duddriiltje. 534 

Harmosan Richard Chenevix Trench. 293 

Hart-leap Well William Wordmcorth. 387 

Has Sorrow thy Young Days Shaded? 

Thomas Moore. 744 

Haunted House, The Thomas Hood. 866 

Haunted Palace, The Edgar Allan foe. 871 

Health, A Edward Coale Pinkneij. 178 

Hear my Prayer, Heavenly Father, 

Harriet T. Parr. 564 

Hcarfs Home. The Frederick W. Faher. 600 

Heart's Longing, The Frederick SV. Fabcr. 600 

Heart's Song. The Arthnr C. Coxc. 575 

Heavenly Wisdom /ohn Lor/an. 575 

Heir of Linne, The Author Unknown. 368 

Helen of Kirkconncll .fohn Mayne. 403 

HeMvellyn .S'/> Walter Scott. 514 

Henderson, Elegy on Captain Matthew, 

Robert Bums. 247 
Here's to Thee, my Scottish Lassie, 

John Moultrie. 214 

Heritage, The James Russell Lowell. 705 

Her Letter Francis llrcl Harlc. 207 

HermionC Rnhrrt Buchanan. 9 

Hermit, The James Reatlie. 648 

Hermit, The Olirer Goldsmith. 159 

Hermit, The Thomas Parnrll. 666 

Hervf Kiel Robert BroKninr/. 413 

Hester Charles Lamb. 743 

Highland Girl, To a Wm. Wordsworth. 63 

Highland Mary Robert Burns. 120 

High-meltlcd Racer, The Charles Dibdin. 486 

High Tide on the Coast of Lincoln.«hire, i 

Jean Intjelote. 415 

History Robert Southey. 350 

llohcniinden Thomas Campbell. 340 | 

Holly Tree, The Robert Southey. 460 ! 



I Paoi 

j Holy Trinity, The Reginald Heber. 546 

j Homes of England, The Felicia Hemans. 3 

I Home, Sweet Home John H. Payne. 3 

Honest Poverty Robert Bums. 7U4 

Hope, Sonnet to Helen Maria Williams. 0G3 

Horatian Ode, An Andreio Marvell. 238 

Horatius Thomas B. Maraulay. 285 

Horse, To my Author Unknown. 491 

Horse and his Rider, The Joanna Baillie. 491 

Horseback Ride, Thc....Vfira Jane Lippincutt. 487 

Hour of Death, The Felicia Hemaue. 630 

Hour of Prayer, The Felicia Hemans. 564 

How Sleep the Brave IK. Collins. 363 

How's my Boy ? Sydney Dobell. 51 

How Sweet the Xame of Jesus Sound.s, 

John Newton. 542 
How they Brought the Good News from 

Ghent to Aix Robert Browning. 372 

Humble-Bee, The Ralph W. Emerson. 480 

Hundred Years to Come, K..Author Unknown. 675 
Hunter of the Prairies, The.. Wm. C. Bryant. 492 
Hymn before Sunrise in the Yale of Cha- 

raouni Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 518 

Hymn for Family Worship H. K. White. 568 

Hymn, "How are Thy servants blest, 

Lord!" Joseph Addison. 558 

Hymn, " Lord, with glowing heart I'd praise 

Thee" Francis Scott Key. 548 

Hymn on the Seasons James Thomson. 427 

Hymn to Adversity Thomas Oray. 779 

Hymn to Contentment. A Thos. Parnell. 659 

Hymn to God the Falher lien Jonson. 544 

Hymn to the Deity Augustus M. Toplady. 565 

Hymn to the Flowers Horace Smith. 453 

I AM a Friar of Orders Gray J. O'Kee/e. 914 

lanthe. To Walter Sarage Landor. 213 

Ichabod fohn Greenlea/ Whittier. 207 

I Give Immortal Praise Isaac Walls. 540 

I Knew by the Smoke that so Gracefully 

Curled Thomas Moore. 765 

I lay in .Sorrow deep Distressed... f. Mackay. 087 

I love Thy Kingdom, lMTil...Timolhy Dwighi. 574 

I Love my Love Charles Markay. 146 

II Penseroso lohn MilUm. 7:',7 

I'm Growing Old fohn G. Saxc. 753 

In a Year Robert Browning. 211 

Inchcapc Roek, The Robert Southey. 378 

Incident of the French Camp.../f. Browning. 341 

Inilian Gold Coin, Ode to an fohn Leyden. 87 

Indian Names Lydia Ifuntley Sigourney. 522 

Inner Calm, The Horatius Bonar. 565 

In Praise of his Love Henry Howard. 154 

In Remembrance of Joseph .Sturge, 

John Greenlea/ Whittier. 277 
Inscription for a Statue of Chaucer at Wood- 
stock .Vark Akenside. 223 

In the Down-bill of Life John Collins. 674 



INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. 



lutimations of Immortality from Recollec- 
tions of Early Childhood. IV. Wordsworth. 644 

Invitation, The Percy Bt/sshe Shdley. 497 

I Prithee send me back my Heart, 

Sir John Suckling. 171 

I Remember, I Remember Thomas Hood, lb 

Irishman, The William Muijinn, 894 

Is it Come Frances Brown. 750 

Italian Song, An Samuel Royers. 496 

It came upon the Midnight Clear.. £. H. Sears, 533 

Ivry Thomas Babinr/ton Macunlay. 309 

Ivy Green, The Charles Dickens. 458 

I would not Live Alway... W. A. Muhlenberg. 593 

J.iMES Melville's Child. .Ui'8. A. S. Menteath. 31 

Jealousy, the Tyrant of the Mind./. Dryden. 213 

Jean Robert Burns. 126 

Jeanie Morrison William Motherwell. 118 

Jenny Kissed Me Leigh Hunt. 186 

Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane../?. Tannuhill. 163 

Jessy Robert Burns. 166 

Jester's Sermon, The G, ]r. Thornbury. 914 

Jesus, I my Cross have Talien H. F. Lyte. 540 

Jesu, Lover of my Soul Charles Wesley. 541 

Jesu, my Strength, my HoYie.. Charles Wesley. 570 

Jock of Hazeldcan Sir Walter Scott. 134 

John Anderstin, uiy Jo Robert Burns. 10 

John Gilpin, The Diverting History of, 

William Cou'per. 927 

Jolly Good Ale and Old John Still. 915 

Jovial Beggar, The Author Uuknoum, 916 

Joy and Peace in BelieA'ing Wm. Cowper. 573 

Just as I am Charlotte Elliott. 568 

Kane Fitz-James O'Brien. 276 

Katharine Janfarie Author Unknown. 393 

Kilmeny James Hogg. 833 

Kingdom of God, The Richard C. Trench. 662 

King of Brentford's Testament, The, 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 904 

King of Denmark's Ride, The 0. Norton. 420 

Kisses William Strode. 156 

Kitten, The Joanna Baillie. 482 

Kitten and the Falling Leaves, The, 

William Wordsworth. 483 

Knight's Tomb. The Samuel T. Coleridge. 626 

Kubla Khan Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 848 

La Belle Dame sans Merci John Keats. 865 

Labor Frances Sargent Osgood. 691 

Lachrymatory, The Charles Turner. 742 

Ladder of St. Augustine. The Longfellow. 679 

Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament, 

Author Unknown, 23 

Lady Clara Vere de ycrc... Alfred Tennyson. 210 

Lady Clare Alfred Tennyson. 138 

Lady Geraldine's Courtship...^. B. Browning. 104 

Lady Margaret Ley, To the Mu Milton, 235 



Lady's Dream, The Thomas Hood 

Lady's Yes, The Elizabeth B. Browning. 

Laird o' Cockpen, The Lady C. Nairne. 

L.ake of the Dismal Swamp, The... 7". Moore. 

L'Allegro J„hn Milton. 

Lament, A Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

Lamentation for Celin, The..../. G. Lockhart. 
Lamentation of Don Roderick./. G. Lockhart. 

Lament for Astrophel Matthew Roydon. 

Lament of the Border Widow.jli((Zror(7HA-iiowri. 
Lament of the Irish Emigrant. .inrf^ Dufferin. 
Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New 

England, The Felicia Hemans. 

Land o' the Leal, The Lady C. Nairne. 

Langley Lane Robert Buchanan. 

Lass of Patie's Mill, The Allan Ramsay. 

Last Buccaneer. The Charles Kingsley. 

Last Conqueror, The James Shirley. 

Last Leaf, The Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

Last Man, The Thomas Campbell. 

La Tricoteuse George Walter Thornbury. 

Laura, my Darling Edmund C. Stedman. 

Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse, The, 

Sir William Blackstone. 
Lawyer's Invocation to, Spring, The, 

Henry Howard Brownell. 

Lead, Kindly Light John Henry Neicman. 

Legacy, The Thomas Moore. 

Leven Water, Ode to Tobias Smollett. 

Levett, On the Death of \)r.. Samuel Johtison. 

Lie, The Sir Walter Raleigh. 

Life Lord Bacon. 

Life Anna Lfetitia Barbanld. 

Life George Herbert, 

Life Francis Scott Key, 

Life Bryan Waller Procter, 

Life on the Ocean Wave, A Mpes Sargent, 

Light Shining out of Darkness... W, Cowper, 

Lilian Alfred Tennyson, 

Lily of Nithesdale, 1)^^... Allan Cunningham, 

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern John Keats, 

Lines on the Portrait of Shakespeare, 

Ben Jonson, 

Lines to an Indian Air Percy B. Shelley. 

Lines Written in Richmond Churchyard, 

Yorkshire ..Herbert Knowlea, 

Lines Written in the Tower C, Tychborn, 

Lines Written on the Night of the 30th of 

July, 1847 Thomas B, Macauloy, 

Lines Written the Night before his E.xecu- 

tion .. Sir Walter Raleigh, 

Lines Written to his Vi'He.... Reginald Heber, 
Lines AVritten under the Picture of John 

Milton John Dryden, 

Litany Sir Robert Grant. 

Little Beach-Bird, The Richard H.Dana. 

Little Billee William M. Thackeray. 

Little Black Bov, The William Blake. 



Page 
714 
138 
890 
521 
735 
768 
373 
292 
228 
417 



310 
638 
203 
155 
419 
623 
757 
643 
332 
16 

740 

949 
569 
766 
515 
245 
655 
615 
615 
758 
577 
617 
695 
544 
203 
218 
504 

230 
103 

633 



273 

228 
11 

240 
540 
470 
907 
50 



lyDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. 



Paob 

Little Children Laura A. Boiea. 33 

Little While, A lioratim lionar. 595 

Lochaber no More Allan Ramsay, 195 

Lochiel's Warning Thomat Campbell. 323 

Lochinvar Sir Walter Scott. 136 

Locksley Hall Alfred Tennj/son. 149 

Lo ! He comes, with Clouds Descending, 

Thomas Olivers, 611 

Long-Ago. The Richard Monckton Mitncs. 751 

Long did 1 Toil Henry Francis Lyte. 569 

Look Out, Bright Eyes... /tmumont tt' Flelihcr. 184 
Lord, Dismiss U3 with Thy Blessing, 

Walttr Shirlty. 612 

Lord is Risen, The Charles U'c»/ey. 536 

Lord Lovcl Author Unknown. 198 

Lord of Burleigh, The Alfred Tennymn, 201 

Lord of Butrago, The John 0. Lockhart. 293 

Lord, shall Thy Children come to Thee, 

iSamutl Hinth. 582 

Lord Ullin's Daughter Thomas Campbell. 381 

Lost Heir, The Thomas Hood. 902 

Lost Leader, The Robert Uroicniuff. 263 

Lot of Thousands, The Anne Hunter. 6^5 

Louis XV John Sterling. 328 

Love Samuel T. Coleridye. 102 

Love and Death John Ford. 203 

Love in the Valley George Meredith. 142 

Love is a Sickness AS<imucl Daniel. 100 

Love-Knot, The Author Unknown. 217 

Loveliness of Love, The Author Unknown. 139 

Lovely Mary Donnelly \Vm. Atlingham. 122 

Love me Little, Love me Long, 

Author Unknown. 163 

Love Not Caroline ^'orton. 187 

Love not me for Comely Grace, 

Author Unknown. 139 

Love's OmniprcBcnco Jonhua Sylvester, 101 

Love's Philosophy I'trey Bysnhc Shelley. 99 

Love still hath Something of the Sea, 

^tV Charts Sedley. 101 

Lorest tboQ Me William Cowper. 542 

Love thou thy Land Alfred Tennyson. 363 

Love will Find out the Way.AuthorUnknown. 99 

Low-backed Car, The Samuel Lover. 165 

Loyalty Confined iS'iV Roger //Estrange. 241 

Lucasta, To. (On Going beyond the Seas.) 

Richard Lovelace. 125 
Lucasta, To. (On Going to the Wars.) 

Richard Lovelace. 121 

Lucy William Wordsworth. 37 

Lucy Gray; or, Solitude... ifm. Wordsworth. 44 

Lucy's Flittin' William Laidlaw. 202 

Lullaby Tliomas Dekker. 23 

Lycidas John Milton. 235 

Maidenhood Henry W. Longfellow. 64 

Maiden's Choice, The Author Unknown. 210 

Maid of Athens Lord Byron. 145 



Paok 

Maid's Lament, The Walter S. Landor. 141 

Make Way for Liberty James Montgomery, 299 

Maibrouck.../V«»it't'(i Mahony {Father Prout) 

{from the French). 946 

Man's Mortality Simon Wastcll. 626 

March to Moscow Robert Southey, 947 

Marco Bozzaris Fitz-Oreene Hallcck. 346 

Mariner's Dream, The William Dimond, 696 

Mariner's Hymn Caroline Bowles Southey. 57'J 

Mariner's Wife, The Jean Adam. 12 

Mary, To Samuel Bishop, 12 

Mary, To William Cotcper, 245 

Mary in Heaven, To Robert Burns. 137 

Mary Morison Robert Bums. 147 

Mary of Castle Cary Hector Macneill. 164 

Mary, the Maid of the Jnn... Robert Southey. 404 
Massacre of the Macpherson... 11'. E. Aytoun. 932 

Matrimonial Happiness John Lapraik. 9 

Maude Clare Christina Georgina Rossetti. 188 

Maud Mullcr John G. Whitticr. 167 

May, Song to Lord Thurhw. 432 

May, Sonnet on Thomas Watson. 432 

May Morning, Song on John Milton. 431 

May Queen, The Alfred Tennyson. 65 

Meeting of the Waters, The... Thomai* Moore. 517 

Melancholia John Fletcher. 656 

Men of England Thomas Compbell. 356 

Men of Old, The liichnrd M. MUncs. 749 

Merry Pranks of llobin Good-Fellow, The, 

Author Unknown. 808 

Messiah A.Pope. 529 

Midnight Hymn Thomas Ken, 557 

Milk-Maid's Mother's Answer, 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 140 

Milk-Maid's Song Christopher Marlowe. 140 

Miller's Daughter, The Alfred Tennyson. 155 

Milton, Lines Written under the Picture of, 

John Drydcn. 240 

Milton, Sonnet to William Wordsworth. 240 

Milton's Prayer of Patience E. L. Hotccll. 235 

Minstrel's Song, The Thomas Chatterton. 147 

Missionary Hymn Reginald Hehcr, 580 

Mistress Margaret Hussoy, To..../«/iH Skrlton. 223 

Mithcrlcss Bairn, The William Th*>m. 34 

Monody on the Death of an Only Client, 

London I'unch. 919 

Monsieur Tonson John Tnylor. 943 

Mont Blanc Lord Byron. 520 

Monterey Charles Fenno Hoffman. 347 

Moon, Sonnet to the .S'lV Philip Sidney. IIS 

Moon, Sonnet to the Lord Thurlow. 448 

Moon, To the P. R. Shelley. 448 

Morning William Shnkespeare. 439 

Morning Hymn John Kehle. 553 

Morning Hymn Thomas Ken. 553 

Morning Hymn George Wither. 554 

Morning Song Joanna Baillie. 497 

Mother's Hope, The Lamaii Blanchard. 40 



INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. 



Page 

Mountain Daisy, To a Bobert Burns. 456 

Mouse, To a Robert Bunia. 481 

Mr. Molony's Account of the Ball, 

M^illiam Makepeace Tkacheray. 953 

Mrs. Unwin, To Wifliam Compar. 245 

Music Wi'liiam Strode. 734 

Musical In^iTwir^&ni... Elizabeth B. Broicuiuff. 725 
Music, when Soft Voices Die..,.P. B. Shelley. JSo 

My Ain Countree Allan Cunningham, 358 

My Ain Fireside Elizabeth Hamilton. 3 

j\Iy Child John Plerpont. 36 

My Days among the Dead are Passed, 

Robert Southey. 739 

My Dear and Only Love James Graham. 193 

My Eyes ! how I Love You [..Author Unknown. 162 

My Faith looks up to Thee Ray Palmer. 539 

My Heart's in the Highlands... 7i'oie/-( Burnn. 358 

My Love James Russell Lowell. 208 

My Minde to me a Kingdom is..., Wm. Byrd. 739 

My Only Jo and Dearie, Richard Gall. 202 

My Playmate John G. Whittter. 84 

My Psalm John G. Whittier. 615 

Nabob, The Susanna Blamire. 93 

Napoleon John Gibson Loehhart. 268 

Napoleon, The Keturn of, from St. Helena, 

Lydia H. Siffonrney. 268 

Naseby Thomas Babinyton Macaulay. 313 

Nearer Home Phtebe Cary. 587 

Nearer, my God, to Thee....iS'ornA F, Adams. 564 

Neckan, The Matthew Arnold. 883 

Neglected Call, The Hannah Lloyd Neale, 684 

Never Again Richard Henry Stoddard. 766 

New Jerusalem Author Unlcnoton. 602 

Now Tale of a Tub, The..../'. W. iV. Bayley. 921 

New Year's Day, For Philip Doddridye. 559 

Night James Montgomery. 687 

Night Hartley Coleridge. 777 

Night WilliaJti Habington. 777 

Night at Sea Lmtitia E. L. Maclean. 443 

Night Before Christmas, The C. C. Moore. 51 

Nightingale, Ode to a John Keats. 476 

Nightingale, The Richard Barnejield. 478 

Nightingale, The Departure of the..C. Smith. 478 

Nightingale, To a William Dnunmond. 475 

Nightingale, To the William Drummond. 476 

Nightingale, To the John Milton. 476 

Night Piece, The Robert Herrick. 127 

Night, To Percy Bysshc Shelley. 442 

Night, To Joseph Blanco White. 441 

Ninety and Nino Elizabeth C. Clephane. 581 

No Age Content with his Own Estate, 

Henry Howard. 657 

Nongtongpaw Charles Dibdin. 946 

Nothing but Leaves Lucy E. Akerman. 578 

Nothing to Wear WilHnm Allen Butler. 708 

Not One to Spare Author Unknown. 37 

Not on the Battle-Ficld John Pierpont. 677 



Paqb 

Now and Afterward Dinah M, Craik. 620 

Nun, The Leigh Hunt. 171 

Nut-Brown Maid, The Author Unknown. 112 

Nymph Complaining for the Death of her 

Fawn Andrew Marvell. 499 

O'Connor's Child Thomas Campbell. 395 

Ode, An, in Imitation of Alcaeus.^iV W.Jones. 303 
Ode, — " Bards of passion and of raxTth". Keats. 742 
Ode, Intimations of Immortality from Recol- 
lections of Early Childhood. Wordsworth. 644 

Ode on a Grecian Urn John Keats. 748 

Ode on Solitude Alexander Pope. 757 

Ode on St. Cecilia's Day Alexander Pope. 729 

Ode on the Centenary of Burns.. /«a C. Knox. 250 
Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington, 

Alfred Tennyson. 270 
Ode on the Death of Mr. Thomson. W. Collins. 244 

Ode, On the Spring Thomas Gray. 431 

Ode, — " The spacious firmament on high," 

Joseph Addison. 545 

Ode to a Nightingale John Keats. 476 

Ode to an Indian Gold Coin John Leyden. 87 

Ode to Duty William Wordsworth. 664 

Ode to Evening William Collins. 440 

Ode to Fear William Collins. 778 

Ode to Leven Water Tobias Smollett. 515 

Ode to my Little Son Thomas Hood. 901 

Ode to the West Wim\..Percy Bysshe Shelley. 436 
Fairest of the Rural Maids!. W. C. Bryant. 781 

Of Myself Abraham Cowley. 233 

Oft, in the Stilly Night Thomas Moore. 79 

God of Bethel, by whose Hand... Variation 

by John Logan {from Philip Doddridge). 587 
Happy Soul, that Lives on High!../. Watts. 575 

Oh, Breathe not his Name Thomas Moore. 252 

Oh, had we some Bright Little Isle of our 

Own ! Thomas Moore. 194 

Oh for a Thousand Tongues to Sing.. C Wesley. 552 
Oh, my Luve'slikeaRed, Red Rose. . ^. ^«rn*. 157 
Oh! Snatched away in Beauty's Bloom, ^yron. 745 

Oh! the Pleasant Days of Old F.Brown. 749 

Oh why should the Spirit of Mortal be 

Proud? William Knox. 627 

Old Age and Death Edmund Waller. 629 

Old and Young Courtier Author Unknown. 672 

Old Arm-Chair, The Eliza Cook. 75 

Old Clock on the Stairs, The Longfellow. 78 

Old Familiar Faces, The Charles Lamb. 79 

Old Folks at Homo Stephen C. Foster. 68 

Old Grenadier's Story, The...(?. W.Thornbury. 343 

Old Grimes Albert G. Greene, 910 

Old Letters Frederick Locker. 88 

Old Man Dreams, The Oliver W. Holmes. 897 

Old Man's Comforts, The Robert Southey. 674 

Old Man's Wish. The Walter Pope. 756 

Old Oaken Bucket, Thd. ..Samuel Woodworth. 76 
Omnipotent Decree Charles Wesley. 585 



INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. 



XIX 



Faox 
On a Contented Mind.... TRoma», Lord Yaux. 658 
On a Day, Alack the Day!... If. Shakt»penre. 141 
On a Distant Prospect of Eton College. T. Orag. 50-J 
On a Distant View of England. H'. L. limclct. ^bfi 

On a Girdle Edmuini W'liiUr. 185 

On an Intaglio Head of Minerva. T. 11. Aldrich. 782 

Xannv, wilt Thou go with Me T. Perci/. 161 

On Another's Sorrow Wt'ttiam Blake. 589 

On a Prayer Book, sent to Mr.<. M. R., 

Hubert Crtuhaw. 586 

Once upon a Time Caroline B. Southey. 93 

One by One Adelaide Anne Procter. 682 

One Gray Hair, The Waller S. Landor, 75.3 

One Word is too often Profaned.A B. Shelley. 148 
On First Looking into Chapman's Homer, 

John Keatu. 741 

On his Blindness Mm Milton. 2.34 

On Lending a Punch-Bowl 0. W. Uolmet. 90 

On Lucy, Countess of Bedford Ben Jouson. 233 

Only Waiting Author Unknown, 639 

On Uevisiting the River Loddon...?*. ^Vnrton. 508 
On the Death of Dr. Levett..iS'«mi(ci ,/ohngon. 245 
On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake, 

Fitz-Greene Hallcek. 253 
On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic, 

William Wordsworth. 347 
On the Funeral of Charles the First, 

William Li^le Botvleg. 314 

On the Gra?.«hopper and Cricket J. Keati. 480 

On the Late .Massacre in Piedmont../. Afillon. 315 
On the Mornin:; of Christ's Nativity ....l/i7toii. 525 
On the Pro.«pc.'t of Planting Arts and Learn- 
ing in America Oeortje Berkeley, 725 

On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture, 
. William Cnwper. 17 

On the Rhine William Litle Boielcn. 618 

On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey, 

Franei^ Beaumont. 504 
On this Day I Complete my Thirty-Sixth 

Year Lord Byron. 88 

Origin of the Opal Author Unknown. 461 

Orphan Boy's Tale, The Amelia Opie. 34 

Thou, from Whom all Goodness Flows, 

Thoman ffairein. 584 
Thou, the Contrite Sinner's Friend, 

Charlotte Elliott. 540 

Outlaw, The Sir Walter Scott. 176 

Over Hill, Over Dale.... It7//iVim .<ihakr-i,eare. 794 
Over the River Xaney A. W. Wakefield. 629 

Pam. To Beaumont tt Fleteher. 429 

Panglory's Wooing Song Gilei Fleleher. 100 

Paraphrase of Psalm XXIII ./. Addinon. 561 

Paraphrase of Psalm XXIII R. Cranhaw. 562 

Passing Away John Pierpont. 623 

Passing Under the Rod Mary S. B. Dana. 589 

Passions, The IK. Ordlinp. 732 

Past, The William Callen Bryant. 91 



Paob 

Pastoral, A John Byrom. 173 

Pastoral, A Nicholas Breton. 182 

Pastoral Ballad, A William Shcnslone. 205 

Paul Revere's 'Rido.... Henry W. Lonyfelloio. 329 

Paupcr'-s Death-Bed, The C. B. Southey. 721 

Pauper's Drive, The Thomat Xocl. 722 

Peal of Bells, A Chrittina G. Rometti. 766 

Pearl-Wearer, The Bryan Waller Procter. 700 

Pembroke, Epitaph on the Countess of, 

Ben Joiuon. 233 

Pericles and Aspasia George Croly. 291 

Petition to Time, A Bryan ir«//e/' Procter. 753 

Pet Lamb, The W. Wordmorth. 485 

Philip my King Dinah M.Craik. 21 

Phillida and Corydon Nicholas Breton. 145 

Philosopher's Scales, The Jane Taylor. 665 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu A'i> Walter Scott. 359 

Picture, A Charlcn G. Eastman. 8 

Picture of T. C, The, In a Prospect of 

Flowers Andrew .Marvell. 240 

Pied Piper of Hamelin, The /f. Browning. 851 

Pilgrimage, The Sir Walter Raleigh. 578 

Piper, The Williatn Blake. 52 

Plain Language from Truthful James, 

Francis Jiret Ilarte. 931 

Ploughman, The Oliver Wendell Holmes. 692 

Poet's Bridal-Day Song...v4//a» Cunningham. 68 

Poet's Song to his Wife B. W. Procter. 17 

Pompadour, The G. W. Thornbury. 327 

Poor Jack Charles Dibdin. 698 

Portrait, The Robert Bnlwer Lytlon. 199 

Power of Love, The Beaumont tt: Fletcher. 169 

Praise of a Countryman's Life, The, 

John Chalkhill. 494 
Praise of a Solitary Life, The. W. Drummond. 658 

Praise to God ylimn Lirlilia Barbauld. 548 

Priest, The Nicholas Breton. 552 

Primrose, The Robert Herriek. 214 

Primrose, To an Early Henry K. H7ii(e. 454 

Primroses Filled with Morning Dew, To, 

Robert Herriek. 454 

Prisoned in Windsor Henry Howard. 224 

Prisoner of Chillon Lord Byron. 398 

Problem, The Ralph Waldo Emerson. 663 

Progress of Poesy, The Thomas Gray. 7.30 

Prologue to Mr. Addison's Tragedy of" Calo," 

Alexander Pope. 212 

Psalm of Life, A ffenry W. Longfellow. 617 

Psalm XXIII, Paraphrase of J. Addison. 561 

Psalm XXfll, Par.aphraso of. R. Crashaw. 562 

Psalm LXXII — " Hail to the Lord's Anoint- 
ed " James Montgomery. 538 

Psalm LXXII — "Jesus shall reign where'er 

the sun " Isaac Watts. 538 

Psalm LXXXIV— "Pleasant are Thy courts 

above" Henry Francis Lyie. 600 

Psalm LXXXIV— "Lord of the worlds 

above" Isaac Watts. 588 



INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. 



Psalm LXXXVII— "Glorious things of Thee 

are spoken" John Ncwfo}i. 598 

Psalm XC — " Our God, our help in ages 

past" Inaac Watts. 549 

Psalm XCVIII— *'Joy to the world! the 

Lord is come" Isaac Watta. 549 

Psalm C — **With one consent let all the 

earth " Tate & Brady. 545 

Psalm C — '* Before Jehovah's awful throne," 

Isaac Watts {varied hy Charles Wesley). 546 
Psalm CXVII— *' From all that dwell below 

the skies " Isaac Watts. 552 

Psalm CXXI — " Up to the hills I lift mine 

eyes" Isaac Watts. 583 

Psalm CXLVIII — " Come, oh come ! in pious 

lays" Georrje Wither. 551 

Pulley, The Oeorye Herbert. 602 

Qua Cursum Ventus ..Arthur Hugh Clongh. 746 

Quaker Widow, The Bayard Taylor. 53 

Question, The Percy Bysehe Shelley. 461 

Quince Wiuthroj} Maekworth Praed. 909 

Rainbow, The Henry Vaiu/han. 445 

Rainbow, The, William Wordsworth. 446 

Rainbow, To the Thomas Camjjbell. 446 

Rainy Day, The Henry W. Longfellow. 777 

Randolph of Roanoke John G. Whittier. 262 

Rape of the Lock, The Alexander Pope. 795 

Raven, The Edr/ar Allan Poe. 849 

Rebecca's Hymn Sir Walter Scott. 550 

Reconciliation, The Alfred Tennysou. 16 

Re-cured Lover Exulteth in his Freedom, 

The Sir Thomas Wyatt. 191 

Redbreast, Sonnet to the John Bampfylde. 475 

Red River Voyageur, The..../oAji G. Whittier. 680 

Reflective Retrospect, A John G. Saxe. 81 

Renunciation, A...E. \'ere {Earl of Oxford). 190 

Resii^nation Richard Baxter. 566 

Resignation Thomas Chaticrton. 565 

Resignation. ...^enry Wadsworfh Loiiyfellow. 646 

Retirement William Coirprr. 582 

Retirement, The Charles Cotton. 493 

Retreat, The Henry Vttiujhan. 92 

Return of Napoleon from St. Helena, 

Lydia H. Sif/onniey. 268 

Rhodora, The Balph Waldo Emersoti. 457 

Right must Win, The. ..Frederick W. Fabcr. 572 
Rime of the Ancient Mariner, The, 

Samnel Taylor Cvlerid<je. 855 
Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale, 

Anthor Unlcnoicn. 390 

Robin Redbreast William Allingham. 475 

Rock me to Sleep Elizabeth Akers Allen, 76 

Rock of AgQ&....AugnatH8 Montague Toplady. 541 

Rory O'More Samuel Lover. 165 

Rosabelle Sir Walter Scott. 403 

Rosader's Sonetto Thomas Lodge. 156 



Rosalind's Madrigal Thomas Lodge. 100 

Rosaline Thomas Lodge. 123 

Rule, Britannia James Thomson. 355 

Ruth Thomas Hood. 144 

Sabbath Chimes Charles Swain. 561 

Sabbath ^vemng....G€orge Hem'son Prentice. 441 

Sabbath Morning. The .John Leyden. 439 

Sack of Baltimore, The Thomas 0. Davis. 311 

Sailor's Wife, The Charles Machay. 35 

Sally in our Alley Henry Carey. 120 

Sands of Dee, The Charles Kingnley. 417 

Saturday Afternoon N. P. Willis, 79 

Saviour, who Thy Flock art Feeding, 

William Augustus Muhlenberg. 541 

School and School-fellows W. M. Praed. 81 

Schoolmistress, The William Shenstone. 55 

Sea, The B. W. Procter. 464 

Sea-Limits, The Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 464 

Seasons, Hymn on the James Thomson. 427 

Serenade, A Thomas Hood. 901 

Serenade, A Sir Walter Scott. 189 

Shakespeare, Epitaph on John Milton. 230 

Shakesj)eare, Lines on the Portrait of.„i^o)(so)i. 230 

Shakespeare Ode Charles Sprague. 230 

Shakespeare, To the Memory of... Ben Jonson. 228 
Shall I Tell you Whom I Love?. Wm. Browne. 123 

She is Far from the Land Thomas Moore. 275 

She is not Fair to Outward View..//. Coleridge. 172 

Shells of Ocean Anthor Unknown. 784 

Shepherd's Resolution, The. ..George Wither. 169 

Shepherd's Wife's Song, The R. Greene. 142 

Sheridan's Ride Thomas Buchanan Read. 349 

She AValks in Beauty Lord Byron. 743 

She was a Phantom of Delight... Wordsworth. 12 , 

Shortness of Life, The Franeis Quarles. 617 

Shout the Glad Tidings.. Wm. A. Muhlenberg. 534 

Sic Vita Henry King. 688 

Sidney, Epitaph upon Sir Philip, 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 227 

Sigh no More, Ladies Wm. Shakespeare. 187 

Signs of Rain Edward Jenner. 448 

Silent Lover, The Sir Walter Raleigh. 124 

Siller Croun, The Susanna Blamire. 147 

Sir Patrick Spens Author Unknown. 367 

Sister Helen Dante Gabriel Rosaetti. 875 

Sixteen Walter Savage Landor. 214 

Skeleton, To a Author Unknown. 642 

Skeleton in Armor, The....^. W. Longfellow. 864 

Skipper Ireson's Ride John G. Whittier. 371 

Skylark, The James Hogg. 472 

Skylark, To a Percy Bysshe Shelley. 473 

Skylark, To a William Wordsworth. 472 

Skylark, To a William Wordsworth. 472 

Sleeping Child, A Arthur Hugh Clough. 27 

Sleep, Sonnet on Samuel Daniel. 778 

Sleep, Sonnet on Sir Philip Sidney. 778 

Sleep, The Elizabeth B. BroicnJng. 622 



IXDKX OF THE NAMES OF POEMS. 



PlOE 

Society upon the Stanielow, The..f. B. Barte. 942 

Soldier, Rest .SVc Waller licnii. 700 

Soldier's Dream, The Thoma» Campbell. 701 

Solitude, Ode on Alexander Pope. 757 

Son-Daycs Henri/ Vaiighan. 500 

Song — " Busy, curious, thirsty fly ".. H'. Oldi/». 481 
Song — " Day in melting purple dying," 

Mrirla Brooks. 170 
Song for St. Cecilia's Day, A.. ..John Bri/den. 728 
Song. (From the "Merchant of Venice"), 

Williain .Sliiitetpeare. 838 
Song — " Lay a garland on my hearse," 

Beaumont <f- Fletcher. 212 

Song of Fairies Le!<jh Hunt. 794 

.Song of Margaret Jean Intjelow. 195 

Song of Marion's Men U'. C. Bri/nnl. 3.11 

Song of the Brook Alfred Tennt/Hon. 462 

Song of the Camp, The Bayard Taylor. 210 

Song of the Dying, The B. Voiellng. 7S9 

Song of the Fairies /o/ni Lyly. 793 

Song of the Greek Poet Lord Byron. 300 

Song of the North, A Bli:al,cih Dotea. 421 

Song of the River Charlet Kingnley. 463 

Song of the Shirt, The Thomai Hood. 716 

Song of the Summer Winds. ..ffor^/c Darley. 435 

Song, On May Morning John Milton. 431 

Song — "0 welcome, bat and owlet gray," 

.Toanna Baillte. 479 
Song — " Rarely, rarely, comest thou," 

Percy Bynithe Shelley, 781 

Songs of Birds, The John Lyly. 478 

Song — " Still to be neat, still to be drest," 

Ben ifonnon. 742 

Song, sung by Rogero Geonje Caiinimj. 933 

Song — '* The lark now leaves his watery 

nest"... Sir William Darenant. 471 

Song — " 'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark," 

Hartley Coleridye. 471 

Song to May Lord Thnrloie. 432 

Song, To the Evening Star T. Campbell. 449 

Song — "To thy lover" Hiehard Craehaic. 120 

Song — " Under the greenwood tree," 

William Sliaketpeare. 459 
Songs of Praise the Angels Sung, 

Jamen Monlijomery. 5S8 

Songs of Seven Jean Inr/eloie. 09 

Sonnet — "A good that never satisfies the 

mind" William Ornmmnnd. 650 

Sonnet — "Because I oft in dark abf'traetcd 

guise" .<f,V Philip Sidney. 783 

Sonnet, Composed upon Westminster Bridge, 

William Wordmeorlh. 503 
Sonnet — " Full many a glorious morning have 

I seen" William Shate,peare. 439 

Sonnet — " Ilaving this day my horse, my 

hand, my lance" Sir /'hillp Sidney. 192 

Sonnet — " It is a beauteous evening, calm 

and free" William Wordtieorth. 441 



191 



755 



I Sonnet — "Let me not to the marriage of true 

minds" William Shakenpenre. 218 

j Sonnet — "Like as the culver, on the bared 

I bough" Edmund Spender. 190 

Sonnet — " Like as the waves make toward the 

I pebbled shore" William Shakenpeare. 755 

Sonnet, May Thomaa ir<i(«o;i. 432 

Sonnet — " No longer mourn for me when I 

am dead" William Shakcupeare. 219 

Sonnet — "Not marble, nor the gilded monu- 
ments" William Shakespeare. 754 

Sonnet—" happy Thames that didst my 

Stella bear!" .S',V Philip .Sidney. 

Sonnet — " Oh, how much more doth beauty 
beauteous seem "... William .Slitikenpeare. 
Sonnet, On a Distant A'iew of England, 

William Litilc Bowles. 350 

Sonnet, On his Blindness John Milton. 234 

j Sonnet on Sleep Samuel Daniel. 778 

I Sonnet on Sleep .ViV Philip Sidney. 778 

Sonnet, On the Late Massacre in Piedmont, 

John Milton. 315 

Sonnet — " Poor soul, the centre of my sinful 

earth" William Shakespeare. 755 

Sonnet — " Sad is our youth, for it is ever go- 
ing" Aubrey de Vere. 616 

Sonnet — " Scorn not the sonnet ; critic, you 

have frown'd" William Wordsworth. 783 

Sonnets from the Portuguese. .£. B. Brownimj. 134 

Sonnet — " Shall I compare thee to a summer's 

day?" William Shakespeare. 220 

Sonnet — " .Since I did leave the presence of 

my love" Edmund Spenser. 190 

Sonnet — "Since there's no help, come, let us 

kiss and part" Michael Drayton. 170 

Sonnet, Summer Lord Thnrlow. 435 

Sonnet — " Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a 

brere" Edmund Spenser. 782 

Sonnet — "That time of year thou may'st in 

me behold" William Shakespeare. 219 

Sonnet — "They that have power to hurt, and 

will do none". William Shakespeare. 756 

Sonnet — " Time wastcth years, and months, 

and hours" Thomas Watson. 172 

Sonnet — "Tired with all these, for restful 

death I cry" William Shakespeare. 219 

Sonnet, To Cyriac Skinner fohn Milton. 2:U 

Sonnet to his Lute William Druinmond. 730 

Sonnet to Hope Helen Maria Williams. 003 

Sonnet — " To live in hell, and heaven to be- 
hold " Henry Constable. 212 

Sonnet — " To me, fair friend, you never can 

be old" William .Shakespeare, 754 

Sonnet, To Milton William Wordsworth. 240 

Sonnet — " To one who has been long in city 

pent" John k'eals. 497 

Sonnet to the Glow-Worm John Clare. 481 

Sonnet, To the Lord General Cromwell, .Vi/(ou. 234 



INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS, 



220 



315 



735 



Sonnet, To the Moon Sir Philip Sidney. 118 

Sonnet, To the Moon Lord Thurlow. 448 

Sonnet, To the Redbreast. ...JoAu Bamjyfylde, 475 

Sonnet to Time \Villiam Lisle Boiolea. 686 

Sonnet — " When I do count the clock that 

tells the time" William Shakespeare. 754 

Sonnet — "When in disgrace with fortune and 

men's ejes" William Shakespeare. 219 

Sonnet — " When in the chronicle of wasted 

time" Williaiii Shakespeare. 

Sonnet, When the Assault was Intended to 

the City John MilU 

Sonnet — " When to the sessions of sweet 

silent thought".... William Shakespeare. 
Sonnet Written after seeing Windsor Castle, 

Thomas Warton. 504 
Sorrows of AVerther, The... 11^ M. Thackeray. 893 

Sound tlie Loud Timbrel Thomas Moore. 550 

Spring Thomas Nash. 431 

Spring, Ode on the Thomas Gray. 431 

Spring, To William Driunmovd. 429 

Squire's Pew, The Jane Taylor. 671 

St. Agnes' Eve Alfred Tennyson, 601 

Stanzas — "And thou art dead, as young and 

fair" Lord Byron. 744 

Stanzas — "Farewell, life! my senses swim," 

Thomas Hood. 637 
Stanzas — *' My life is like the summer rose," 

Richard Henry Wilde. 618 
Stanzas — " Oh, talk not to me of a name great 

in story" Lord Byron. 157 

Stanzas on the Death of a Friend.../?. Heber. 594 
Stanzas — "When lovely woman stoops to 

folly" Oliver Goldsmith. 687 

Stanzas — "When midnight o'er the moonless 

skies" Wiiliam Rohert Spencer. 94 

Stanzas for Music — " There be none of 

Beauty's daughters" I^ord Byron. 157 

Stanzas written in Dejection near Naples, 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 261 
St. Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes, 

Anfhor Unknown. 913 

Star of Bethlehem, The Henry A'. White. 577 

Star-Spangled Banner, The... Francis S. Key. 353 

St. Cecilia's Day, Ode on Alexander Pope. 729 

St. Cecilia's Day, Song for John Dryden. 728 

Steadfast Shepherd, The Georye Wither. 153 

Stolen Kiss, A Georye Wither. 156 

Stormy Petrel, The Drynn Waller Procter. 470 

Stranger and his Friend, The.J. Montgomery. 542 
Stranger on the Sill, The. T'. Buchanan Read. 77 

Stream of Life, The Arthur Huyh Clont/h. 616 

Sturge, In Remembrance of Joseph. Whittier. 277 

Summer Longings Denis F. McCarthy, 433 

Summer, Sonnet on.. Lord Thurlow, 435 

Sunday George Herbert, 560 

Supplication, A Abraliam Cowley. 121 

Sweet and Low Alfred Tennyson. 22 



Page 

Sweet are the Charms Barton Booth. 154 

Sweet Baby, Sleep George Wither. 25 

Sweet Content Thomas JJekker. 660 

Sweet Innisfallen Thomas Moore. 517 

Sweet William's Farewell to Black-Eyed 

Susan John Gay. 119 

Take, oh Take those Lips Away, 

Beaumont & Fletcher, 184 
Take thy Old Cloak about thee. 

Author Unknown. 899 

Tale of Drury Lane, A Horace Smith. 934 

Tam O'Shanter Robert Burns. 873 

Tears of Scotland, The Tobias Smollett. 327 

Tell me How to Woo Thee, 

Graham of Gartmore. 161 
Tell me, ye Winged Winds... CAar/e* Mackay. 601 

Tempest, The Sir Humphry Davy. 464 

Ternissa Walter Savage Landor. 196 

Thanatopsis William Cullen Bryant, 624 

Thanksgiving Hymn Henry Alford. 558 

Thanksgiving to God for His House, A, 

Robert Hcrrick. 559 

Theatre, The James Smith. 936 

The Child Leans on its Parent's Breast, 

Isaac Williams. 573 
The Dule's i* this Bonnet o' Mine.J?. Waugh. 166 

The God of Abraham Praise T. Olivers. 583 

The Harp that once through Tara's Halls, 

Thomas Moore. 362 
The Heath this Night must be my Bed, 

Sir Walter Scott. 186 
The Midges Danco aboon the Burn, 

Robert Tannahill. 440 
There is a Dwelling-Place Above.. ..A. Mant. 599 

There is a Garden in her Face R. Alison. 185 

There is a Happy Land Andrew Young. 599 

There is a Land of Pure Delight./soac Watts. 599 
There's not a Joy the World can Give, 

Lord Byron. 656 
The Wretch, Condemned with Life to Part, 

Oliver Goldsjnith. 787 

They are all Gone Henry Vaughan. 597 

They Come ! the Merry Summer Months, 

William Motherwell. 434 
They're Dear Fish to Me. ...Author Unknown. 699 

Thomson, Ode on the Death of W.Collins. 244 

Those Evening Bells Thomas Moore, 766 

Thou Art, God Thomas Moore. 551 

Thought among the Roses, A... Peter Spencer. 458 

Thoughts in a Garden Andrew Marvell. 495 

Thoughts in a Library Anne C. L. Botta. 740 

Thou hast Sworn by thy God.^. Cunningham. 157 

Three Fishers, The Charles Kingsley. 699 

Three Ravens, The Attthor Unknoicn. 410 

Three Sons, The John Moultrie. 38 

Three Troopers, The... fr't'o)Y/e W, Thornbury. 411 
Three Warnings, 1\\e... Hester Thrale Piozzi. 619 



INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. 



Paok 

Three Years she Grew Win. W'ordKiporth. ;i7 

Thrush's Nest, The John Clare. 474 

Thy Voice is Heard thro' Rolling Drums, 

Alfred Tcnuynon, 745 

Thy Will be Done Charlotte Elliott. 566 

Thy Will be Di)ne Anna L. Warinf/. 567 

Thy Will be Done John G. Whinier. 568 

Tiger, The H'iWiam Bluk-e. 492 

Tiuie, Sonnet to \Vitliam Litle Bowles. 686 

Times Oo by Turns .Robert Sonthwell. 780 

'Tis the Last Rose of Summer T. Moore. 458 

Tithonus Alfred Tennt/son. 789 

To a Bird thnt ITanntod the Waters of Laaken 

in the Winter Lord Thnrlow. 471 

To a Child Embracing his Mother... T. Hood. 26 

To a Child Tired of Play A'. P. Willin. 33 

To n Ilighland Girl Wm. Word»ioorlh. 63 

To Althca, from Prison Richard Lovelace. 124 

To a Mountain Daisy Robert Burns. 456 

To a Mouse Robert Burns. 481 

To an Early Primrose Henry K. White. 454 

To a Nightingale M'illiani Drummond. 475 

To a Skeleton Author Uitfcnoirn. 642 

To a Skylark Percy Bi/sshe Shelley. 473 

To a Skylark William Wordsworth. 472 

To a Skylark William Wordsworth. 472 

To Autumn John Keats. 435 

To a Waterfowl William Cnllen Bryant. 471 

To Blossoms Robert Herrick. 459 

To Celia Ben Jonson. 195 

To Charlotte Pultcney Ambrose Philips. 26 

To Cynthia Ben Jonson. 448 

To Daffodils Robert /ferrick: 455 

To Dianeme Uobert Herrick. 210 

To Eva Ralph Waldo Emerson. 217 

To his Forsaken Mistress Sir R. Aylon. 148 

To his Lute William Drummond. 736 

To his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia, 

Sir Henry Wotton. 185 

To Tanthe Walter Savage Landor. 213 

To Keep a True Lent Robert Herrick. 587 

To Lady Anne Hamilton H'. R. Spencer. 781 

To Lucasta, On Going beyond the Seas, 

Richard Lovelace. 125 
To Lucasta, On Going to the Wars, 

Richard Lovelace. 124 

To Mary Samuel Bishop, 12 

To Mary William Coicper. 246 

To .Mary in Heaven Robert Burns. 137 

Tom Bowling Charles Dibdin. 639 

Tom Dunstan R. Buchanan. 702 

To Mistress Margaret Hussey /. Skelton. 223 

Tommy's Dead •V'"'* Dobell. 620 

To Mrs. Unwin William Cowper. 245 

To my Horse Author Unknown. 491 

To my Picture Thomas Randolph. 757 

To my Wife Thomas Hnyncs Bayly. 11 

To Xight Percy Bysshe Shelley. 442 



To Night Joseph Blanco White. 

Too Late Dinah M. Craik. 

To Pan.. Beaumont (£* Fletcher. 

To Primroees, filled with Morning Dew, 

Robert Herrick. 

To Sigh, yet Feel no Pain Thomas Moore. 

To Spring William Drummond. 

To the Butterfly Samuel Rogers. 

To the Cuckoo ...John Logan. 

To the Cuckoo William Wordsworth. 

To the Daisy William Wordsworth. 

To the Daisy William Wordsworth. 

To the Earl of Warwick on the Death of Mr. 
Addison Thomas Tickcll. 

To the Evening Star John Leyden. 

To the Fringed Gentian W. C. Bryant. 

To the Grasshopper and Cricket L. Hunt. 

To the Lady Margaret Ley John Milton. 

To the Memory of my Beloved, the Author, 
Mr. William Shakespeare, and what ho 
bath left us Ben Jonson. 

To the Moon Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

To the Nightingale William Drummond. 

To the Nightingale John Milton. 

To the Rainbow Thomas Campbell. 

To the Sister of Elia Waller S. Landor. 

To Thy Temple I Repair J. Montgomery. 

Touchstone, The William Atlingham. 

To Vincent Corbet, my Sod. ..Richard Corbet. 

To Virgins to make iNluch of Time...-/y(?rricfc. 

Traveller, The Oliver Goldsmith. 

Treasures of the Deep, The F. Hemans, 

Triumph of Charis, The Ben Jonson. 

Trooper to his Mare, The C. 0. Halpine. 

True Growth Ben Jonson. 

Twa Corbies, The Author Unknown. 

'Twas when the Seas were Roaring.. ..y. Gay. 

Twenty Years Ago Author Unknown. 

Twins, The Henry S. Leigh. 



Page 

441 

19 

429 

454 
182 
429 
480 
479 
478 
455 
456 

242 
449 
457 
480 
235 



228 
448 
476 
476 
446 
273 
561 
665 
233 
123 
769 
465 
160 
491 
679 
411 
125 
80 
904 



UNBEn MY Window T. Weslicood, 41 

Unfortunate Miss Bailey. .../"rcrfericife Locker. 952 

Universal Prayer, The Pope. 545 

Up-IIill Christina Georgina Rossctti. 578 

Urania Matthew Arnold. 216 

Useful Plough, The Author Unknown. 692 

Use of Flowers, The .Vary Howilt. 457 

Vacabonps, The /. T. Trowbridge. 717 

Valediction.. Richard Baxter. 592 

Vanity of Human Wishes, The.. ...9. Johnson. 649 

Vanity of the World, the. ...Francis Quarks. 654 

Vengeance of Mudara, The. ...J. G. Loekhart. 294 

Vcni Creator John Dryden. 544 

Veni Creator Spiritus Author Unknoten. 543 

Verses in Praise of Angling. ...ViV //. Wotton. 467 
Verses, supposed to bo Written by Alexan- 
der Selkirk William Cowper. 079 



INDEX OF THE NAMES OF THE POEMS. 



Very Mournful Ballad, A Lord Byron. 297 

Vicar, The Wiiithrop Mackworth Praed. 911 

Vicar of Bray, The Author Unknown. 912 

Village Blacksmith, The.../f. H'. Lonrj/ellom. 693 

Vincent Corbet, my Son, To li. Corhet. 233 

Violet, The ^Yilliam Welmore Start/. 455 

Virtue George Herbert. 662 

Vision upon this Conceit of the Faerie 

Queene, A Sir Walter Raleigh. 741 

Voiceless, The Oliver Wendell Holmes. 626 

Wae's me for Prince Chaelie... Wm. Glen. 326 

Walking with Uod William Cowper. 564 

Waly, Waly, Love be "Bonny ..AuthorUnhnoii^n. 103 

AVandering Jew, The Author Unknown. 374 

Warren's Address John Pierpont. 329 

Watchman, tell us of the Night, 

Sir John Bowring, 525 

Waterfowl, To a William Cullcn Bryant. 471 

We are Brethren a' Robert Nicoll. 706 

We are Seven William Wordswortli.. 39 

Weary Christina Georgina Boasetti. 591 

Weep no More John Fletcher. 7S8 

Welcome, The William Browne. 125 

Welcome, The Thomas Osborne Davis. 158 

Wellington, Ode on the Death of the Duke 

of. Alfred Tennyson. 270 

Well of St. Kcyne, The Robert Southey. 896 

AVe Parted in Silence Julia Crawford. 85 

We Sing the Praise of Him who Died, 

Thomas Kelly. 536 

West Wind, Ode to the Perry li. Shelley. 436 

Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea.^l. Cunningham. 695 

What Ails this Heart o' Mine S. Blamire. 199 

What are These in Bright Array, 

James Montgomery. 598 

What is Prayer .Jtnnes Montgomery. 563 

What Mr. Robinson Thinks J. R. Lowell. 920 

AVhen all Thy Mercies, my God../. Addison. 547 
When Coldness Wraps this Suffering Clay, 

Lord Byron. 625 
AVhcn Gathering Clouds around I View, 

Sir Robert Grant. 569 

When Icicles Hang by i\\Q\i&\\..Sha1fespeare. 438 

When Maggy Gangs Away James Hogg. 161 

When our Heads are Bowed with Woe, 

Henry Hart Milman. 582 
When Stars are in the Quiet Skies, 

Edward linlwer Lyilon. 218 
When the Assault was Intended to tho City, 

John Milton. 315 

When the Kyo comes Ilame .fames Hogg. 167 



Page 

When we Two Parted Lord Byron. 86 

Where did you Come from?....(r. Macdonald. 22 
AVhere are you Going, my Pretty Maid? 

Author Unknown. 896 

AVhere shall the Lover Kest -S'lV W. Scolt. 176 

Whilst as Fickle Fortune Smiled, 

Richard BarnefieJd. 780 
Whilst Thee I Seiik. ...Helen Maria Williams. 572 

Whiskers, The Samuel Woodworth. 890 

AVhistle, The Robert Story. 182 

White Rose, The Author Unknoion. 214 

AVho is Sylvia? William Shakespeare. 217 

Why so Pale? Sir John Suckling. 104 

AVhy thus Longing? Harriet W. Sewall. 768 

Widow and Child, The Alfred Tennyson. 36 

AVife, A William Allingham. 14 

AA'illiam and Margaret David Mallet. 175 

AVillie AVinkie William Miller. 29 

Will of God, The Frederick W. Faber. 566 

Windsor Castle, Sonnet Written after Seeing, 

Thomas Warion. 504 

AVinifreda Author Unknown. 9 

AA'^insome Wee Thing, The Robert Burns. 11 

AVish, A Samuel Rogers. 8 

AVishes for the Supposed Mistress, 

Richard Crashaic. 121 

A¥ith a Guitar, to Jane Percy B. Shelley. 734 

AVithout and AVithin James R. Lowell. 707 

AVithout and 'Wiihin.... Richard H. Stoddard. 14 

AVoman's Answer, A Adelaide A. Procter. 188 

AVoman's Inconstancy Sir Robert Ayton. 141 

AVoman's Que.-^lion, A Adelaide A. Procter. 187 

AVonderfu' AVean, The Willinm Miller. 30 

AVoodman, Sparc that Tree ! G. P. Morris. 77 

Wrestling Jacob Charles Wesley. 571 

Yars of the "Nancy Bell," The, 

William S. Gilbert. 908 

Yarrow Revisited William Wordsworth, 511 

Yarrow Unvisited Williajn Wordsworth. 510 

Yarrow Visited William Wordsworth. 510 

A'e Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon, 

Robert Burns. 170 
Ye Golden Lamps of Heaven, Farewell, 

Philip Doddridge. 588 

Ye Mariners of England T. Campbell. 356 

Young Airly Author Unknown. 325 

Young Grey Head, The. ..Caroline B. Southey. 44 

Young May Moon, The Thomas Moore. 162 

Youth and Age Samuel T. Coleridge. 94 

Zara's Ear-Rings John Gibson Lockhart. 183 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Pagr 
ADAM, JEAN (b. 17J0, d. 1765). 

The Mariner's Wife 12 

ADAMS, SARAH FLOWER (b. 1805, d. 1848). 

" Nearer, uiy tlod, to Tliee " 564 

ADDISON, JOSEPH (b. 1672, d. 1719). 

An Ode — " The spacious firmament on high "... 545 
llymu — " How are Thy servants blest, Lord !" 5.58 

Paraphrase of Psalm XXIII 561 

" When ail Thy mercies, O my God !" 647 

AKENSIDE, MARK (b. 1721, d. 1770). 

Inscription for a Statue of Chaucer 223 

AKERMAN, LUCY EVELINA. 

Nothing but Leaves 578 

ALDRICII, J.UIES (b. 1810, d. 1856). 

A Deathbed 625 

ALDRICII, THOMAS BAILEY (b. 1836). 

Baby Beli 21 

On an Intaglio Head of Minerva 782 

ALEXANDER, CECIL FRANCES (b. 1823). 

The Burial of Moses 580 

ALFORD, HENRY (b. 1810, d. 1871). 

Baptismal Hymn 563 

Thanksgiving Hymn 558 

The Aged Oak 460 

ALISON, RICHARD (about 1606). 

"There is a garden in her face" 185 

ALLEN, ELIZABETH AKERS(b. 18.32). 

'* Rock me to sleep" 76 

ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM (b. 1828). 

A Wife 14 

lively Mary Donnelly 122 

R<jbin Redbreast 475 

The Fairies 794 

The Touchstone 665 

ALLSTOS, WASHINGTON (b. 1779, d. 1843). 

Boyhood 41 

ARNOLD, EDWIN (b. 1832). 

Almond-Blossoms 459 

ARNOLD, M.VTTHEW (b. 1822). 

Euphrosyne 213 

The Church of Brou 422 

The Neckan 883 

Urania 216 

AUSTIN. JOHN (d. 1669). 

"Blest he Thy Love, dear Lord" 548 

AYTON, SIR ROBERT (b. 1570, d. 1638). 

To his Forsaken Mistress 148 

Woman's Inconstancy 141 

U 



Page 
AYTOUN, WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE (b. 1813, 
d. 1865). 

Burial-March of Dundee 319 

Edinburgh after Flodden 304 

Execution of Montrose 315 

^lassacreof the Macpherson 932 

BACON, FRANCIS, BARON VERULAM (b. 1561, 
d. 1626). 
Life 615 

BAILLIE, JOANNA (b. 1762, d. 1851). 

The Black Cock 479 

The Horse and his Rider 491 

The Kitten 482 

Jlorning Song 497 

Song — " Oh welcome, bat and owlet gray " 479 

BAKEWELL, JOHN (b. 1721, d. 1819). 

"Hail! Thou once-despised Jesus !" 539 

BALLANTYNE, JAMES (b. 1808). 

Castles in the Air 53 

BAMPFYLDE, JOHN (b. 1754, d. 1796). 

Sonnet to the Redbreast 475 

BARBAULD, ANNA L.ETITIA (b. 1743, d. 18'2.i). 

Christ Risen 5.37 

Life 615 

Praise to God 548 

BARHAM, RICHARD HARRIS (b. 1788, d. 18-15). 
The Execution 939 

BARNARD, LADY ANNE (b. 1750, d. 1825). 

Auld Robin Gray 137 

BARNEFIELD, RICHARD (b. 1574). 

The Nightingale 478 

"Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled" 7S0 

BAXTER, RICHARD (b. 1615, d. 1691). 

Resignation 566 

Valediction 592 

BAYLEY, FREDERICK W. N. (b. 1807, d. 1&-.2). 
The New Tale of a Tub 921 

BAYLY, THOMAS IIAYNES (b. 1797, d. 1839). 

To My Wife H 

BEATTIE, JAMES (b. 17.'i5, d. 180.3). 

The Hermit 648 

BEAUMONT, FRANCIS (b. I.5S6, d. 1616). 

Ou the Tombs in Westminster Abbey 504 

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 

Folding llie Flocks 493 

" Look out, bright eyes" 184 

XXV 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Faoe 

Song — " Lay a garland on my hearse" 212 

"Take, oh take, those lips away " 184 

The Power of Love 169 

To Pan 429 

BENNETT, WILLIAM COX (b. 1820). 

Baby May 20 

BERKELEY, GEORGE (b. 1684, d. 1753). 

On the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learn- 
ing in America 725 

BERNARD DE MORLAIX, Monk op Cluny. 

The Celestial Country 664 

BISHOP, SAMUEL (b. 1731, d. 1795). 

, To Mary 12 

BLACKSTONE, SIR WILLIAM (b. 1723, d. 1780). 
The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse 740 

BLAKE, WILLIAM (b. 1757, d. 1827). 

On Another's Sorrow 589 

The Little Black Boy 50 

The Piper 62 

The Tiger 492 

BLAMIRE, SUSANNA (b. 1747, d. 1794). 

The Nabob 93 

The Siller Croun 147 

"What ails this heart o' mine?" 199 

BLANCHARD, LAMAN (b. 1803, d. 1865). 

The Mother's Hope 40 

BOIES, LAURA A. 

Little Children 33 

BOKER, GEORGE HENRY (b. 1824). 

Dirge for a Soldier 279 

BONAR, HORATIUS (b. 1808). 

A Little While 595 

The Inner Calm 565 

BOOTH, BARTON (b. 1681, d. 1733). 

"Sweet are the charms" 154 

BOTTA, ANNA C. LYNCH. 

Thoughts in a Library 740 

BOWLES, WILLIAM LISLE (b. 1762, d. 1850). 

On the Funeral of Charles 1 314 

Sonnet on a Distant View of England 356 

Sonnet on the Rhine 518 

Sonnet to Time - 686 

BOWRING, SIR JOHN (b. 1792, d. 1872). 

" Watchman, tell us of the night" 525 

BEADY, NICHOLAS (b. 1659, d. 1726). 

Psalm C 545 

BRAINARD, JOHN GARDNER CALKINS (b. 
1796, d. 1828). 
Epithalamium 220 

BRENNAN, JOSEPH. 

The Exile to his Wife 13 

BRETON, NICHOLAS (b. 1555, d. 1624). 

A Pastoral 182 

Phillida and Corydon 146 

The Priest 552 

BROOKS, MARIA (b. 1795, d. 1845). 

Song — "Day in melting purple dying" 170 



Page 
BROWNE, FRANCES (b. 1816). 

Is it Come? 750 

"Oh, the pleasant days of old!" 749 

BROWNE, SIR THOMAS (b. 1605, d. 1682). 

Evening Hymn 556 

BROWNE, WILLIAM (b. 1590, d. 1645). 

"Shall I tell you whom I love?" 123 

The Welcome 125 

BROWNELL, HENRY P. HOWARD (b. 1820, d. 
1872). 
The Lawyer's Invocation to .Spring 949 

BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT (b. 1809, 
d. 1861). 

A Court Lady 361 

A Musical Instrument 725 

Cowper's Grave 246 

Lady Geraldine's Courtship 104 

Sonnets from the Portuguese — 

" First time he kiss'd me, he but only 

kiss'd" 135 

" How do I love thee? Let me count the 

ways " 135 

"If I leave all for thee, wilt thou ex- 
change" 135 

"If thou must love me, let it be for 

naught" 134 

" I never gave a lock of hair away " 134 

"My letters! all dead paper, . . . mute and 

white " 1-^5 

" Say over again, and yet once over again " V-M 

The Child and the Watcher 24 

The Cry of the Children 61 

The Lady's Yes 133 

The Sleep 6J2 

BROWNING, ROBERT (b. 1812). 

Evelyn Hope 196 

HerveRiel 413 

How they Brought the Good News 372 

In a Year 211 

Incident of the French Camp 341 

The Lost Leader 263 

The Pied Piper of Hamelin 851 

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN (b. 1794, d. 1878). 

Oh, Fairest of the Eurnl Maids 781 

Song of Marion's Men 331 

Thanatopsis 624 

The Battle-Field 676 

The Crowded .Street 647 

The Death of the Flowers 4.58 

The Evening Wind 442 

The Hunter of the Prairies 492 

The Past 91 

To a Water-Fowl 471 

To the Fringed Gentian 457 

BRYDGES, SIR SAMUEL EGERTON (b. 1762, d. 
1837). 
Sonnet— Echo and Silence 500 

BUCHANAN, ROBERT (b. 1841). 

Hermione 9 

Langley Lane 203 

Tom Dunstan 702 

BURNS, ROBERT (b. 1759, d. 1796). 

Address to the Toothache 951 

Auld Lang Syne 83 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



xxvu 



Faoe 

BaDDockburn 297 

Bonnie Lesley 145 

Duncan Gray 144 

Elegy on Captain Mattbew Henderson 247 

Farewell to Naney 154 

" Flow gently, sweet Afton " 515 

Highland Mary 12U 

Honest Poverty 704 

Jean— "Of a' the airts the wind can blaw" 126 

Jessy—" Here's a health to the aue Ilo'edear". 16G 

John Anderson, uiy Jo 10 

Mary Morison 147 

"My heart's in the Highlands" 3-5S 

"Oh, my luve's like a red, red rose " 157 

Tarn O'Shanter 873 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 5 

The Winsome Wee Tiling 11 

To a Mountain Daisy 456 

To a Mouse 481 

To Mary in Heaven 137 

The Banks o' Doon 170 

BUTLER, WILLIAM ALLEN (b. 1825). 

Nothing to Wear. 708 



BYRD, WILLIAM (b. about 1540, d. 1623). 
"My minde to me a kingdome is" 



739 



BYROM, JOHN (b. 1691, d. 1763). 

A Pastoral 173 

Careless Content 6G0 

Christmas Carol 532 

BYRON, GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, LORD 

(b. 178)*, d. 1821). 

A Very Mournful Ballad 297 

Destruction of Sennacherib 285 

Girl of Cadiz 146 

Maid of Athens l.|5 

Mont Blanc 520 

"Oh, snatched away in beauty's bloom" 745 

On this day I Complete my Thirly-si.\th Year. 88 

Prisoner of Chillon 393 

"She walks in beauty" 743 

Song of the Greek Poet 300 

Stanzas — "And thou art dead, as young and 

f«'r" 744 

Stanzas — *' Ob talk not to me of a name great 

in story " 1,57 

Stanzas for Music - 157 

"There's not a joy the world can give" 656 

"When coldness wraps this suffering clay" 025 

"When we two parted" 86 

CAMPBELL, THOMAS (b. 1777, d. 1&14). 

Adelgitha I45 

Battle of the Baltic 341 

Hallowed Ground 0.33 

Hohen linden 34O 

Lochlel's Warning 323 

Lord L'llin's Daughter SSI 

Men of England 356 

O'Connor's Child 395 

The Exile of Erin r«9 

The Last Man 5i;( 

The Soldier's Dream 701 

To the EveningStar. 449 

To the Rainbow 446 

"Ye mariners of England" 350 ! 



Faoe 
CANNING, GEORGE (b, 1770, d. 1827). 

Epitaph on the Tombstone over the Marquis 

of Anglese.i's Leg 940 

Song by Rogero, in "The Rovers" 933 

The Friend of Humanity and the Kuife- 
Grinder 9:i3 

CAREW, THOMAS (b. 1589, d. 1039). 

" Ask nie no more where Jove bestows" 192 

Disdain Returned 180 

CAREY, HENRY (b. about ICG3, d. 1743). 

God save the King .'1.15 

Sally in our Alley 120 

CAliY, PIIfEBE (b. 1825, d. 1871). 

Nearer Home 587 

CASWELL, EDW.VRD (b. ISU). 

"Come hither, ye faithful " ,534 

CENTfICK, JOHN (b. 1717, d. 1755). 

"Children of the heavenly King" 574 

CHALKHILL, JOHN (b 1600, d. 1679). 

Praise of a Country Man's Life 494 

The Angler 468 

CH.\TTERTON, THOMAS (b. 1752, d. 1770). 

Jliuslrel's Song in Aella 147 

Resignation 505 

CHjVUCER, GEOFFREY (b. about 1340, d. 1400). 

Good Counseil 688 

CIBBER, COLLEY (b. 1671, d. 1757). 

The Blind Boy 51 

CLARE, JOHN (b. 1793, d. l.S«). 

Sonnet — To the Glowworm 481 

The Thrush's Nest 474 

CLELAND, WILLIAM (b. about 1661, d. 1689). 

Hallo, my Fancy 884 

CLEPHANE, ELIZABETH C. 

The Ninety and Nine 581 

CLOUGH, ARTHfR HUGH (b. 1819, d. 1861). 

A Sleeping Child 27 

Qua Cursum Venttis 746 

The Stream of Life 616 

COLERIDGE, HARTLEY (b. 1796, d. 1849). 

Address to Certain Gold-fishes 409 

Night 777 

" She is not fair to outward view " 172 

Song—" 'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark " 471 

COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR (b. 1772, d. 1834). 

Christabel 841 

Cologne 926 

France, an Ode 3.33 

Genevieve 15S 

Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Cha- 

motini 518 

Kubla Khan W8 

Love 102 

Rime of the Ancient Mariner S.'i.'i 

The Devil's Thoughts 915 

The Good, Great Man 602 

The Knight's Tomb 6'-'« 

Youth and Age 94 



XXVUl 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Page 

COLLINS, JOHN (18th century). 

"In the downhill of life" 67-4 

COLLINS, WILLIAM (b. 1721, d. 1759). 

Dirge in Cymbeline 637 

Ode — "How sleep the brave" 363 

Ode on the Death of Thomson 244 

Ode to Evening 440 

Ode to Fear 778 

The Passions 732 

CONSTABLE, HENRY (b. about 1560, d. 1612). 
Sonnet — " To live iu hell, and heaven to 
beliold " 212 

COOK, ELIZA (b. 1817). 

The Old Arm-Cbair '.. 75 

COOKE, PHILIP PENDLETON (b. 1816, d. ISoO). 
Florence Vane 171 

CORBET, RICHARD (b. 1582, d. 1635). 

Farewell to the Fairies 833 

To Vincent Corbet, my Sou 233 

COTTON, CHARLES (b. 1630, d. 1687). 

The Retirement 493 

COTTON, NATHANIEL (b. 1721, d. 1788). 

The Fireside 4 

COWLEY, ABRAHAM (b. 1618, d. 1667). 

A Supplication 121 

Ot Myself. 233 

COWPER, WILLIAM (b. 1731, d. 1800). 

Diverting History of John Gilpin 927 

Joy and Peace in Believing 573 

Light Shining out of Darkness 544 

"Lovest thou Me?" 542 

On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture 17 

Retirement 582 

To Mary 245 

To Mrs. Unwin 245 

Verses supposed to be Written by Alexander 

Selkirk 679 

Walking with God 564 

COXE, ARTHUR CLEVELAND (b. 1818). 

The Chimes of England 503 

The Heart's Song 675 

CRAIK, DINAH MARIA MULOCK (b. 1826). 

Now and Afterwards 620 

Philip, my King 21 

Too Late 19 

CEASHAW, RICHARD (b. about 1613, d. 1650). 
Epitaph upon a Husband and Wife buried in 

One Grave 635 

On aPrayer-Book 586 

Paraphrase of Psalm XXITI 562 

Song— "To thy lover" 12G 

Wishes for tlie Supposed Mistress 121 

CRAWFORD, JULIA. 

We Parted in .Silence 85 

CEOLY, GEORGE (b. 1780, d. 1.S60). 

Cupid carrying Provisions 1.56 

Pericles and Aspasia 291 

CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN (b. 1784, A. 1842). 

"A wet sheet and a flowing sea" 605 

"Gane were but the winter cauld" 638 

Hame, Hame, Hamc 357 



Page 

My Ain Countree 358 

Poet's Bridal-Day Song 68 

The Lily of Nithesdale 218 

"Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie".... 157 

DALRYMPLE, DAVID, LORD HAILES (b. 1726, 
d. 1792). 
Edward, Edward 380 

DANA, MARY S. B. 

Passing Under the Rod 589 

DANA, RICHARD HENRY (b. 1787). 

The Little Beach Bird 470 

DANIEL, SAMUEL (b. 1562, d. 1619). 

"Love is a sickness" 100 

Sonnet— Sleep 778 

DARLEY, GEORGE (b. 1785, d. 1849). 

Gambols of Cliildren 41 

Song of the Summer Winds 435 

The Call 178 

DAVENANT, SIR WILLIAM (b. 1605, d. 1668). 

Song — "The lark now leaves his watery nest" 471 

DAVIS, THOMAS OSBORNE (b. 1814, d. 1845). 

Fontenoy ; 321 

The Sack of Baltimore 311 

The Welcome 158 

DAVY, SIR HUMPHRY (b. 1778, d. 1829). 

The Tempest 464 

DE CELANO, THOMAS (d. 1253). 

Dies Irae 609 

DEKKER, THOMAS (b. about 1570, d. about 1641). 

A Lullaby 23 

Sweet Content 660 

DE VERE, AUBREY, (b. 1814). 

Sonnet — "Sad is our youth" 616 

DIBDIN, CHARLES (b. 1745, d. 1814). 

Nongtongpaw 946 

Poor Jack 698 

The High-Mettled Racer 486 

Tom Bowling 639 

DICKENS, CHARLES (b. 1812, d. 1870). 

The Ivy Green 458 

DICKIN.SON, CHARLES M. 

The Children 60 

DIMOND, WILLIAJI (b. 1800, d. 1837). 

Tlic Mariner's Dream &^G 

DIX, JOHN ADAMS (b. 1798). 

Translation of Dies Irte Gil 

DOBELL, SYDNEY' (b. 1824, d. 1874). 

How's my Boy? 51 

Tommy's Dead 620 

DODDRIDGE, PHILIP (b. 1702, d. 1751). 

Duni Vivimus, Vivamus 574 

Entering into Covenant 562 

For New Year's Day 559 

"Hark! the glad sound" 534 

" O God of Bethel, by whose hand " 5S7 

" Ye golden lamps of heaven, I'arcwell" 588 

DOMETT, ALFRED (b. 1811). 

A Christmas Hymn 531 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



XXIX 



Paoi 
DOTEN, ELIZABETH. 

Song of the North - 421 

DOWLIXG, BARTUOLOMEW. 

Battle of Fontcnoy 322 

Song of the Dying 789 

DOWNING, MARY (b. 1830). 

Grave of Macaura 223 

DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN (b. 1795, d. 1820). 

Culprit Fay 810 

The .American Flag 353 

DRAYTON, MICHAEL (b. 1563, d. 1631). 

Battle of Agincoiirt 30O 

Sonnet—" Since there's no help, come, let us 
kiss and part" 170 

DRCMMOND, WILLIAM (b. 15S5, d. 1G49). 

Beauty Fades 743 

Praise of aSolitary Life 658 

Sonnet — '* A good that never satisfies the 

mind " G5G 

To a Nightingale 475 

To his Lute 7.'?6 

To Spring 429 

To the Nightingale 476 

DBYDEN, JOHN (b. 1631, d. 1700). 

"Ah: how sweet it is to love " 99 

Alexander's Feast 7'26 

Jealousy the Tyrant of the Mind 213 

Linos Written under the Picture of John 

Milton MO 

Song for St. Cecilia's Day 728 

Vcni Creator 544 

DUFFERIN, HELEN SELINA SHERIDAN, 
LADY (b. 181)7, d. 18(;7). 
Lament of the Irish Emigrant 86 

DWIOHT, TIMOTHY (b. 175'>, d. 1817). 

"1 love Thy kingdom, Lord" 574 

DYER, JOHN (b. 1700, d. 1758). 

Grongar Hill 506 

EASTMAN, CIIARLESGAMAGE(b. 1816, d. 1861). 

A Picture 8 

Dirge 638 

ELLIOT, SIR GILBERT (b. 1722, d. 1777). 

Araynta 200 

ELLIOT, JANE (b. 1727, d. 1905). 

The Flowers of the Forest 808 

ELLIOTT, CHARLOTTE (b. 1789, d. 1871). 

"Just as I am" 568 

"OThou the contrite sinner's friend" 540 

Thy Will be Done 666 

EMERSON, RALPH WALDO (b. 1803). 

Each and All 707 

Good-Byc O.'i? 

The Humble-Bee 4S0 

The Problem 663 

The Rhodora 4.'i7 

To Eva 217 

EYTINGE, MARGARET. 

Baby Louise 20 



Paoe 
FABER, FREDERICK WILLIAM (b. 1815, d. 186.3). 

Evening Hymn 556 

The Heart's Home 600 

The Heart's Longing 600 

The Right must Win 572 

The Will of God oGS 

FENNER, CORNELIUS GEORGE (b. 1822, d. 1847). 
Gulf-Weed 465 

FERGUSON, SAMUEL (b. about 1805). 

The Forging of the Anchor 693 

FLETCHER, GILES (1>. about 1588, d. 1623). 

Panglory's Wooing .Song 100 

FLETCHER, JOHN (b. 1576, d. 1623). 

Melancholia 656 

Weep no More 788 

FLOWERDEW, ANNE. 

"Fountain of mercy! God of love!" 563 

FORD, JOHN (b. 15SG, d. 1639). 

Love and Death 203 

FOSTER, STEPHEN COLLINS (b. 1826, d. 1864). 

Old Folks at Home 68 

GALL, RICHARD (b. 17CG, d. 1801). 

My only Jo and Dearie, 202 

GAY, JOHN (b. 1688, d. 1732). 

Sweet William's Farewell to Black-Eyed Susan 119 
■"Twas when the seas were roaring" 125 

GILBERT, WILLIAM SCHENCK (b. 1836). 

Captain Reecc 952 

The Bumboat Woman's Story 892 

Yarn of the Nancy Bell 908 

GILFILLAN, ROBERT (b. 1798, d. 1830). 

The Exile's Song 362 

GLEN, WILLIAM (b. 1789, d. 1826). 

" Wae's me for Prince Charlie" 32G 

GOLDSMITH, OLIVER (b. 1728, d. 1774). 

Elegy on that Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary 

Blaize 910 

Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog 926 

Retaliation 910 

Stanzas — "When lovely woman stoops to 

folly" 687 

The Deserted Village 7.'>8 

The Hermit 1.59 

The Traveller 769 

"The wretch condemned with life to part".... 787 
GRAHAJI, JAMES, JIarquis of Montrose (b. 

1612, d. 1630). 

" My dear and only love " 193 

GRAHAM, ROBERT, OK Gartmore (b. 1750, d. 

1797). 
"O, tell nie how to woo thee" 161 

GRANT, SIR ROBERT (b. 17a5, d. 1838). 

Lilany 540 

"When gathering clouds around I view" 695 

GRAY, THO.MAS (b. 1716, d. 1771). 

Elegy Written in a Countr)- Churchyard 630 

Hymn— To Adversity 779 

Ode— On the Spring 431 

On a Distant Prospect of Eton College 504 

The Bard 295 

The Progress of Poesy 7:t0 



XXX 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Paqk 
GREENE, ALBERT G. (b. 1802, d. 1868). 

Old Grimes 910 

The Baron's Last Bauquet 621 

GREENE, ROBERT (b. about 1560, d. 1592). 

Sonnet— Content GCO 

The Shepherd's Wife's Song 142 

UABINGTON, WILLIAM (b. 1605, d. 1645). 

Castara 179 

Night 777 

HALLEnC, FITZ-GREENE (b. 1790, d. 1867). 

Alnwick Castle 513 

Burns 249 

Marco Bozzaris 346 

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake 253 

HALPINE, CHARLES G. (b. 1829, d. 1868). 

The Trooper to hia Mare 491 

HAMILTON, ELIZABETH (b. 1758, d. 1816). 

My Ain Fireside 3 

HAMILTON, WILLIAM (OF Bangour), (b. 1704, 
d. 17.54). 
The Braes of Yarrow 382 

IIAETE, FRANCIS BRET (b. 1839). 

Dickens in Camp 282 

Fate 787 

Her Letter 207 

Plain Language from Truthful James 931 

Tlie Dead Polilician 704 

The Society upon the Stanislow 942 

HAWEIS, THOMAS (b. 1732, d. 1820). 

" Thou from whom all goodness flows " 584 

HEBER, REGINALD (b. 1783, d. 1826). 

Early Piety 575 

Epiphany 5.35 

Lines Written to his Wife 11 

Missionary Hymn 580 

.Stanzas on the Death of a Friend 594 

The Holy Trinity 546 

HEMANS, FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE (b. 
1794, d. 183.5). 

Casablanca 344 

The Bended Bow 412 

The Better Land 598 

The Graves of a Household 32 

The Homes of England 3 

The Hour of Death 630 

The Hour of Prayer 564 

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 310 

The Treasures of the Deep 465 

HERBERT, GEORGE (b. 1593, d. 1633). 

Complaining 585 

Life 758 

Sunday 560 

The Flower .579 

The Pulley 602 

Virtue 662 

HERRICK, ROBERT (b. 1591, d. 1674). 

A Thanksgiving to God for His House 5.59 

Cherry Ripe 214 

Corinua's going a-Maying 432 

Daflbdils 455 



Page 

Delight in Disorder 742 

The Captive Bee 209 

The Hag 875 

The Night Piece 127 

The Primrose 214 

To Blossoms 459 

To Dianeme 210 

To Keep a True Lent 687 

To Primroses filled with Morning Dew 454 

To Virgins, to make much of Time 123 

HERVEY, THOMAS KIBBLE (b. 1799, d. 1859). 

The Convict-Ship 786 

HETifWOOD, THOMAS (d. about 1640). 

Good-Morrow Song 215 

HINDS, SAMUEL (b. 1793, d. 1872). 

" Lord, shall Thy children come to Thee" 582 

HOFFMAN, CHARLES FENNO (b. 1806). 

Monterey 347 

HOGG, JAMES (b. 1770, d. 1835). 

Abbot M'Kinnon 878 

Bonnie Prince Charlie 326 

Charlie is my Darling 325 

Kilmeny 833 

The Skylark 472 

When Maggie gangs away 161 

When the Kye comes Hame 167 

HOLCROFT, THOMAS (b. 1744, d. 1809). 

Gaffer Gray 715 

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL (b. 1809). 

On Lending a Punch-Bowl 90 

The Boys 82 

The Chambered Nautilus 467 

The Deacon's Masterpiece 930 

The Last Leaf 757 

The Old Man Dreams 897 

The Ploughman 692 

The Voiceless 626 

HOOD, THOMAS (b. 1798, d. 1845). 

Art of Book-Keeping 949 

Epicurean Reminiscences of a Sentimentalist. 950 

Faithless Nelly Gray 886 

Faithless Sally Brown 895 

"I remember, I remember" 75 

Ode to my Little Son 901 

Ruth 144 

Serenade 901 

Stanzas— "Farewell, life" 637 

The Bachelor's Dream 900 

The Bridge of Sighs 719 

The Death-Bed 625 

The Dream of Eugene Aram 375 

The Haunted House 866 

The Lady's Dream 714 

The Lost Heir 902 

The Song of the Shirt. 716 

To a Child embracing his Mother 26 

HOWARD, HENRY, Earl of Surrey (b. 1518, 
d. 1547). 

Description of Spring 429 

In Praise of his Love 1.54 

No Age Content with his Own Estate 657 

Prisoned in Windsor 224 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



XXXI 



Paoe 
HOWE, JULIA WARD (b. 1S19). 

Baltle Hymn of the Republic 354 

HOWELL, ELIZABETH LLOYD. 

Knit h fulness 680 

Milton's Prayer of Patience 235 

HOWITT, MARY BOTHAM (b. 1804). 

The Fairies of the Caldon Low 809 

The Use of Flowers 457 

HUNT, JAMES HEMRY LEIGH (b. 1784, d. 1859.) 

Abou Ben Adhem 664 

An .\ng(.'l in the House 745 

Chorus of the Flowers 4.'>1 

Cupid Swallowed 103 

Jenny Kissed me 18G 

Song of the Fairies :.... 794 

The Glove and the Lions 411 

The Nun 171 

To the Grasshopper and Cricket 480 

HUNTER, ANNE HOME (b. 1742. d. 1821). 

The Lot of Thousands 685 

INGELOW, JEAN (b. 1830). 

Song of Margaret 195 

Songs of Seven 09 

The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire... 415 

IRON.S, WILLIAM JOSIAH (b. 1812). 

Translation of Dies Irie 610 

JENNEU, EDWARD (b. 1749, d. 1S2.'»). 

Signs of Rain 448 

JOHN.SON, SAMUEL (b. 1709, d. 1784). 

On the Death of Dr. Levett 245 

The Vanity of Human Wishes 649 

JONES, SIR WILLIAM, (b. 1746, d. 1794). 

Ode — In Imitation of Alcscus 363 

JONSON, BEN (b. 1574, d. 1637). 

Epilaph on Elizaheth L. H 2.33 

Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke 233 

Hymn to God the Father 544 

Lines on the Portrait of Shakespeare 230 

On Lucy, Countess of Bedford 233 

Song— "Still to be neat" 742 

The Triumph of Charis 100 

To Celia 19S 

To Cynthia 448 

To the Memory of my Beloved Master, Wil- 
liam Shakespeare 228 

True Growth 679 

KEATS, JOHN (b. 1795, d. 1821). 

Fairy Song 793 

Fancy 498 

La Belle Dame sans Merci 865 

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 504 

Ode — "Bards of pas.sion and of mirth" 742 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 748 

Ode to a Nightingale 476 

On the Gra.ssliopper and Cricket 480 

Sonnet — On First Looking into Chapman's Ho- 
mer 741 

Sonnet — "To one who has been long in city 

pent " 497 

The Eve of St. Agnes- 127 

To Autumn 435 



Paob 

KEBLE, .lOHN (b. 1792, d. ISOC). 

Evening Hymn 5.35 

^'lowers 450 

Morning Hymn 5o3 

KELLY, THO.MAS (b. 1769, d. 18.55). 

" We sing the praise of Him who died" .536 

KEMBLE, FRANCES ANNE (h. I81I). 

Faith 688 

KEN, THOMAS (b. 1637. d. 1711). 

Evening Hymn .'j.^o 

Midnight Hymn .'5.57 

Morning Hymn 5.33 

KEY, FRANCIS SCOTT (b. 1779, d. 1843). 

Hymn—" Lord, with glowing heart I'd praise 

Thee" 548 

Life 577 

TheSlar.Spangled Banner 353 

KING, HENRY (b. 1591, d. 1669). 

Sic Vita 6S8 

KINGSLEY, CHARLES {b. 1810, d. 1875). 

Dolcino to Margaret 782 

Song of the River 403 

The Last Buccaneer 419 

The .Sands o' Dee 417 

The Three Fishers 699 

KNOWLES, HERBERT (b. 179S, d. 1817). 

Lines written in Richmond Churchyard, York- 
shire 633 

KNOX, ISA CRAIG (b. 1831). 

Ode on the Centenary of Burns 250 

KNOX, WILLIAM (b. 1789, d. 1825). 

"Oh why should the spirit of mortal be 
proud?" 627 

LAIDLAW, WILLIAM (b. 1780, d. 1845). 

Lucy's Flillin' 202 

LAMB, CHARLES (b. 1775, d. 1834). 

Farewell to Tobacco 917 

Hester 743 

The Old Familiar Faces 79 

LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE (b. 1775, d. 1864). 

Sijiteen 214 

Tcrnissa 196 

The Maid's Lament 141 

The One Gray Hair 753 

To lanthe 213 

To ihc Sister of Elia 273 

LAPRAIK, .lOHN (b. 1717, d. 1807). 

Matrimonial Happiness 9 

LARCO.M, LUCY (b. 1826). 

Hannah Binding Shoes 69S 

LEIGH, HENRY .S. 

The Twins 696 

L'ESTRANGE, SIR ROGER (b. lOlG, d. 1704). 

Loyalty Confined 241 

LEWIS. MATTHEW GREGORY' (b. 1775, d. 1818). 
Alouzo the Brave and the Fair Imoginc 871 

LEYDEN, JOHN (b, 177i!, d. 1811). 

Ode to an Indian Gold Coin 87 

The Sabbath Morning 439 

To the Evening Star 4-19 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Page 
LIPPINCOTT, SARAH JANE ("Grace Green- 
wood "), (b. 1825). 
The Horseback Ride 487 

LOCKER, FREDERICK (b. 1824). 

Old Letters 88 

Unfortunate Miss Bailey 952 

LOCKHART, JOHN GIBSON (b. 1794, d. 1854). 

Napuleon 268 

The Bridal of Andalla {Transhdion) 209 

The Broadswords of Scotland .357 

The Bull-Fight of Gazul (Translation) 408 

The Lameutation for Celin " 373 

Tlie Lamentation of Don Roderick {Transta- 

tion) 292 

The Lord of Butrago (D-amlalion) 298 

Tlie Vengeance of Mudara " 294 

Zara's Earrings " 183 

LODGE, THOMAS (b. about 155G, d. 1625). 

Rosader's Sonetto 156 

Rosalind's Madrigal 100 

Rosaline 123 

LOGAN, .lOHN (b, 1748, d. 1788). 

Heavenly Wisdom 575 

The Braes of Yarrow 384 

To the Cuckoo :.. 479 

LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH (b. 
1807). 

Excelsior 786 

Flowers 450 

Footsteps of Angels 775 

Maidenhood 64 

Paul Revere's Ride 329 

Psalm of Life 617 

Resignation 646 

The Arsenal at Springfield 520 

•■ Tlie Children's Hour 33 

The Day is Done 776 

The Ladder of St. Augustine 679 

TlieOld Clock on the Stairs 78 

The Rainy Day 777 

The Skeleton in Armor 864 

The Village Blacksmith 693 

LOVELACE, RICHARD (b. 1618, d. 1658). 

To Allhea, from Prison 124 

To Lucasta, on going beyond the Seas 124 

To Lticasta, on going to the Wars 124 

LOVER, SAMUEL (b. 1797, d. 1868). 

Rory O'More 165 

The Angels' Wliisper 24 

The Birth of St. Patrick 941 

The Low-Backed Car 165 

LOWELL, MARIA WHITE (b. 1821, d. 1853). 

The Alpine Sheep 638 

LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL (b. 1819). 

Auf Wiedersehen 217 

My Love 208 

The Candidate's Creed 919 

The Courtin' 8S9 

The First Snowfall 4.37 

The Heritage 705 

What Mr. Robinson Thinks 920 

Without and Within 707 



Page 
LYLY, JOHN (b. 1553, d. about 1600). 

Cupid and Catnpaspe 101 

Song of the Fairies. 793 

The Songs of Birds 478 

LYTE, HENRY FRANCIS (b. 1793, d. 1847). 

Abide with me 557 

" Jesus, I my cross have taken " 540 

" Long did I toil " 5G9 

Psalm LXXXIV 600 

LYTLE, WILLIAM HAINES (b. 1826, d. 1863). 

Antony and Cleopatra 292 

LYTTON, EDWARD GEORGE EARLE BUL- 
WER (Lord Lytton), (b. 1805, d. 1873). 
"When stars are in the quiet skies" 218 

LYTTON, EDWARD ROBERT EULWER (Lord 
Lytton), ("Owen Meredith "), (b. 1831). 

Aux It aliens ISO 

The Ch ess-Board 85 

The Portrait 199 

MACAULAY, THOMAS BABINGTON (b. 1800, 

d. 1859). 

Horatius 285 

Ivry 309 

Lines Written on the Night of the 30th of 

July, 1847 273 

Naseby 313 

MACDONALD, GEORGE (b. 1824). 

"Wheredidyou come from?" 22 

MACKAY-, CHARLES (b. 1812). 

DiflTerences 705 

" I lay in sorrow, deep distressed " 687 

I Love my Love 146 

"Tell me, ye wiuged winds" 601 

The Child and the Mourners 43 

The Good Time Coming 752 

The Sailor's Wife 35 

MACLEAN, L«TITIA ELIZABETH LANDON 
(" L. E. L."), (b. 1802, d. 1838). 

Crescentius 294 

Night at Sea 443 

The Awakening of Endymion 172 

MACNEILL, HECTOR (b. 1746, d. 1818). 

Mary of Castle Cary 164 

MAGINN, WILLIAM (b. 1793, d. 1842.) 

The Irishman 894 

MAHONY, FRANCIS ("Father Prout"), (b. 
about 1805, d. 1866). 

Malbrouck {Translation) 946 

The Bells of Shandon 516 

MALLET, DAVID (b. 1700, d. 1765)". 

William and Margaret 175 

MANT, RICHARD (b. 1776, d. 1848). 

" There is a dwelling-place above " 599 

MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER (b. 1564, d. 1593) 

The Milkmaid's Song 140 

MARVELL, ANDREW (b. 1620, d. 1678). 

An Horatian Ode 238 

The Emigrants in the Bermudas 549 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



XXXUl 



Paox 
The Nymph Complaining for the Death of her 

Fawn 499 

The Picture of T. C. in » Prospect of Flowers. 240 
Thoughts in a Garden 495 

MAYNE, JOHN (b. 1761, d. 1836). 

Helen of KirkconncU 403 

McCarthy, denis Florence (b. i8i7). 

Summer Longings 433 

McMASTER, GUY HUMPHREY (b. 1829). 

Carmen Bellicosum 331 

MENTEATH, MRS. A. STUART. 

James Melville's Child 31 

MEREDITH, GEORGE (b. 1828). 

Love in the Valley 142 

MERRICK, JAMES (b. 1720, d. 1769). 

The Chameleon 



G8G 



MESSINGER, ROBERT HINCKLEY (b. about 

1807). 
Give me the Old 751 

MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS (b. 1734, d. 1788). 

Cumuor Hall 379 

MILLER, HUGH {b. 1802, d. 1856). 

The Baby 29 

MILLER, WILLIAM. 

The Wonderfu' Wean 30 

Willie Winkie 29 

MILLIKEN, RICHARD ALFRED (b. 1757, d. 
1815). 
The Groves of Blarney ._. 516 

MILMAN, HENRY' HART (b. ifol, d. 1868). 

"Bound upon th' accursed tree" 536 

Bridal .«ong 220 

Burial Hymn 595 

Christ Cruoilied 535 

"When our heads are bowed with woe" 582 

MILNES, RICHARD MONCKTON(LOBD HonoH- 
TOS), (b. 1809). 

The Brookside... 169 

The Long Ago 751 

The Men of Old 749 

MILTON, JOHN (b. 1608, d. 1674). 

Conius: A Mask 818 

Epitaph on Shakespeare 230 

n Penseroso 737 

L'Allegro 7M 

Lycidas 2.35 

On the Morning of Christ's Nativity.. .525 

Song — On May Morning 431 

Sonnet — On his Blindness 234 

Sonnet — On the Late Massacre in Piedmont... 315 

Sonnet — Tu Cyriac Skinner 2.34 

Sonnet— To the Lady Margaret Ley 'iXi 

Sonnet — To the Lord General Cromwell 234 

Sonnet— To the Nightingale 476 

Sonnet — When the Assault waa Intended to 
the City 318 



MOIR, DAVID MACBETH (b. 1798, d 

Casa Wappy ... 

c 



1851). 



Faoi 
MONTGOMERY, JAMES (b. 1771, d. 1854). 

"Forever with the Lord" 597 

"Friend after friend departs" 638 

Gcthseinane H'iS 

Make Way for Liberty 299 

Night 687 

Psalm LXXII 538 

"Songs of praise the angels sang" 588 

The Common Lot 018 

The Grave 641 

The Stranger and his Friend 542 

" To Thy temple I repair " 561 

"What are these in bright array" 593 

What is Prayer? 563 

MOORE, CLEMENT C. (b. 1779, d. 1863). 

The Night before Christmas 51 

MOORE, EDWARD (b. 1712, d. 1757). 

The Happy Marriage 4 

MOORE, THOMAS (b. 1779, d. 1862). 

" As by the shore at break of day " 786 

" Believe mo, if all those endearing young 

charms" 162 

Canadian Bout-Song 737 

" Come rest in this bosom " 147 

" Farewell ! but whenever you welcome the 

hour" 85 

Farewell to thee, Araby's Daughter 783 

"Go where glory waits thee " 95 

"Has sorrow thy young days shaded " 744 

"I knew by the smoke that so gracefully 

curlrd" 765 

"Oft in the stilly night" „ 79 

"Oh breathe not his name" 252 

"Oh had we son»el»rit.'ht little l&le of our own ".. 194 

"She is far from the land" 275 

"Sound the lotui timbrel" 550 

Sweet Innisfalleii 517 

"The harp that once through Tara's halls".... 362 

The Lake of the Dismal Swamp 521 

The Legacy 766 

The Meeting of the Waters 517 

The Y'oung May Moon 162 

Those Evening Bells 766 

"Thou art, OGod" 551 

"'Tis the last rose of sunnner" 458 

"To sigh, yet feel no pain " 182 

MORRIS, GEORGE P. (b. 1802, d. 1864). 

" Woodman, spare that tree" 77 

MOSS, THOMAS (b. 1740, d. 1808). 

Tho Beggar's Petition 717 

MOTHERWELL, WILLIAM (b. 1797, d. 18.15). 

Cavalier's Song 313 

Covenanters' Battle-Chant 312 

Jeanie Morrison 118 

"They come! tho merry summer months" 434 

MOULTRIE, JOHN (b. 1799, d. 1874). 

"Here's to thee, my Scottish lns.sie" 214 

The Three .Sons M 

MUHLENBERG, WILLIAM AUGCSTUS (b. 1790, 
d. 1877). 

"I would not livealway" .193 

"Saviour, who Thy flock art feeding" .541 

"Shout the glad tidings" 531 



XXXIV 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Page 
KAIRNE, CAEOLINA, LADY (b. 1766, d, 1845). 

The Laird o' Cockpen 890 

The Land of the Leal 636 

NASH, THOMA.S (b. about 1664, d. 1601). 

Spring 431 

NEALE, HANNAH LLOYD. 

CardiphoDia 082 

The Neglected Call 684 

NEALE, JOHN MASON (b. 1818, d. 1866). 

Alleluia (Tmnslation) 546 

" Art thou weary ? " (Translalion) 577 

The .Celestial Country " 604 

NEWMAN, JOHN HENKY (b. 1801). 

Lead, Kindly Light 569 

NEWTON, JOHN (b, 1725, d. 1807). 

"How sweet the name of Jesus sounds" 542 

Psaln. LXXXVII 598 

NICOLL, ROBERT (b. 1814, d. 1837). 

"We are brethren a' " 706 

NOEL, THOMAS. 

The Pauper's Drive 722 

NORTON, CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH (b. 
1808, d. 1S77). 

Bingen on the Rhine 701 

Love Not 187 

The Arab's Farewell to bis Horse 490 

The King of Denmark's Ride 420 

O'BRIEN, FITZ JAMES (b. 1829, d. 1862). 

Kane 276 

O'KEEFE, JOHN (b. 1747, d. 1833). 

" I am a friar of orders gray" 914 

OLDY.S, WILLIAM (b. 1696, d. 1761). 

Song— "Busy, curious, thirsty fly" 481 

OLIVERS, THOMAS (b. 172.'i, d. 1799). 

"Lo! He comes with clouds de.scending" 611 

"TheGod of Abraham praise" 583 

OPIE, AMELIA (b. 1769, d. 1S53). 

Forget mo Not 94 

The Orphan Boy's Tale 34 

OSGOOD, FRANCES SARGENT (b. 1812, d. 1850). 
Labor 091 

PALMER, RAY (b. 180S). 

"My faith looks up to Thee" 539 

PARNELL, THOMAS (b. 1679, d. 1717). 

Hymn to Contentment 659 

The Hermit 666 

PARR, HARRIET T. 

"Hear my prayer, O heavenly Father" 564 

PARSONS, THOMAS WILLIAM fb. 1819). 

The Groomsman to the Bride'smaid 183 

PAYNE, JOHN HOWARD (b. 1792, d. 1852). 

Home, Sweet Home 3 

PEELE, GEORGE (b. about 1.152, d. 1598). 

The Aged Man-at-Arms 753 

PERCIVAL, JAMES GATES (b. 1795, d. 1856). 

The Coral Grove 466 



Faoe 
PERCY, THOMAS (b. 1728, d. 1811). 

"O Nanny, wilt thou go with me" 161 

The Friar of Orders Gray 117 

PERRONET, EDWARD (d. 1792). 

Coronation 537 

PERRY, NORA. 

After the Ball 788 

PHILIPS, AMBROSE (b. 1671, d. 1749). 

Fragment from Sappho 192 

To Charlotte Pulteney 26 

PIERPONT, JOHN (b. 1785, d. 1866). 

My Child 36 

Not on the Battle-Field 677 

Passing Away 628 

Warren's Address 329 

PINKNEY, EDWARD COATE (b. 1802, d. 1828). 

A Health 178 

PIOZZI, HESTER LYNCH THRALE (b. 1739, d. 
1821). 
The Three Warnings 619 

POE, EDGAR ALLAN (b. 1809, d. 1849). 

Annabel Lee 179 

The Bells 767 

The Haunted Palace 871 

The Raven 849 

POPE, ALEXANDER (b. 1088, d. 1744). 

Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady 635 

Messiah 529 

Ode on St. Cecilia's Day 729 

Ode on Solitude 757 

Prologue to Jlr. Addison's Tragedy of Cato 242 

The Dying Christian to his Soul 596 

The Rape of the Lock 795 

The Universal Prayer 545 

POPE, WALTER (b. about 1630, d. 1714). 

The Old Man's Wish 756 

PRAED, WINTHROP MACKWORTH (b. 1802, 
d. 1839). 

Charade— Camp-Bell 264 

Quince 909 

School and Schoolfellows 81 

The Vicar 911 

PRENTICE, GEORGE DENISON (b. 1802, d. 1870). 

.Sabbath Evening 441 

The Closing Year 95 

PRENTISS, ELIZABETH. 

Cradle Song (Trtuislation) ■ 23 

PRINGLE, THOMAS (b. 1789, d. 1834). 

" Afar in the desert" 488 

PRIOR, MATTHEW (b. 1664, d. 1721). 

Epitaph Extempore 241 

PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANTS'E (b. 1825, d. 1864). 

A Doubting Heart 684 

A Dream 776 

A Woman's Answer 188 

A Woman's Question 187 

One by One 682 

PROCTER, BRYAN WALLER (b. 1787, d. 1874). 

Golden-tressed Adelaide 17 

Life 617 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



xxxv 



Paok 

Petition to Time 7S3 

The Blood Uorsc 486 

Tlie Pearl- Wearer 700 

The Poet's Song to his Wife 17 

Thel^ea 4W 

The Stormy Petrel 470 

QUARLES. FRANCIS (b. 1592, d. IG-H). 

Delight in God only 576 

Sliortness of Life 617 

Vanity of the World 654 

RALEIC.H, SIR WALTER (I). 1552, d. 161S). 

Upon this Conceit of the Faerie Queene 741 

Epitaph uimn Sir Philip Sidney 227 

Lines written the Night before his Execution. 228 

The Lie 655 

The Milkmaid's Mother's Answer 140 

The Pilyrimage 578 

The Silent Lover 124 

RAJISAY, ALLAN (b. 1686, d. 1738). 

"At setting day and rising morn" 195 

Lochaber no Store 195 

The Lass of Patie's Mill 155 

RANDOLPH, THOMAS (b. 1005, d. 1634). 

To my Pielnre 757 

READ, TIIOMjVS BUCHANAN (b. 1822, d. 1872). 

Drifting 784 

Sheridaif » Ride 349 

The Closing Scene 640 

The Stranger on the Sill 77 

ROBINSON, ROBERT (b. 1735, d. 1790). 

"Come, Thou Fount of every blessing'' 585 

ROGER.S, S.4.MUEL (b. 1763, d. 1855). 

An Italian .Song 496 

A Wish 8 

Ginevra -106 

To the Butterfly 480 

ROSSETTI, CHRI.STINA GEORGINA (b. 1830). 

Maude Clare 188 

Peal of Bells 766 

Up-Ilill 578 

Weary .591 

RO.SSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL (b. 1828). 

Sister Helen 875 

The Blessed Damozel 8.39 

The Sea Limits 404 

ROYDON, MATTHEW (about 1586). 

Lament for Astrophel 228 

SARGENT, EPES (b. 1812). 

A Life on the Ocean Wave 695 

SAXE, JOHN OODFREY (b. 1816). 

" I'm growing old " 753 

Keflecllvc Retrospect 81 

TheBriclless Barrister 918 

SCOTT, SIR WALTER (h. 1771. d. 1832). 

Alice Brand 8.38 

Allen-a-Dale 186 

Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee 318 

Border Ballad 358 

Coronach 625 

Helvcllyn 514 

Jock of Hnzeldean 134 

Lochinvar 136 



Paoi 

Paraphrase of Dies Irae 610 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 359 

Rebecca's Hymn 550 

Rosabelle 403 

Serenade 189 

".Soldier, rest" 701) 

"The heath this night must be my bed" 186 

The Outlaw r. 176 

"Where shall the lover rest" 176 

SEARS, EDMUND HAiMILTON (b. 1810, d. 1876). 
" It came upon the midnight clear " 533 

SEDLEY, SIR CHARLES (b. 1639, d. 1701). 

Cliild and .Maiden 189 

*' Love still hath soniethtuguf the sea" 101 

SEWALL, IIARUIEX WINSLOW. 

Why thus Longing 768 

SEWELL, GEORGE (d. 1726). 

The Dying Man in liis Garden 637 

SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM (b. 1564, d. 1616). 

Ariel's Songs in "The Tempest" 794 

"Blow, blow, thou winter wind " 4:]S 

"Come away, conu' away, Death" 107 

Crabbed Age and Youth 7o.S 

Dirge from '*Cymbeline" 637 

Morning 439 

"On a day— alack the day " 141 

"Over hill, over dale" 794 

"Sigh no more, ladies" 187 

Song from "The Merchant of Venice"—" Tell 

me where is Fancy bred" 838 

Song—" Under the greenwood tree" 459 

Sonnet — "Full many a glorious morning have 

I seen " 439 

Sonuct — " Let me not to the marriage of true 

minds" 213 

Sonnet — " Like as the wave makes toward the 

pebbled shore" 755 

Sonnet — " No longer mourn for me when I am 

dead " 219 

Sonnet — "Not marble nor the gilded monu- 
ments" 754 

Sonnet— "Oh how much more dolh beauty 

beauteous seem " 755 

Sonnet — "Poor soul, the centre of my sinful 

earth" 755 

Sonnet — " Shall I compare thee to a summer's 

day?" ^ 220 

Sonnet — " That time of year thou niny'st iu 

me behold " 1 219 

Sonnet—" They that have- power to hurt and 

will do none" 756 

Sonnet— " Tired with all these, for restful 

death I cry" 219 

Sonnet — "To me, fair friend, you never can be 

old" 7.'>4 

Sonnet—" When I do count the clock that tells 

the time". 754 

Sonnet — "When in disgrace with fortune and 

men's eyes" 219 

Sonnet — "When in the chronicle of wasti-d 

time" 220 

Sonnet — " When to the sessions of sweet si- 
lent thought" 755 

"When icicles hang by the wall" 438 

Who Is Sylvia? 217 



XXXVl 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Page 
SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE (b. 1792, d. 1822). 

Adonais 253 

A Lament 7tJ8 

Arethusa 4G2 

AutuiDU, a Dirge 4:iG 

Lines to an Indian Air 103 

Love's Pliilosophy 99 

"Music when sol't voices die" 185 

Ode to tlie West Wind 436 

"One word is too often profaned " 148 

Song — "Rarely, rarely comest thou" 781 

Stanzas written in Dejection near Naples 261 

The Cloud 446 

The Invitation 497 

The Question 461 

To a Skylark 473 

To Night 442 

To the Moon 448 

With a Guitar— To Jane 734 

SHENSTONE, WILLIAM (b. 1714, d. 1763). 

Pastoral Ballad 205 

The Schoolmistress 55 

SHIRLEY, JAMES (b, 1596, d. 1066). 

Death's Final Conquest 623 

The Last Conqueror 623 

SHIRLEY, WALTER (b. 1725, d. 1786). 

"Lord, dismiss us with Thy blessing" 612 

SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP (b. 1554, d. 1586). 

A Ditty 127 

Sonnet — '* Because I oft in darlc abstracted 

guise" 783 

Sonnet — " Having this day my liorse, my hand, 

my lance".. 192 

Sonnef^ — " bappy Thames, that dhlst my 

Stella bear" 191 

Sonnet— On Sleep 778 

Sonnet— To tbe Moon 118 

SIGOURNEY, LYDIA HUNTLEY' (b. 1791, 
d. 1865). 

Indian Names 522 

The Early Blue-Bird 474 

The Return of Napoleon from St. Helena 268 

SKELTON, JOHN (b. about 1460, d. 1529). 

To Mistress Margaret Hussey 223 

SMITH, CHARLOTTE (b. 1749, d. 1806). 

On the Departure of the Nightingale 478 

SMITH, HORACE (b. 1779, d. 1849). 

Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhibition 746 

Hymn to the Flowers 453 

Tale of Drury Lane 934 

The Contrast 342 

SMITH, JAJIES (b. 1775, d. 1839). 

The Baby's D6but 938 

The Theatre 936 

SMITH, SAMUEL FRANCIS (b. 1808). 

America 354 

SMOLLETT, TOBIAS GEORGE (b. 1721, d. 1771). 

Ode to Leven Water 515 

The Tears of Scotland 327 

SOUTHEY, CAROLINE ANNE BOWLES (b. 1787, 
d. 1854). 

Autumn Flowers 449 

Mariner's Hymn 579 



Page 

Once upon a Time 93 

The Pauper's Death-Bed 721 

The Young Gray Head 44 

SOUTHEY, ROBERT (b. 1774, d. 1843). 

Battle of Blenheim 677 

Cataract of Lodore 508 

Complaints of the Poor 714 

God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop 409 

History s.'iu 

Inchcape Rock 378 

Mary the Maid of the Inn 404 

"My days among tlie dead are passed " 739 

The Holly Tree 460 

The March to Moscow 947 

The Old Man's Comforts 674 

Well of St. Keyne 896 

SOUTHWELL, ROBERT (b. 1560, d. 1595). 

Times go by Turns 780 

SPENCER, PETER. 

A Thought among the Roses 458 

SPENCER, WILLIAM ROBERT (b. 1770, d. 1834). 

Beth-Gelert 392 

Stanzas—" When midnight o'er the moonless 

skies" 94 

To Lady Anne Hamilton 781 

SPENSER, EDMUND (b. 1.5.52, d. 1.599). 

Sonnet — " Like as the culver" \ 190 

Sonnet — "Since I did leave the presence" 190 

Sonnet — "Sweet is the rose" 78X 

SPRAGUE, CHARLES (b. 1791, d. 1875). 

Shakespeare Ode 230 

The Family Meeting 19 

STEDMAN, EDMUND CLARENCE (b. 1833). 

Laura, my darling 16 

STERLING, JOHN (b. 1806, d. 1844). 

Louis XV 328 

STILL, JOHN (b. 1543, d. 1607). 

Jolly Good Ale and Old 915 

STODDARD, RICHARD HENRY (b. 1825). 

Never Again 766 

Without and Within 14 

STODDART, THOMAS TOD. 

Angler's Trysting Tree 469 

STORY, ROBERT (h. 1790, d. 1859). 

The Whistle 182 

STORY, WILLIAM WETMORE (b. 1819). 

At Dieppe 518 

The Violet 455 

STRODE, WILLIAM (b. 1600, d. 1644). 

Kisses 156 

Music "^^ 

SUCKLING, SIR JOHN (b. 1609, d. about 1641). 

"I prithee send me back my heart" 171 

"Why so pale" 1"* 

SWAIN, CHARLES (b. 1803, d. 1874). 

Dryburgh Abbey 264 

Sabbath Chimes 561 

SWIFT, JONATHAN (b. 1667, d. 1745). 

Baucis and Philemon 897 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



SWINBUHNE, ALGERKON CHARLES (b. 1837). 

Age and Song 743 

Chorus — " Before the beginniDg of years" 746 

Chorus—" When the hounds of spring" 430 

SYLVESTER, JOSHUA (b. 1563, d. 1G18). 

A Contented Mind 660 

Love's Ontnipresence 101 

TANNAHILL, ROBERT (b. 1774, d. 1810). 

Jessie tlie Flower of Dumblane 163 

The Braes of Balquhither 496 

"The midges dance aboon the burn" 440 

TATE, NAHUM (b. 1652, d. 1715). 

Christmas 531 

TATE (NAHUM) and BRADY (NICHOLAS), (b. 
1659, d. 1726). 
Psalm C 545 

TAYLOR, JAMES BAY-ARD (b. 1825). 

Bedouin Love-Song 177 

Quaker Widow 53 

Song of the Camp 216 

TAYLOR, JANE (b. 1783, d. 1824). 

The Philosopher's Scales 6G5 

The Squire's Pew 671 

TAYLOR, JOHN. 

Monsieur Tonson 943 

TAYLOR, TOM (b. 1817). 

Abraham Lincoln 280 

TENNYSON, ALFRED (b. 1809). 

'*A.sk me no more" 192 

"Break, break, break" 88 

Bugle Song „ 500 

Charge of the Light Brigade 317 

" Come into the garden, Maud " 177 

Death of the Old Year 438 

Dedication to "The Idylls of the King" 280 

Lady Clara Vcrede Vere 210 

Lady Clare 138 

Lilian 203 

Locksh y Hall 149 

Lord of Burleigh 201 

"Love thou thy land with love far brought"... 3G3 

May Queen 65 

Miller's Daughter 155 

Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington.. 270 

Reconciliation 16 

Song of the Brook 462 

St. Agnes' Eve 601 

"Sweet and low" 22 

The Days that are no More 91 

"Thy voice is heard through rolling drums"... 745 

Tithonus 789 

Widow and Child 36 

THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE (b. 
1811, d. 186.1). 

Age of Wisdom 87 

At the Church Gate 211 

Ballad of Bouillabaisse 89 

Chronicle of the Drum 3.14 

End of the play 673 

King of Brentford's Testament 90-1 

Little Billee 90J 

Mr. Molony's Account of the Ball 9.'>3 

Sorrows of Werther 893 



Paoi 
THOM, WILLIAM (b. 1799, d. 1850). 

The Mitherlcss Bairn 34 

THOMSON, JAMF-S (b. 1700, d. 1748). 

Hymn— The Seasons 427 

Rule, Britannia 355 

THORNBURY, GEORGE WALTER (b. 1828, d. 
1876). 

LaTricoteuse 3.32 

The Jester's .Sermon 914 

The Old Grenadier's Story 343 

The Pompadour 327 

The Three Troopei-s 411 

TIIURLOW, EDWARD IIOVELL THURLOW, 

LORD (b. 1781, d. 1829). 

Song to May 432 

Sonnet — Summer 435 

Sonnet — To a Bird that Haunted the Waters 

of Laaken in the Winter 471 

Sonnet— To the Moon 448 

TICKELL, THOJIAS (b. 1686, d. 1740). 

Colin and Lucy 197 

To the Earl of Warwick on the Death of Mr. 
Addison 242 

TOPLADY, AUGUSTUS MONTAGUE (b. 1740, d. 
1778). 

Address to the Soul 696 

Hymn to the Deity 565 

Rock of Ages 541 

TRENCH, RICHARD CHENEVIX (b. 1807). 

Diflerent Minds 658 

Ilarmosan 293 

The Kingdom of God 662 

TROWBRIDGE, JOHN T. (b. 1827). 

At Sea 785 

Tho Vagabonds 717 

TURNER, CHARLF-S (b. 1808). 

Tho Lnciirymatory 742 

TYCIIBORN, CHIDIOCK (d. 1586). 

Lines Written by One in the Tower, being 
Y'oung and Condemned to Die 688 

VAUGHAN, HENRY (b. lG21,d. 1695). 

Son-Dayes 560 

The Rainbow 445 

The Retreat 92 

They arc all Gone 697 

VAUX, THOMAS, LORD (b. 1510, d. 1537). 

On a Contented Mind 6.58 

VERE, EDWARD, Eari. of O.ikokd (b. about 
15.-H, d. 1604). 
A Renunciation 190 

WAKEFIELD, NANCY' A. W. P. (b. 1837, d. 1870). 
Over the River 629 

WALLER, EDMUND (b. 1605, d. 1687). 

Go, Lovely Rose 185 

Old Age and Death 629 

On a Girdle 185 

WALTON, IZAAK (b. l.TO.I, d. 1683). 

Tho Angler's Wish 467 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Paoe 
WARING, ANNA L^TITIA. 

Thy Will be Done 567 

WARTON, THOMAS (b. 1687, d. 1745). 

Sonnet — Written after Seeing Windsor Castle, 504 

WARTON, THOMAS (b. 1728, d. 1790). 

On Revisiting the RiverLoddon 508 

WASTELL, SIMON (b. about 1560, d. about 1630). 
Man's Mortal ity 626 

WATSON, JAMES W. 

Beautiful Snow 720 

WATSON, THOMAS (b. 1560, d. 1592). 

Sonnet— May 432 

Sonnet — "Time wasteth years, and months, 
and hours" 172 

WATTS, ISAAC (b. 1674, d. 1748). 

"Come, Holy Spirit, heavenly Dove" 543 

"Come, we that love the Lord" 550 

Cradle Hymn 2.5 

Glorying in the Cross 5:^) 

"I give immortal praise" 540 

" O happy soul that lives on high " 575 

Psalm LXXII 538 

Psalm LXXXIV '. 583 

Psalm XC 549 

Psalm XCVIII 549 

Psalm C 646 

Psalm CXVII 552 

Psalm CXXI 683 

"There is a land of pure delight" 599 

WAUGH, EDWIN (b. 1R17). 

" The dule's i' this bonnet o' mine" 166 

WEBSTER, JOHN (b. about 1586, d. about 1664). 

Dirge from " The White Devil " 633 

WESLEY, CHARLES (b. 1708, d. 1788). 

"Blow ye the trumpet, blow" 552 

"Hark, how all the welkin rings" 533 

"Jesu, lover of my soul" 541 

" Jesu, my strength, my hope " 570 

"Oh for a thousand tongues to sing" 552 

The Omnipotent Decree 585 

The Lord is Risen .536 

Wrestling Jacob 571 

WESTWOOD, THOMAS (b. 1814). 

Under my Window 41 

WHITE, HENRY KIRKE (b, 1785, d. 1806). 

Hymn for Family Worship 568 

The Star of Bethlehem 577 

To an Early Primrose 454 

WHITE, JOSEPH BLANCO (b. 1775, d. 1841). 

Sonnet— To Night 441 

WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF (b. 1807). 

Angels of Buena Vista 344 

Barbara Frietchie 348 

Brown of Ossawatomie 279 

Eve of Election 675 

Ichabod 207 

In Reniembrance of Joseph Sturge 277 

MaudMuller 167 

My Playmate 84 

My Psahn 615 



Faob 

Randolph of Roanoke 262 

Red River Voyageur 680 

Skipper Ireson's Ride 371 

Thy Will be Done 568 

WILDE, RICHARD HENRY (b. 1789, d. 1847). 

Stanzas—" My life is like the summer rose"... 618 

WILLIAMS, HELEN MARIA (b. 1762, d. 1827). 

Sonnet — To Hope 663 

"Whilst Thee I seek " 572 

WILLIAMS, ISAAC (b. 1802, d. 1865). 

" The child leans on its parent's breast" 573 

WILLIAMS, WILLIAM (b. 1717, d. 1791). 

" Guide me, Thou great Jehovah" 573 

WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER (b. 1807, d. 
1867). 

Saturday Afternoon 79 

To a Child Tired of Play 33 

WILSON, JOHN (b. 1785, d. 1854). 

The Evening Cloud 442 

WITHER, GEORGE (b. 1588, d. 1667). 

A Stolen Kiss 156 

Evening Hymn 556 

Morning Hymn 554 

Psalm CXLVIII 551 

"Sweet baby, sleep " 25 

The Shepherd's Resolution 109 

The Steadfast Shepherd 153 

WOLFE, CHARLES (b. 1791, d. 1S23). 

The Burial of Sir John Moore 252 

WOODWORTH, SAMUEL (b. 1785, d. 1842). 

The Old Oaken Bucket 76 

The Whiskers 890 

WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM (b. 1770, d. 1850). 

Daffodils 454 

Elegiac Stanzas suggested by a Picture of 

Peele Castle 505 

Hart-Leap Well 387 

Lucy 37 

Lucy Gray; or, Solitude 44 

Ode — Intimations of Immortality from Recol- 
lections of Early Childhood 644 

Ode to Duty 064 

"She was a phantom of delight" 12 

Sonnet— Composed upon Westminster Bridge.. 503 
Sonnet — "It is a beauteous evening, calm and 

free" 441 

Sonnet— On the Extinction of the Venetian 

Republic 347 

Sonnet — "Scorn not the sonnet" 783 

Sonnet— To Milton 240 

The Good Lord ClilTord 225 

The Kitten and the Falling Leaves 483 

The Pet Lamb 485 

The Rainbow 446 

"Three years she grew " 37 

To a Highland Girl 63 

To a Skylark 472 

To a Skylark 472 

To the Cuckoo 478 

To the Daisy 455 



IXDEX OF AUTHORS. 



XXXIX 



To the Paisy 456 

We are tn-ven 39 

Yarrow Revisited 511 

Yarrow Uiivisited 510 

Yarrow Visited 510 

WOTTON, SIR HliN'RV (b. 1568, d. 1039). 

Chnracterof a Happy Life 661 

To liis -Mistress, the (Juccn of Bobeiuia 18.5 

Verses in Praise of Angling 467 

WYATT, SIR THOMAS (b. 1503, d. 1542). 

Blame not my Lute 190 

The Keuured Lover Exulteth in bis Freedom.. 191 

YOUNG, ANDREW. 

"There is a happy land " 599 

AUTHOR UNKNOWN. 

A Hundred Years to Come 675 

Annie Laurie 199 

Armstrong's Good-Night 6.'>6 

Ballad of Chcvy-Cliace 301 

Barbara Allen's Cruelty 417 

Bonnie George Campbell 419 

Bridges 683 

Changed Cross 590 

Child of Elle 385 

Children in the Wood 41 

Christmas Carol 532 

"Christ will gather in His own" 609 

Cotnin* through the Rye 214 

Cruel Sister 418 

Dowie Dens of Y'arrow 381 

Dumb Child 29 

Fair .\nnicof Lochroyan 394 

Fair Helen 402 

Fairy Queen 793 

Fisherman's Song 696 

Glenlogie 406 

Heir of Linne. 368 



PlOE 

Jovial Beggar 916 

Katharine Janfarie S93 

Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament 23 

Lament of the Border Widow 417 

Lord Lovel 198 

Love-Knot 217 

Loveliness of Love 139 

Love me Little, Love me Long 163 

"Love me not for comely grace" 139 

Love will Find out the Way 99 

Maiden's Choice 210 

Merry Pranks of Robin Goodfellow 808 

Monody on the Death of an Only Client 919 

My Eyes ! how I Love you! 162 

New Jerusalem 602 

Not One to .'^pare 37 

Nut-Browu Maid 112 

Old and Young Courtier 672 

Only Waiting 639 

Origin of the Opal 4G1 

Robin Hood and AUen-a-Dale 390 

Shells of Ocean 784 

Sir Patrick Spens 367 

St. Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes 913 

Take thy Old Cloak about thee 899 

They're Dear Fish to Me 699 

Three Ravens 410 

To a Skeleton 642 

To my Horse 491 

Twa Corbies 4U 

Twenty Years Ago SO 

Useful Plough 092 

Veui Creator Spiritus .^3 

Vicar of Bray 912 

Waly, waly, l^tve be Bonny 103 

Wandering Jew 374 

Where are you Going, my Pretty Maid?. 896 

White Rose 214 

Winifroda 9 

Young Airly 325 



PART I. 



Poems of 



Home and Childhood 






%^ 




SSJBW© 1KI®ME. 



Poetry 



Home and Childhood. 



Home, Sweet Home. 

'Mm pleasures and palaces though we may 

roam, 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like 

homo ! 
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us 

there, 
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er 
met with elsewhere. 
Home, home, sweet, sweet, home! 
There's no place like home! 

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in 

vain ; 
Oh ! give me my lowly thatch'd cottage 

again ! 
The birds, singing gaylv, that came at my 

call- 
Give me them ! — and the peace of mind 
dearer than all. 
Home, sweet, sweet, sweet, home ! 
There's no place like home! 

John Howard Patnk. 



The Homes of Exgland. 

The stately Homes of England ! 

How beautiful they .stand. 
Amidst their tall, ancestral trees, 

O'er all the plea.sant land ! 
The deer across their greensward bound, 

Through shade and sunny gleam. 
And the swan glides past them with the 
sound 

Of some rejoicing stream. 

The merry Homes of England ! 

.\ round tlioir licarths by night. 
What gladsome looks of household love 

Meet in the ruddy light ! 



There woman's voice flows forth in song. 

Or childhood's tale is told. 
Or lips move tunefully along 

Some glorious page of old. 

The blessed Homes of England ! 

How softly on their bowers 
Is laid the holy quietness 

That breathes from Sabbath hours I 
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime 

Floats through their woods at morn ; 
All other .sounds, in that still time. 

Of breeze and leaf are born. 

The cottage Homes of England ! 

By thousands on lior plains. 
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 

And round the hamlet fanes. 
Through glowing orchards forth they peep, 

Each from its nook of leaves. 
And fearless there the lowly sleep, 

As the bird beneath their eaves. 

The free, fair Homes of England ! 

Long, long, in hut and hall. 
May hearts of native |)roof be rear'd 

To guard each hallow'd wall ! 
And green for ever be the groves, 

And bright the flowery sod, 

Wliere first the child's glad .spirit loves 

Its country and it.s tJod ! 

Felicia Dokothea Hemans. 

My Ain Fireside. 

I H Ai: seen great anes, and sat in great ha's, 
'Mang lords and fine ladies a' cover'd wi' 

braws, 
At feasts made for princes wi' princes I've 

been, 
When the grand shine o' splendor has 

dazzled my een ; 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



But a sight sae delightfu' I trow I ne'er 

spied 
As the bonny blithe blinl; o' my ain fireside. 
My ain fireside, my ain fireside, 
Oh cheery's the blink o' my ain fireside ; 
My ain fireside, my ain fireside. 
Oh, there's naught to compare wi' ane's 
ain fireside. 

Ance mair, Gude be thankit, round my ain 

heartsome ingle, 
Wi' the friends o' my youth I cordially 

mingle ; 
Nae forms to comjiel me to seem wae or 

glad, 
I may laugh when I'm merry, and sigh 

when I'm sad. 
Nae falsehood to dread, and nae malice to 

fear. 
But truth to delight me, and friendship to 

cheer ; 
Of a' roads to happiness ever were tried, 
There's nane half so sure as ane's ain fire- 
side. 
My ain fireside, my ain fireside, 
Oh, there's naught to compare wi' ane's 
ain fireside. 

When I draw in my stool on my cozy 

hearthstane, 
My heart loups sae light I scarce ken't for 

my ain ; 
Care's down on the wind, it is clean out o' 

sight. 
Past troubles they seem but as dreams o' 

the night. 
I hear but kend voices, kend faces I see, 
And mark saft affection glent fond frae 

ilk ee ; 
Nae fleechings o' flattery, nae boastings o' 

pride, 
'Tis heart speaks to heart at ane's ain fire- 
side. 
My ain fireside, my ain fireside, 
Oh there's naught to compare wi' ane's 
ain fireside. 

Elizabeth Hamilton. 

The Happy Marriage. 

How blest has my time been, what joys 

have I known, 
Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy 

my own ! 



So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain. 
That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. 

Through walks grown with woodbines, as 

often we stray. 
Around us our boys and girls frolic and play : 
How pleasing their sport is ! The wanton 

ones see, 
And borrow their looks from my Jessy and 

me. 

To try her sweet temper, ofttimes am I seen, 
In revels all day, with the nymphs on the 

green : 
Though painful my absence, my doubts 

she beguiles. 
And meets me at night with complacence 

and smiles. 

What though on her cheeks the rose loses 

its hue. 
Her wit and good-humor bloom all the 

year through ; 
Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her 

truth, 
And gives to her mind what he steals from 

her youth. 

Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to 
ensnare 

And cheat with false vows the too credu- 
lous fair; 

In search of true pleasure, how vainly you 
roam! 

To hold it for life, you must find it at home. 
Edwakd SIoore. 

The Fireside. 

Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd, 
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, 

In folly's maze advance. 
Though singularity and pride 
Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside, 

Nor join the giddy dance. 

From the gay world we'll oft retire 
To our own family and fire. 

Where love our hours employs ; 
No noisy neighbor enters here. 
No intermeddling stranger near, 

To spoil our heartfelt joys. 

If solid happiness we prize. 
Within our breast this jewel lies. 
And they are fools who roam ; 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



The world hath nothing to bestow — 
From our own selves our bliss must flow, 
And that dear hut, our home. 

Of rest was Xoah's dove bereft. 
When with impatient wing she left 

That safe retreat, the ark ; 
Giving her vain excursion o'er, 
The disappointnl bird once more 

Explored the sacred bark. 

Though fools s]>urn Hymen's gentle powers, 
We, who in)])r()ve his golden hours. 

By sweet experience know 
That marriage, rightly understood, 
Gives to the tender and the good 

A paradise below. 

Our babes shall richest comforts bring; 
If tutor'd right, they'll prove a spring 

Whence pleasures ever rise ; 
We'll form their minds with studious care 
To all that's manly, good, and fair, 

And train them for the skies. 

While they our wisest liours engage, 
They'll joy our youth, support our age, 

And crown our hoary hairs; 
They'll grow in virtue every day. 
And thus our fondest loves repay, 

And recompense our cares. 

No borrow'd joys, they're all our own. 
While to the world we live unknown, 

Or by the world forgot; 
Monarehs ! we envy not your state — 
Wc look with jiity on the great, 

And bless our humble lot. 

Our porti<m is not large, indeed ; 
But then how little do we need. 

For Nature's calls are few ! 
In this the art of living lies — 
To want no more than may suffice. 

And make that little do. 

We'll therefore relish with content 
Whate'er kind Providence has sent, 

Nor aim beyond our power; 
For, if our stock be very small, 
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all. 

Nor lose the pre-sent hour. 

To be resign'd wlien ills betide, 
Patient when favors are denied, 
-Vnd [)leased with favors given — 



Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part, 
This is that incense of the heart 
Whose fragrance smells to heaven. 

We'll a.sk no long-protracted treat, 
Since winter-life is seldom sweet ; 

But, when our feast is o'er. 
Grateful from table we'll arise, 
Nor grud;j:e our sons, with envious eyes. 

The relics of our store. 

Thus hand in hand througli life we'll go; 
Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe 

With cautious steps we'll tread ; 
Quit its vain scenes without a tear, 
Without a trouble or a fear. 

And mingle with the dead ; 

While conscience, like a faithful friend, 
Shall through the gloomy vale attend, 

And cheer our dying breath — 
Shall, when all other comforts cease, 
Like a kind angel whisper peace, 

And smooth the bed of death. 

Kathaniei. Cotton. 



The COTTER'S Saturday A'igiit. 

Inscribed to Robert .Viken, Esq. 

" Let not Ambition luocic tlicir usfful toil, 
Tbcir homely joys, and dt-titiny obscure; 
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The stiort and simple annals of the poor." — Gray. 

My lov'd, my honor'd, much-respected 
friend ! 
No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
AVith honest pride, I scorn each selfish end: 
My dearest meed, a friend',^ esteem and 

praise ; 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 
The lowly train in life's sequestcr'd scene; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless 
ways ; 
What Aiken in a cottage would have 

been ; 
Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far ha])pier 
there, I ween ! 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 

The short'ning winter-day is near a close; 
The miry beast.s retreating frae the pleugh; 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their 
repose : 

The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes, — 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



This night his weekly moil is at an end, — 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his 

hoes, 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to 

spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does 

hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view. 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher 
through 
To meet their "dad," wi' flichterin' noise 

an' glee. 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnilie. 
His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's 
smile. 
The lisping iniiint, prattling on his knee, 
Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, 
And makes him quite forget his labor and 
his toil. 

Belyve, the ekler bairns come drapping in, 
At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie 
rin 
A cannie errand to a ncibor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman 
grown, 
In youthfu' bloom- — love sparkling in her 
e'e — 
Comes hame ; perhaps, to show a braw 
new gown. 
Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee. 
To help her parents dear, if they in hard- 
ship be. 

With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters 
meet, 
And eacli for other's welfare kindly 
spiers : 
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed 
fleet ; 
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears. 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful 
years ; 
Anticipation forward points the view ; 
The mother, wi' her needle and her 
shears. 
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the 

new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 



Their master's and their mistress's com- 
mand. 
The younkers a' are warnfed to obey; 
And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand, 
And ne'er, tho' out o' siglit, to jauk or 

play; 
"And oh, be sure to fear the Lord alway. 
And mind your duty, duly, morn and night ; 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 
Implore His counsel and assisting might: 
They never sought in vain that sought the 
Lord aright." 

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the 

same, 

Tells how a neibor lad came o'er the moor. 

To do some errands, and convoy her 

hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
Witli heart-struck anxious care, inquires 
his name. 
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleased the mother hears, it's nae 
wild, worthless rake. 

AVith kindly welcome, Jenny brings him 
ben; 
A strappin' youth, he takes the mother's 
eye; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and 

kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows 
wi' joy. 
But, blate an' laithfu', scarce can weel 
behave ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae 

grave ; 
Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected 
like the lave. 

O happy love ! where love like this is found : 
O heartfelt raiitures ! bliss beyond com- 
pare ! 
I've pacfed much this weary, mortal round, 
And sage experience bids me this de- 
clare, — 
" If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleas- 
ure spare — 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



One cordial in this melancholy vale, — 

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair 
In other's arms breathe out the tender talc, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents 
the eveninsr gale." 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, 

A wretch ! a villain I lost to love and 

truth ! 

That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting 

youth ? 
Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembling, 
smooth ! 
Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? 

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 
Points to the parents fondling o'er their 

child-? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their dis- 
traction wild ? 

But now the supper crowns their simple 
board. 
The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's 
food; 
The sowpe their only hawkie does afford, 
That, 'yont the hallan snugly chows her 

cood : 
The dame brings forth, in complimental 
mood. 
To grace the lad, her wecl-hain'd keb- 
buck, fell ; 
And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid : 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' 
the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 

The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace, 
The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid a.side. 

His lyart haffet-s wearing thin and bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion 
glide. 

He wales a portion with judicious care ; 

And " Let us worship God I" he says with 
solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple 
guise. 
They tune their hearts, by far the no- 
blest aim : 



Perhaps "Dundee's" wild warbling mea% 
ures rise. 
Or plaintive " Martyrs," worthy of the 

name ; 
Or noble " Elgin " beets the heavenward 
flame. 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compared with these, Italian trills are 
tame : 
The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures 

raise ; 
Xae unison hae they with our Creator's 
praise. 

The prie.st-like father reads the sacred page, 
How Abram was the friend of (uid on 
high ; 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or, how the royal bard did groaning lie 
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging 
ire; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred 
lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was 

shed ; 

How He, who hurc in Heaven the second 

name. 

Had not on earth whereon to lay His 

head : 
How His first foUowersand servants sped ; 
The prccei)ts sage they wrote to many a 
land : 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished. 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pro- 
nounced by Heaven's command. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal 
King 
The saint, the father, and the husband 
prays : 
Hope "springs exulting 'on triumphant 
wing," 
That thus they all shall meet in future 

days. 
There, ever bask in unoreateil rays. 
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. 
Together hymning their Creator's praise. 



8 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



yi such society, yet still more dear, 
"While circling time moves round in an 
eternal sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor Religion's 
pride. 
In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide 
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the 

heart ! 
The Power, incensed, the pageant will 
desert. 
The pomjjous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 

But haply, in some cottage far apart, 
May hear, well pleased, the language of 

the soul ; 
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor 
enroll. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral 
way; 
The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent pair their secret homage pay, 
And proffer up to Heaven the warm 

request, 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous 
nest. 
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, 
AN'ould, in the way His wisdom sees the 
best, 
For them and for their little ones provide; 
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 

From scenes like theseold Scotia's grandeur 

springs. 

That makes her loved at home, revered 

abroad : 

Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

" An honest man's the noblest work of 

God ;" 
And certes, in foir Virtue's heavenly road. 
The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous 
load, 
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 
Studied in artsof hell, in wickedness refined! 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven 
is sent. 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
Be blest with health, and peace, and 
sweet content ! 



And oh, may Heaven their simple lives 
prevent 
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be 
rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much- 
loved isle. 

O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide. 
That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted 
heart, 

Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 
Or n(jbly die, the second glorious part : 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art. 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and re- 
ward ! ) 
Oh never, never Scotia's realm desei't ; 

But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, 

In bright succession raise, her ornament 

and guard ! 

Robert Burns. 

.4 Wish. 

Mine be a cot beside the hill ; 

A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear ; 
A willffwy brook, that turns a mill. 

With many a fall shall linger near. 

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, 
Shall twitter from her clay -built nest; 

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. 
And share my meal, a welcome guest. 

Around my ivied porch shall spring 

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village church, among the trees. 
Where first our marriage vows were given, 

With merry peals shall swell the breeze, 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 
Samuel Rogers. 

.4 Picture. 

The farmer sat in his easy-chair 

Smoking his pipe of clay. 
While his hale old wife, with busy care, 

Was clearing the dinner away ; 
A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes. 
On her grandfather's knee was catching 
flies. 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



The old man laid his hand on her head, 

Witli a tear on his wrinkled face ; 
He tlioiight liow often her niotlier, dead, 

Had sat in the self-same place. 
As the tear stole down from his half-shut 

eye, 
"Don't smoke!" said the child; "how it 
makes you cry !" 

The house-dog lay stretch'd out on the 
floor. 

Where the shade after noon used to steal ; 
The busy old wife, by the open door. 

Was turning the spinning-wheel ; 
And the old brass clock on the manteltree 
Had plodded along to almost three. 

Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair, 
While close to his heaving breast 

The moisten'd brow and the check so fair 
Of his sweet grandchild were press'd ; 

His head, bent down, on her sf>ft hair lay : 

Fast asleep were they both, that summer 

day ! 

Charles G. Eastxan. 

Matrimonial IIappixess. 

When I upon thy bosom lean, 

And fondly clasp thee a' my ain, 
I glory in the sacred ties 

Tliat made us ane wha ance were twain. 
A mutual flame inspires us baith. 

The tender look, the meltin' kiss; 
Even years shall ne'er destroy our love, 

But only gi'e us change o' bliss. 

Hae I a wish ? it's a' for thee ! 

I ken thy wish is me to please ; 
Our moments pa.ss sae smooth away 

That numbers on us look and gaze ; 
Weel pleased they see our happy days, 

N'or envy's sel' finds aught to blame; 
And aye when weary cares arise, 

Thy bosom .still shall be my hame. 

I'll lay me there and tak' my rest ; 

And if that aught disturb my dear, 
I'll bid her laugh her cares away, 

And beg her not to drop a tear. 
Hae I a joy? it's a' her ain ! 

United still her heart and mine; 
They're like the «(i(Mll)ine round the tree. 

That's twined till death shall thenidisjoin. 
Joii.N Lapraik. 



Win I FRED A. 

Away ! let naught to love di.spleasing, 
My Winifreda, move your care; 

Let naught delay the heavenly blessing, 
Nor squeamish pride nor gloomy fear. 

What though no grants of royal donors 
AVith pompous titles grace our blood ; 

We'll shine in more substantial honors, 
And to be noble we'll be good. 

Our name, while virtue thus we tender, 
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke, 

And all the great ones, they shall wonder 
How they respect such little folk. 

What though from fortune's lavish bounty 
No mighty treasures we possess ; 

We'll find within our pittance plenty. 
And be content without excess. 

Still shall each returning season 
Sufficient for our wishes give ; 

For we will live a life of reason ; 
And that's the only life to live. 

Through youth and age, in love excelling. 
We'll hand in hand together tread ; 

Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwell- 
ing, 
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. 

How should I love the pretty creatures 
While round my knees they fondly 
clung. 

To see them look their mother's features. 
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue I 

And when with en^•y time, transported, 
Shall think to rob us of our joys. 

You'll in your girls again be courted. 
And I'll go a-wooing in my boys. 

AlTHOR USKXOWX. 



HERMIONi:. 

Wherever I wander, up and about. 
This is the puzzle I can't make out^ — 
Because I care little for books, no doubt: 

I have a wife, and she is wise, 

Deep in ]>hilosophy, strong in Greek ; 

Spectacles sliadow her pretty eyes, 
Coteries rustle to hear her speak ; 



10 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



She writes a little — for love, not fame ; 
Has publish'd a book with a dreary name ; 

And yet (God bless her!) is mild and 
meek. 
And how I happened to woo and wed 

A wife so pretty and wise withal, 
Is part of the puzzle that fills my head — 
Plagues me at day-time, racks me in bed, 

Haunts me, and makes me appear so 
small. 
The only answer that I can see 
Is — I could not have married Hermione 
(That is her fine wise name), but she 
Stoop'd in her wisdom and married me. 

For I am a fellow of no degree. 

Given to romping and jollity ; 

The Latin they thrash'd into me at school 

The world and its fights have thrash'd 
away : 
At figures alone I am no fool, 

And in city circles I say my say. 
But I am a dunce at twenty-nine, 
And the kind of study that I think fine 
Is a chapter of Dickens, a sheet of the 
Times, 

When I lounge, after work, in my easy- 
chair ; 
Punch for humor, and Praed for rhymes. 

And the butterfly mots blown here and 
there 

By the idle breath of the social air. 
A little French is my only gift. 
Wherewith at times I can make a shift. 
Guessing at meanings, to flutter over 
A filigree tale in a paper cover. 

Hermion^, my Hermionfe ! 

What could your wisdom perceive in me ? 

And, Hermione, my Hermione ! 

How does it hajipen at all that we 

Love one another so utterly ? 

Well, I have a bright-eyed boy of two, 

A darling who cries with lung and 
tongue about : 
As fine a fellow, I swear to you, 

As ever poet of sentiment sung about ! 
And my lady-wife with the serious eyes 

Brightens and lightens when he is nigh. 
And looks, although she is deep and wise. 

As foolish and happy as he or 1 1 
And I have the courage just then, you see, 
To kiss the lips of Hermione — 



Those learnfed lips that the learnfed praise — 
And to clasp her close as in sillier days ; 
To talk and joke in a frolic vein. 

To tell her my stories of things and men ; 
And it never strikes me that I'm profane. 
For she laughs and blushes, and kisses 
again ; 

And, presto ! fly ! goes her wisdom then ! 
For boy claps hands, and is up on her 
breast. 

Roaring to see her so bright with mirth ; 
And I know she deems me (oh the jest !) 

The cleverest fellow on all the earth ! 

And Hermion6, my Hermion6, 

Nurses her boy and defers to me ; 
Does not seem to see I'm small — 
Even to think me a dunce at all ! 
And wherever I wander, up and about, 
Here is the puzzle I can't make out : 
That HermionS, my HermionS, 
In spite of her Greek and philosophy. 
When sporting at night with her boy and me, 
Seems sweeter and wiser, I assever — 
Sweeter and wiser, and far more clever, 
And makes me feel more foolish than ever. 
Through her childish, girlish, joyous grace, 
And the silly pride in her learnfed face ! 

That is the puzzle I can't make out — 
Because I care little for books, no doubt ; 
But the puzzle is pleasant, I know not 
why. 
For, whenever I think of it, night or 
morn, 
I thank my God she is wise, and I 
The happiest fool that was ever born ! 
Robert Buchanan. 

John Anderson, my Jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent. 
Your locks were like the raven. 

Your bonnie brow was brent; 
But now your brow is lield, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson, my jo ! 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 
We clamb the hill thegither. 

And mony a cantie day, John, 
We've had wi' ane anither: 



POETRY OF HOME AXD CHILDHOOD. 



11 



Now we maun totter down, John ; 

And hand in hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

Robert Birxs. 

LiA'ES Written to his Wife, 
While ox a Visit to Upper India. 

If thou wert by my side, my love. 
How fast would evening fail 

In green Bengala's palmy grove. 
Listening the nightinirale ! 

If thou, my love, wert by my side. 

My babies at my knee. 
How gaily would our pinnace glide 

O'er Gunga's mimic sea ! 

I miss thee at the dawning gray. 
When, on our deck reclined. 

In careless ease my limbs I lay, 
And woo the cooler wind. 

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream 

My twilight steps I guide ; 
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam 

I miss thee from my side. 

I spread my books, my pencil try, 
The lingering noon to cheer. 

But miss thy kind, approving eye, 
Thy meek, attentive ear. 

But when of morn and eve the star 

Beholds me on my knee, 
I feel, though thou art distant far. 

Thy prayers ascend for me. 

Then on I then on ! where duty leads, 
My course be onward still — 

On broad Hindostan's sultry meads, 
O'er black Alniorah's hill. 

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates 

Nor mild Malwah detain ; 
For sweet the bliss us both awaits 

By yonder western main. 

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they 
say, 

Across the dark blue sea; 
But never were hearts so light and gay 

As then shall meet in thee ! 

Keoi.vald IIeber. 



To My Wife. 

On, haclst tluiu never shared my fate. 
More dark that fate would prove: 

My heart, were truly desolate 
Without thy soothing love. 

But thou hast sufTer'd for my sake, 

Whilst this relief I found. 
Like fearless lips that strive to take 

The poison from a wound. 

My fond affection thou hast seen, 

Then judge of my regret 
To think more happy thou hadst been 

If we had never met ! 

And has that thought been shared by thee? 

Ah, no ! that smiling cheek 
Proves more unchanging love for me 

Than labor'd words could speak. 

But there are true hearts which the sight 

Of sorrow summons forth ; 
Though known in days of past delight. 

We knew not half their worth. 

How unlike some who have profess'd 
So much in Friendship's name. 

Yet calmly pause to think how best 
They may evade her claim. 

But ah '. from them to thee I turn, — 
They'd make me loathe mankind ; 

Far better lessons I may learn 
From thy more holy mind. 

The love that gives a charm to home 

I feel they cannot take : 
We'll pray for happier years to come. 

For one another's sake. 

Thomas IIavnes Baylv. 

The Winsome Wee thixg. 

She is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing. 
She is a bonnie wee thing. 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never .saw a fairer, 
I never lo'ed a dearer ; 
And neist my heart I'll wear her, 
For fear my jewel tine. 

She is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing. 



12 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Ste is a bonnie wee thing, 


If she, by merit since disclosed, 


This sweet wee wife o' mine. 


Prove twice the woman I supposed, 


The warld's wrack we share o't, 


I plead that double merit now 


Tlie warstle and the care o't, 


To justify a double vow. 


Wi' her I'll blythely bear it. 
And think my lot divine. 


Here, then, to-day (with faith as sure. 
With ardor as intense, as pure, 


Egbert Burns. 


As when, amidst the rites divine, 


to* 


I took thy troth and plighted mine), 


She was a Phantom of Delight. 


To thee, sweet girl, my second ring. 




A token and a pledge, I bring : 


She was a Phantom of delight 


With this I wed, till death us part. 


When first she gleam'd upon my sight; 


Thy riper virtues to my heart — 


A lovely Apparition, sent 


Those virtues which, before untried. 


To be a moment's ornament ; 


The wife has added to the bride; 


Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; 


Those virtues whose progressive claim. 


Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 


Endearing wedlock's very name. 


But all things else about her drawn 


My soul enjoys, my song approves, 


From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; 


For conscience' sake as well as love's. 


A dancing Shape, an Image gay. 


And why ? They show me every hour 


To hunt, to startle, and waylay. 


Honor's high thought, Afiection's power. 


I saw her, upon nearer view. 


Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sen- 


A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 


tence. 


Her household motions light and free. 


And teach me all things — but repentance. 




Samuel Bishop. 


And steps of virgin liberty ; 




A countenance in which did meet 


*oi 


Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 


The MARINER'S Wife. 


A Creature, not too bright or good 




For human nature's daily food — 


And are ye sure the news is true ? 


For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 


And are ye sure he's weel? 


Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 


Is this a time to think o' wark ? 




Ye jauds fling by your wheel ! 


And now I see with eye serene 


Is this a time to think o' wark. 


The very pulse of the machine ; 


When Colin's at the door? 


A Being breathing thoughtful breath. 


Rax me my cloak, I'll to the quay 


A Traveller between life and death ; 


And see him come ashore. 


The reason firm, the temperate will. 


For there's nae luck about the house, 


Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 


There's nae luck at a' ; 


A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd. 


There's little pleasure in the house 


To warn, to comfort, and command ; 


When our gudeman's awa'. 


And yet a Spirit still, and bright 




With something of an angel light. 


And gie to me my bigonet. 


WiLiiAM Wordsworth. 


My bishop's satin gown ; 


^ 


For I maun tell the baillie's wife 


To Mary. 


That Colin's come to town. 




My Turkey slippers maun gae on, 


" Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed "— 


My hose o' pearl blue ; 


So, fourteen years ago, I said. 


It's a' to pleasure my ain gudemau. 


Behold another ring! — "For what? — 


For he's baith leal and true. 


To wed thee o'er again?" Why not? 




W^ith that first ring I married youth, 


Rise \\\i and mak a clean fireside, 


Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth ; 


Put on the niuckle pot; 


Taste long admired, sense long revered. 


Gie little Kate her Sunday gown, 


And all my Molly then appear' d. 


And Jock his button coat ; 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 13 


And mak their shoon as black as slaes, 


Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin, ~ 


Their hose as white as snaw ; 


Telling of spring and its joyous renewing. 


It's a' to please my ain gudeman, 


And thoughts of thy love, and its mani- 


For he's been long awu'. 


fold treiusure. 




Are circling my heart with a promise of 
pleasure. 


There's twa fat hens upo' the bank 


They've fed this month and mair; 


Spring of my spirit I May of my bosom I 


Mak haste and thniw their necl^s about, 


Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and 


That Colin weel may fare; 


blossom ; 
The waste of my life has a rose-root with- 


And spread the table neat and clean, 


Gar ilka thing look braw ; 


in it 


For wha can tell how Colin fared 


And thy fondness alone to the sunshine 


When he was far awa' ? 


can win it. 


Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, 




His breath like caller air ; 


Figure that moves like a song tlirough the 


His very foot has music in't 


even ; 


As he comes up the stair. 


Features lit up by a reflex of heaven ; 


And will I see his face again? 


Eyes like tlic skies of poor Erin, our 


And will I hoar him speak? 


mother, 


I'm downrijrht dizzy wi' the thought, 


Where shadow and sunshine are chasing 


In troth I'm like to greet I 


each other; 




Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and 


Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content, 


simple. 


I hae nae mair to crave : 


Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet 


Could I but live to mak him blest, 


dimple ; — 


I'm blest aboon the lave: 


Oh, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy 


And will I see his face again? 


seeming 


And will I hear him speak? 


Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming ! 


I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought. 




In troth I'm like to greet. 


You have been glad when you knew I was 


For there's nae luck about the house, 


gladden'd ; 


There's nae luck at a' ; 


Dear, are you sad now to hear I am sad- 


There's little pleasure in the house 


don'd? 


When our gudeman's awa'. 


Our hearts ever answer in tunc and in 


Jean Adam. 


time, love. 




As octave to octave, and rhyme unto 


The Exile to his Wife. 


rhyme, love : 




I cannot weep but your tears will be 


Come to me, dearest, I'm lonely without 


flowing, 


thee. 


You cannot smile but my cheek will be 


Day-time and night-time, I'm thinking 


glowing; 


about thee; 


I would not die without you at my side. 


Night-time and day-time, in dreams I be- 


love ; 


hold tliec ; 


You will not linger when I shall have 


Unwelcome the waking which cca.ses to 


dii'd, love. 


fold thee. 




Come to me, darling, my sorrows to 


Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow, 


lighten ; 


Rise on my gloom like the sun of to- 


Come in thy beauty to bless and to 


morrow ; 


brighten ; 


Strong, swift, and fond as the words which 


Come in thy womanhood, meekly and 


I speak, love. 


lowly. 


With a song on your lip and a smile on 


Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy. 


your cheek, love. 



14 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Come, for my heart in your absence is 

weary, — 
Haste, for my spirit is sicken'd and 

dreary, — 
Come to the arms which alone should 

caress thee. 

Come to the heart that is throbbing to 

press thee! 

Joseph Brensan. 

A WIFE. 

The wife sat thoughtfully turning over 
A book inscribed with the school-girl's 
name; 
A tear, one tear, fell hot on the cover 
So quickly closed when her husband 
came. 

He came, and he went away, it was 
nothing ; 
With commonplace upon either side ; 
But, just as the sound of the room-door 
shutting, 
A dreadful door in her soul stood wide. 

Love she had read of in sweet romances. 
Love that could sorrow, but never fail ; 

Built her own palace of noble fancies, 
All the wide world like a fairy tale. 

Bleak and bitter and utterly doleful, 
Spread to this woman her map of life : 

Hour after hour she look'd in her soul, 
full 
Of deep dismay and turbulent strife. 

Face in hands, she knelt on the car- 
pet; 
The cloud was looseu'd, the storm-rain 
fell. 
Oh life has so much to wither and warp it, 
One poor heart's day what poet could tell ? 
William Allingham. 



Without ajstd Within. 
I. 

The night is dark, and the winter winds 

Go stabbing about with their icy spears; 
The sharp hail rattles against the panes. 
And melts on my cheeks like tears. 

'Tis a terrible night to be out of doors. 
But some of us must be, early and late ; 



We needn't ask who, for don't we know 
It has all been settled by Fate ? 

Not woman, but man. Give woman her 
flowers, 
Her dresses, her jewels, or what she de- 
mands : 
The work of the world must be done by 
man. 
Or why has he brawny hands ? 

As I feel my way in the dark and cold, 
I think of the chambers warm and 
bright — 
The nests where these delicate birds of 
ours 

Are folding their wings to-night ! 

Through the luminous windows, above 
and below, 
I catch a glimpse of the life they lead : 
Some sew, some sing, others dress for the 
ball. 

While others (fair students) read. 

There's the little lady who bears my 
name — 
She sits at my table now, pouring her 
tea; 
Does she think of me as I hurry home. 
Hungry and wet ? Not she. 

She helps herself to the sugar and cream 
In a thoughtless, dreamy, nonchalant 
way ; 
Her hands are white as the virgin rose 

That she wore on her wedding-day. 

My stubbfed fingers are stain'd with ink — 
The badge of the ledger, the mark of 
trade ; 
But the money I give her is clean enough, 
In spite of the way it is made. 

I wear out my life in the counting-room. 
Over day-book and cash-book. Bought 
and Sold ; 
My brain is dizzy with anxious thought. 
My skin is as sallow as gold. 

How does she keep the roses of youth 
Still fresh in her cheeks ? My roses are 
flown. 
It lies in a nutshell : why do I ask ? 
A woman's life is her own. 



POETRY OF HOME ASD CHILDHOOD. 



15 



She gives me a kiss when we part for the 
day, 
Then goes to her music, blithe as a bird ; 
She reads it at sight, and the language too, 
Though I know never a word. 

She sews — a little; makes collars and 
sleeves ; 
Or embroiders me slijjpers (always too 
small) ; 
Nets silken purses (for me to fill) — 
Often does nothing at all 

But dream in her chamber, holding a 
flower, 
Or reading my letters (she'd better read 
me) ! 
Even now, while I am freezing with cold, 
She is cozily sipping her tea. 

If I ever reach home I shall laugh aloud 

At the sight of a roaring fire once more; 
She must wait, I think, till I thaw myself, 
For the usual kiss at the door. 

I'll have with my dinner a bottle of port. 
To warm up my blood and soothe my 
mini! ; 
Then a little music, for even I 

Like music — when I have dined. 

I'll smoke a pipe in the ca-sy-chair, 

And feel her behind me patting my 
head ; 
Or, drawing the little one on my knee. 
Chat till the hour for bed. 

II. 
Will he never come? I have watch'd for 
him 
Till the misty panes are roughen'd with 
sleet ; 
I can see no more : shall I never hear 

The welcome sound of his feet? 

I think of him in the lonesome night, 
Tramping along with a weary tread, 
And wish he were here by the cheery fire, 
Or I were there in his stead. 

I sit by the grate, and hark for his step. 
And .stare in the fire with a troubled 
mind ; 
The glow of the coals is bright in my 
face. 

But mv shadow is dark behind. 



I think of woman, and think of man, 
The tie that binds, and the wrongs that 
part. 
And long to utter in burning words 

What I feel to-night in my heart. 

No weak complaint of the man I love. 

No praise of myself or n\y sisterhood ; 
But — sometiiing that women understand. 
By men never understood. 

Their natures jar in a thousand things; 
Little matter, alas! who is right or 
wrong. 
She goes to the wall. "Slie u weak!" they 
say; 
It is that that makes tliem strong. 

But grant us weak (as in truth we are 
In our love for them), they should make 
us strong ; 
But do they? Will they? "Woman is 
WEAK !" 
Is the burden still of their song. 

Wherein am I weaker than Arthur, pray? 

He has, as he should, a sturdier frame. 
And he labors early and late for me ; 
But I — I could do the same. 

My hands are willing, my brain is clear, 

The world is wide, and the workers few ; 

But the work of the world belongs to man ; 

There is nothing for woman to do. 

Yes, she has the holy duties of home, 

A husband to love, and children to bear; 
The softer virtues, the social arts — 
In short, a life without care. 

So our masters say. But what do they 

know 
Of our lives and feelings when they are 

away ? 
Our htmsehold duties, our petty tasks. 

The nothings that waste the day? 

Nay, what do they care? 'Tis enough for 
them 
That their homes are pleasant; they 
seek their ease: 
One takes a wife to flatter his pride ; 
Another, to keep his keys. 

They say they love us ; perhaps they do, 
In a masculine way, as they love their 
wine ; 



16 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



But the soul of a woman needs sometliing 
more, 

Or it suffers at times like mine. 

Not that Arthur is ever unkind 

In word or deed, for he loves me well ; 
But I fear he thinks me weak as the rest — 
(And I may be: who can tell?) 

I should die if he changed or loved me less, 

For I live at best but a restless life ; 
Yet he may, for they say the kindest men 
Grow tired of a sickly wife. 

Oh, love me, Arthur, my lord, my life ! 
If not for my love and my womanly 
fears, 
At least for your child. But I hear his 
step — 

He must not find me in tears. 

Richard Henry Stoddard. 



The Reconciliation. 

As thro' the land at eve we went, 

And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
We fell out — I know not why — 

And kiss'd again with tears. 
And blessings on the falling-out 

That all the more endears, 
When we fall out with those we love 

And kiss again with tears ! 
For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years, 
There above the little grave, 
Oh there above the little grave, 

We kiss'd again with tears. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



Laura, my Darling. 

Laura, my darling, the roses have blush'd 
At the kiss of the dew, and our chamber is 

hush'd ; 
Our murmuring babe to your bosom has 

clung. 
And hears in his slumber the song that you 

sung; 
I watch you asleep with your arms round 

him thrown, 
Your links of dark tresses wound in with 

his own. 



And the wife is as dear as the gentle young 

bride 
Of the hour when you first, darling, came 

to my side. 

Laura, my darling, our sail down the stream 
Of Youth's summers and winters has been 

like a dream ; 
Years have but rounded your womanly 

grace. 
And added their spell to the light of your 

face ; 
Your soul is the same as though part were 

not given 
To the two, like yourself, sent to bless me 

from heaven, — 
Dear lives, springing forth from the life of 

my life, 
To make you more near, darling, mother 

and wife ! 

Laura, my darling, there's hazel-eyed Fred, 
Asleep in his own tiny cot by the bed, 
And little King Arthur, whose curls have 

the art 
Of winding their tendrils so close round 

my heart ; 
Yet fairer than either, and dearer than both, 
Is the true one who gave me in girlhood 

her troth : 
For we, when we mated for evil and good, — 
What were we, darling, but babes in the 

wood? 

Laura, my darling, the years which have 

flown 
Brought few of the prizes I pledged to my 

own. 
I said that no sorrow should roughen her 

way,— 
Her life should be cloudless, a long sum- 
mer's day. 
Shadow and sunshine, thistles and flowers. 
Which of the two, darling, most have been 

ours ? 
Yet to-night, by the smile on your lips, I 

can see 
You are dreaming of me,. darling, dreaming 

of me. 

Laura, my darling, the stars, that we knew 
In our youth, are still shining as tender 
and true ; 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



17 



The midnight is sounding its slumberous 

bell, 
And I come to the one who has loved me 

so well. 
Wake, darling, wake, for my vigil is done: 
What shall dissever our lives which are one? 
Say, while the rose listens under her breath, 
"Naught until death, darling, naught until 

death !" 

Eduund Clarence Stedman. 



TffE POET'S SOJVG TO HIS WIFE. 

How many summers, love, 

Have I been thine? 
How many days, my dove, 

Hast thou been mine? 
Time, like the winged wind 

When 't bends the flowers. 
Hath left no mark behind. 

To count the hours ! 

Some weight of thought, though loath, 

On thee he leaves ; 
Some lines of care round both 

Perhaps he weaves; 
Some fears, — a soft regret 

For joys scarce known ; 
Sweet looks we half forget ; 

All else is flown! • 

Ah ! with what thankless heart 

I mourn and sing! 
Look, where our chililron start. 

Like sudden spring! 
With tongues all sweet and low. 

Like a pleasant rhyme. 
They tell how much I owe 

To thee and Time ! 

Bkyan Wallek Procter 
(Barry Coeswall), 



Golden-Tressed Adelaide. 

A SoNO FOR A Child. 

SiNCi, I pray, a little song. 

Mother dear ! 

Neither sad nor very long : 

It is for a little maid, 

fiolden-tressJ'd Adelaide ! 

Therefore let it suit a merry, merry ear, 

Mother dear 1 
2 



Let it be a merry strain. 

Mother dear ! 
Shunning e'en the thought of pain: 
For our gentle child will weep 
If the theme be dark and deep ; 
And we will not draw a single, single tear. 

Mother dear ! 

Childhood should be all divine. 

Mother dear ! 
And like an endless summer shine ; 
Gay as Edward's shouts and cries, 
Bright as Agnes' azure eyes : 
Therefore bid thy song be merry : — dost 
thou hear. 

Mother dear 1 

Beyan Waller Procter 
(Barry Cornwall). 

On the Receipt of my 
MOTHER'S Picture. 

Oh that those lips had language ! Life has 

pass'd 
With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile 

I see. 
The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
" Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears 

away !" 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the Art that can iumiortalize, — 
The Art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
To quench it!) here shines on me still the 

same. 
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 

welcome guest, though unexpected, here ! 
Who bidst me honor with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey, not willingly alone, 

But gladly, as the precept wore her own ; 
And while that face renews my filial grief, 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, — 
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
A momentary dream, that thou art she. 
My mother I when I Icarn'd that tliou 

wast dead. 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I 

shed ? 
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. 
Wretch even then, life's journey just 

begun ? 



18 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a 

kiss ; 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile ! — it answers — 

Yes. 
I heard the bell toU'd on thy burial-day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away. 
And, turning from my nursery window, 

drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
But was it such ? — It was. — Where thou 

art gone 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful 

shore, 
The parting words shall pass my lips no 

more ! 
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my 

concern, 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
What ardently I wish'd, I long believed, 
And disappointed still, was still deceived ; 
By exjicftation every day beguiled. 
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and 

went. 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 
I learn'd at last submission to my lot. 
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er 

forgot. 
Where once we dwelt our name is heard 

no more, 
Children not thine have trod my nursery 

floor ; 
And where the gardener Robin, day by day. 
Drew me to school along the public way. 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and 

wrapt 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, 
'Tig now become a history little known. 
That once we call'd the pastoral house our 

own. 
Short-lived possession ! But the record fair, 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness 

there, 
Still outlives many a storm, that has ef- 
faced 
A thousand other themes less deeply 

traced. 
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
That thou mightst know me safe and 

warmly laid ; 



Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
The biscuit, or confectionery plum ; 
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd 
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and 

glow'd ; 
All this, and, more endearing still than all, 
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no 

fall. 
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and 

breaks 
That humor interposed too often makes ; 
All this, still legible in memory's page, 
And still to be so to my latest age, 
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honors to thee as my numbers may ; 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere. 
Not scorn'd in heaven, though little no- 
ticed here. 
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore 
the hours, 
AVhen playing with thy vesture's tissued 

flowers. 
The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
I prick'd them into paper with a pin 
(And thou wast happier than myself the 

while, 
AVouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, 

and smile), — 
Could those few pleasant days again ap- 
pear. 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish 

them here? 
I would not trust my heart ; the dear de- 
light 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. 
But no — what here we call our life is such, 
So little to be loved, and thou so much, 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 
Thou, as a gallant bark fi-om Albion's 
coast 
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean 

cross'd). 
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle. 
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons 

smile. 
There sits quiescent on the floods, that 

show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers 

gay; 



So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach'd 

the shore, 
" Where temjiests never beat nor billows 

roar;" 
And thy loved consort on the dangerous 

tide 
Of life long since has anchor'd by thy 

side. 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 
Always from port withheld, always dis- 

tress'd, — 
5Ie howling blasts drive devious, tempest- 

toss'd, 
Sails ripp'd, scams opening wide, and com- 
pass lost, 
And day by day some current's thwarting 

force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous 

course. 
Yet oh, the thought that thou art safe, 

and he ! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthroned and rulers of the 

earth. 
But higher far my [jroud pretensions 

rise, — 
The son of parents pass'd into the skies. 
And now, farewell ! — Time unrevoked has 

run 
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is 

done. 
By contemplation's help, not sought in 

vain, 
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er 

again ; 
To have renew'd the joys that once were 

mine. 
Without the sin of violating thine ; 
And, while the wings of fancy still arc 

free, 
And I can view tliis mimic show of thee, 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft, — 
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me 

left. 

William Cowpeb. 

Too Late. 

" Dovglas, Dowglas, tendir and Ireu." 
Could ye come back to me, Douglas, 
Douglas, 
In the old likeness that I knew, 



I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, 
Dciughis, Douglas, tender and true. 

Never a scornful word .should grieve ye, 
I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do ; — 

Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

Oh to call back the days that are not ! 

My eyes were blinded, your words were 
few; 
Do you know the truth now up in iioaven, 

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true? 



I never was worthy of yrm, Douglas; 

Not half worthy the like of you ; 
Now all men beside seem to me 1 
shadows — 

I love you, Douglas, tender and true. 



ike 



Stretch out your hand to inc, Douglas, 
Douglas, 
Dro]) forgiveness from heaven like dew ; 
As I lay my heart on your dead heart, 
Douglas, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

DiSAII .MlI.OCK Ckaik. 

The Family Meetixg. 

We are all here, 

Father, mother, 

Sister, brother, 
.\11 who hold each other dear. 
Each chair is fill'd ; we're all at home! 
To-night let no cold stranger come. 
It is not often thus around 
Our old familiar hearth we're found. 
Bless, then, the meeting and the spot; 
For once be every care forgot ; 
Let gentle Peace a.ssert her jiower, 
And kind .\ffection rule the hour. 

We're all — all here. 

We're not all here! 
Some are away, — the dead ones dear. 
Who throng'd with us this ancient hearth, 
And gave the hour to guileless mirth. 
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand, 
Look'd in, and thinn'd our little band; 
Sonic like a night-llash pass'd away. 
And some sank lingering day by day; 
The (juiet graveyard, — some lie there, — 
And cruel Ocean has his share. 

We're not all here. 



20 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



We are all here ! 

Even they, — the dead, — though dead, so 
dear, — 

Fond Memory, to her duty true. 

Brings back their faded forms to view. 

How life-like, through the mist of years, 

Each well-remember'd face appears ! 

We see them, as in times long past ; 

From each to each kind looks are cast ; 

We hear their words, their smiles be- 
hold ; 

They're round us, as they were of old. 
We are all here. 

We are all here, 

Father, mother. 

Sister, brother. 
You that I love with love so dear. 
This may not long of us be said ; 
Soon must we join the gather'd dead, 
And by the hearth we now sit round 
Some other circle will be found. 
Oh, then, that wisdom may we know. 
Which yields a life of peace below ! 
So, in the world to follow this, 
May each repeat in words of bliss. 

We're all — all here ! 

Chakles Sprague. 

Baby May. 

Cheeks as soft as July peaches ; 
Lips whose velvet scarlet teaches 
Poppies paleness ; round large eyes 
Ever great with new surprise ; 
Jlinutes filled with shadeless gladness ; 
Minutes just as brimm'd with sadness ; 
Happy smiles and wailing cries, 
Crows and laughs and tearful eyes, 
Liglits and shadows, swifter born 
Than on windswept autumn corn ; 
Ever some new tiny notion. 
Making every limb all motion, 
Catchings up of legs and arms, 
Throwings back and small alarms. 
Clutching fingers — straightening jerks. 
Twining feet whose each toe works, 
Kickings up and straining risings. 
Mother's ever-new surprisings ; 
Hands all wants, and looks all wonder 
At all things the heavens under ; 
Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings 
That have more of love than lovings ; 



Mischiefs done with such a winning 
Archness that we prize such sinning; 
Breakings dire of plates and glasses, 
Graspings small at all that passes ; 
Pullings off of all that's able 
To be caught from tray or table; 
Silences — small meditations 
Deep as thoughts of cares for nations — 
Breaking into wisest speeches 
In a tongue that nothing teaches, 
All the thoughts of whose possessing 
Must be woo'd to light bj' guessing ; 
Slumbers — such sweet angel-seemings 
That we'd ever have such dreamings, 
Till from sleep we see thee breaking. 
And we'd always have thee waking ; 
Wealth for which we know no measure. 
Pleasure high above all pleasure, 
Gladness brimming over gladness, 
Joy in care — delight in sadness, 
Loveliness beyond completeness, • 
Sweetness distancing all sweetness. 
Beauty all that beauty may be. 
That's May Bennett ; that's my baby. 

\V. C. Bennett. 

Baby Louise. 

I'm in love with you, Baby Louise! 
With your silken hair and your soft blue 

eyes. 
And the dreamy wisdom that in them lies, 
And the faint, sweet smile you brought from 
the skies ; 
God's sunshine, Baby Louise ! 

When you fold your hands, Baby 
Louise — 
Your hands, like a fairy's, so tiny and fair — 
With a pretty, innocent, saint-like air. 
Are you trying to think of some angel- 
taught prayer 

You learned above. Baby Louise ? 

I'm in love with you, Baby Louise ! 
Why ! you never raise your beautiful head ! 
Some day, little one, your cheek will grow 

red 
With a flush of delight to hear the words 
said, 

" I love you," Baby Louise. 

Do you hear me. Baby Louise? 
I have sung your praises for nearly an hour. 



POETRY OP HOME AXD CHILDHOOD. 



21 



And your lashes keep drooping lower and 

lower, 
Anil you've gone to sleep like a weary 

flower, 

Ungrateful Baby Louise! 

MAKI.AUET Eytinqe. 

Philip my King. 

"Who bears upon his baby brow the round 
And top of sovereignty." 

Look at me with thy large brown eyes, 

Philip, my king! 
Round wliom the ensluulowing purple lies 
Of babyhood's royal dignities: 
Lay on my neck thy tiny hand, 

With Love's invisible sceptre laden ; 
I am thine Esther to command 
Till thou shall find a queen-hand- 
maiden, 
Philip, my king! 

Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing, 

Philip, my king! 
When those beautiful lips 'gin suing. 
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing, 
Thou dost enter, love-erown'd, and there 

fittest, love-glorified ! — Rule kindly. 
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair ; 

For wc that love, ah ! we love so blindly, 
Philip, my king! 

Up from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, 

Philip, my king ! 
The spirit that there lies sleeping now 
May rise like a giant, and make men bow 
As to one heaven-chosen amongst his peers. 
My Saul, than thy brethren taller and 
fairer 
Let me behold thee in future years ! 
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, 
Pliilip, my king — 

A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, 

Philip, my king! 
Thou, too, must tread, as we trod, a way 
Tliorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray ; 
Rcltels witliin thee and foes without 
Will snatcli at thy crown. lUit march 
on, glorious, 
Martyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout, 
As thou sitt'st at the feet of God vic- 
torious, 
"Philiji, the king!" 

Dinah Mcl<xk Craik. 



Baby Bell. 

Have you not heard the poets tell 
How came the dainty Baby Bell 

Into this world of ours '? 
The gates of heaven were left ajar : 
With folded hands and dreamy eyes, 
Wandering out of Paradise, 
She saw this planet, like a star, 

Hung in the glistening depths of 
even, — 
Its bridges, running to and fro, 
O'er which the wliite-wing'd angels go. 

Bearing the holy dead to heaven. 
She touch'd a bridge of flowers, — those 

feet, 
So light they did not bend the bells 
Of the celestial asphodels. 
They fell like dew upon the flowers : 
Then all the air grew strangely sweet! 
And thus came dainty Bal)y Bell 

Into this world of ours. 

She came, and brought delicious May. 

Tlie -swallows built beneath the eaves ; 

Like sunlight, in and out the leaves 
The robins went the livelong day ; 
The lily swung its noiseless bell ; 

And o'er the jjorch the trembling vine 

Seem'dibursting with its veins of wine. 
How sweetly, softly, twilight fell ! 
Oh, eartli was full of singing-birds 
And oi)ening spring-tide flowers. 
When the dainty Baby Bell 

Came to this world of ours ! 

Oh, Baby, dainty Baby Bell, 
How fair she grew from day to day I 
What woman-nature fill'd her eyes, 
What poetry within them lay ! 
Those deep and tender twilight eyes. 

So full of meaning, jmre and bright 

As if she yet stood in tlie light 
Of those oped gates of Paradise. 
And so we loved her more and more : 
Ah, never in our hearts before 

Was love so lovely born : 
We felt we had a link between 
This real world and that unseen — 

The land beyond the morn ; 
And for the love of those dear eyes. 
For love of her whom God led forth, 
(The mother's being ceased on earth 
When Baby came from Paradise), — 



22 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



For love of Him who smote our lives, 

And woke the chords of joy and pain, 

We siiid, Dear Christ ! — our hearts bent 
down 
Like violets after rain. 

And now the orchards, which were white 
And red with blossoms when she came, 
Were rich in autumn's mellow prime ; 
The cluster'd apples burnt like flame. 
The soft-cheek'd peaches blush'd and fell. 
The ivory chestnut burst its shell, 
The grapes hung purpling in the grange ; 
And time wrought just as rich a change 

In little Baby Bell. 
Her lissome form more perfect grew, 
And in her features we could trace, 
In soften'd curves, her mother's face. 
Her angel-nature ripen'd too : 
We thought her lovely when she came, 
But she was holy, saintly now : — 
Around her pale angelic brow 
We saw a slender ring of flame ! 

God's hand liad taken away the seal 

That held the portals of her speech ; 

And oft she said a few strange words 

Whoso meaning lay beyond our reach. 

She never was a child to us, t 

We never held her being's key ; 

We could not teach her holy things : 
She was Christ's self in purity. 

It came upon us by degrees, 

We saw its shadow ere it fell, — 

The knowledge that our God had sent 

His messenger for Baby Bell. 

We shudder'd with unlanguaged pain. 

And all our hopes were changed to fears, 

And all our thoughts ran into tears 

Like sunshine into rain. 
AVe cried aloud in our belief, 
" Oh, smite us gently, gently, God ! 
Teach us to bend and kiss the rod. 
And perfect grow through grief." 
Ah, how we loved her, God can tell ; 
Her heart was folded deep in ours. 

Our hearts are broken. Baby Bell ! 

At last he came, the messenger. 

The messenger from unseen lands : 
And what did dainty Baby Bell? 
She only cross'd her little hands. 



She only look'd more meek and fair ! 
We parted back her silken hair. 
We wove the roses round her brow, — 
White buds, the summer's drifted snow, — 
Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers ! 
And thus went dainty Baby Bell 
Out of this world of ours ! 

Thomas Bailey Aldeich. 

Where did you Come FROuf 

Wheee did you come from, baby dear ? 
Out of the everywhere into here. 

Where did get your eyes so blue ? 
Out of the sky as I came through. 

What makes the light in them sparkle and 

spin ? 
Some of the starry spikes left in. 

Where did you get that little tear ? 
I found it waiting when I got here. 

What makes your forehead so smooth and 

high ? ' 
A soft hand stroked it as I went by. 

What makes your cheek like a warm 

white rose? 
I saw something better than any one 

knows. 

Whence that three-corner'd smile of bliss ? 
Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 

Where did you get this pearly ear ? 
God spoke, and it came out to hear. 

Where did you get those arms and hands? 
Love made itself into hooks and bands. 

Feet, whence did you come, you darling 

things ? 
From the same box as the cherubs' wings. 

How did they all come just to be you ? 
God thought of me, and so I grew. 

But how did you come to us, you dear ? 
God thought of you, and so I am here. 

Geokge Macdonald. 



"Sweet and Low." 

Sweet and low, sweet and low, 
Wind of the western sea. 

Low, low, breathe and blow. 
Wind of the western sea ! 



POETRY OF HOME AXl) CHILDHOOD. 



23 



Over the rolling waters go, 
Come from the dying mooii, and blow, 
Blow him again to nic, 
Wliilc my little one, while my pretty one, 
sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest. 

Father will come to thee soon ; 

Eest, rest, on mother's breast. 

Father will come to thee soon ; 

Father will come to his babe in the 

nest, 

Silver sails all out of the west 

Under the silver moon : 

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, 

sleep. 

Alfrkd Tknnvson. 



Lullaby. 

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes. 
Smiles awake you when you rise. 
Sleep, pretty wantons ; do not cry, 
And I will sing a lullaby: 
Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you ; 
You are care, and care must keep you. 
Sleep, i)retty wantons; do not cry. 
And I will sing a lullaby : 
liock them, rock them, lullaby. 

TUOMAS Dekker. 



Lady An^e Bothwelvs Lament. 

li.vi.ow, my babe, lye stil and sleipe! 
It grieves nie sair to see thee weipe : 
If thdu'st be silent, I'se be glad, 
Thy mainiiig maks my heart ful sad. 
Balow, my boy, thy mother's joy, 
Thy father breidcs me great annoy. 

Balow, my babe, ly still and sleipe. 
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

AVIian he began to court my luve. 
And with his sugred wordes to muve. 
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire 
To me that time did not appeire : 
But now I see, most eruell bee 
Cares neither for my babe nor nice. 
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe. 
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

I-y stil, my darling, sleipe a while, 
A nd when thou wakest, sweitly smile : 



But smile not, as thy father did. 
To cozen maids : nay, God forbid ! 
Bot yett I feire, thou wilt gae neire 
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. 
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe. 
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

I cannae chuse, but ever will 
Be luving to thy ftither stil: 
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, 
My luve with him doth stil abyde: 
In well or wae, whair-eir he gae, 
Jline hart can neire depart him frae. 
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe. 
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

But doe not, doe not, pretty mine, 
To faynings fals thine hart incline; 
Be loyal to thy luver trew, 
And nevir change her for a new: 
If gude or fairc, of hir have care, 
For women's banning's wondrous sair. 
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe. 
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is ganc, 

Thy winsome smiles maun else my painc; 

My babe and I'll together live. 

He'll comfort me when cares doc grieve: 

My babe and I right satl will ly. 

And quite forgeit man's cruelty. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe. 
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Farewell, farewell, thou falsest youth. 
That evir kist a woman's mouth ! 
I wish all maides be warn'd by mee 
Nevir to trust man's curtesy ; 
For if we doe bot chance to bow. 
They'll use us than they care not how. 
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe. 
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 
Author Unkno>vn. 



Cradle Song. 

[From the German.] 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
Thy father's watching the sheep, 
Thy mother's shaking the dreamland tree, 
And down drops a little dream for thee. 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 

Sleep, baby, sleep I 
The large stars are the sheep, 



24 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


The little stars are the lambs, I guess, 


And the wife wept with joy her babe's 


The bright moon is the shepherdess. 


father to see ; 


Sleep, baby, sleep. 


And closely caressing 




Her child with a blessing. 


Sleep, baby, sleep I 


Said, " I knew that the angels were whis- 


And cry not like a sheep. 


pering with thee." 


Else the sheep-dog will bark and whine, 


Samuel Lover. 


And bite this naughty child of mine. 




Sleep, baby, sleep ! 


The Child and the watcher. 


Sleep, baby, sleep ! 


Sleep on, baby on the floor. 


Thy Saviour loves His sheep ; 


Tired of all thy i)laying — 


He is the Lamb of God on high 


Sleep with smile the sweeter for 


Who for our sakes came down to die. 


That you dropped away in ; 


Sleep, baby, sleep ! 


On your curls, fair roundness stand 




Golden lights serenely ; 


Sleep, baby, sleep ! 


One cheek, push'd out by the hand. 


Away to tend the sheep. 


Folds the dimple inly — 


Away, thou sheep-dog fierce and wild. 


Little head and little foot 


And do not harm my sleeping child ! 


Heavy laid for pleasure ; 


Sleep, baby, sleep ! 


LTnderneath the lids half-shut 


Elizabeth Pkentiss. 






Plants the shining azure ; 


• -• 


Open-soul'd in noonday sun, 




So, you lie and slumber ; 


TME ANGELS' WHISPES. 


Nothing evil having done. 




Nothing can encumber. 


A BABY was sleeping ; 




Its mother was weeping ; 


I, who cannot sleep as well, 


For her husband was far on the wild raging 


Shall I sigh to view you ? 


sea; 


Or sigh further to foretell 


And the tempest was swelling 


All that may undo you '? 


Round the fisherman's dwelling ; 


Nay, keep smiling, little child. 


And she cried, " Dermot, darling, oh come 


Ere the fate apiieareth ! 


back to me !" 


I smile too ; for patience mild 




Pleasure's token weareth. 


Her beads while she number'd, 


Nay, keep sleeping before loss ; 


The baby still slumber'd. 


I shall sleep, though losing ! 


And smiled in her face as she bended her 


As by cradle, so by cross. 


knee : 


Sweet is the reposing. 


" Oh, blest be that warning, 


And God knows, who sees us twain, 


Jly child, thy sleep adorning. 


Child at childish leisure. 


For I know that the angels are whispering 


I am all as tired of pain 


with thee ! 


As you are of pleasure. 




Very soon, too, by His grace, 


" And while they are keeping 


Gently wrapt around me, 


Bright watch o'er thy sleeping. 


I shall show as calm a face, 


Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me ! 


I shall sleep as soundly — 


And say thou wouldst rather 


Ditfcring in this, that you 


They'd watch o'er thy father ! 


Clasp your playthings sleeping, 


For I know that the angels are whispering 


While my hand must drop the few 


to thee." 


Given to my keeping — 


The dawn of the morning 


Differing in this, that I, 


Saw Dermot returning, 


Sleeping, must be colder. 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



And, in waking presently, 

BrijihtiT to beliokler — 
Diflering in this, beside 

(Sleeper, have you heard me ? 
Do you move and open wide 

Your groat eyes toward me ?), 
That while I you draw withal 

From this slumber solely, 
Me, from mine, an angel shall, 

Trumpet-tongucd and holy ! 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



SiVEET Baby, .Sleep. 

Sweet baby, sleep ! what ails my dear ? 

What ails my darling, thus to cry? 
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear, 

To hear me sing thy lullaby. 
My jirctty lamb, forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my dear ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear ? 

What thing to thee can mischief do? 
Thy God is now thy Father dear, 

His holy Spouse thy mother too. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Though thy conception was in sin, 
A sacred bathing thou ha.st had ; 

And though thy birth unclean hath been, 
A blamele-ss babe thou now art made. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my dear ; sweet baby, sleep. 

While thus tliy lullaby I sing. 

For thee great blessings ripening be ; 

Thine eldest brother is a King, 
And hath a kingdom bought for thee. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear ; 

For whosoever thee olfends 
By thy Protector threaten'd are. 

And God and angels are thy friends. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

When God with us was dwelling here, 
In little babes He took delight ; 

Such innocents as thou, my dear, 
.Vre ever precious in His eight. 



Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

A little infant once was He ; 

And strength in weakness then was laid 
Upon His virgin mother's knee. 

That power to thee might be convey'd. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

In this thy frailty and thy need 

He friends and helpers doth prepare, 

Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed, 
For of thy weal they tender are. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

The King of kings, when He was born, 
Had not so much for outward ease ; 

By Ilim such dressings were not worn, 
Nor such-like swaddling-clothes a.s these. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Within a manger lodged thy Lord, 
Where oxen lay and asses fed : 

Warm rooms we do to thee afford, 
An easy cradle or a bed. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baliy, sleep. 

The wants that He did then sustain 
Have purchased wealth, my babe, for 
thee ; 

And by His torments and His pain 
Thy rest and ease secured be. 

My baby, then forbear to weei) ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Thou hast, yet more to perfect this, 

A promise and an earnest got 
Of gaining everlasting bliss, 

Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not ; 
Sweet baby, then forliear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, slee]). 

George Wither. 



Cradle Hymn. 

Hush, my dear ! Lie still and slumber ! 

Holy angels guard thy bed ! 
Heavenly blessings, without number. 

Gently falling on thy head. 



2G 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDTA OF POETRY. 



Sleep, my babe ! thy food and raiment, 
House and home, tliy friends provide ; 

All without thy care or payment, 
All thy wants are well supplied. 

How much better thou'rt attended 
Than the Son of God could be. 

When from heaven He descended, 
And became a child like thee ! 

Soft and easy is thy cradle : 

Coarse and liard thy Saviour lay, 

When His birthplace was a stable 
And His softest bed was hay. 

Blessed Babe ! what glorious features, — 
Spotless fair, divinely bright ! 

Must He dwell with brutal creatures ? 
How could angels bear the sight ? 

Was there nothing but a manger 

Cursed sinners could aflbrd, 
To receive the heavenly stranger ? 

Did they thus aflrout the Lord ? 

Soft, my child ! I did not chide thee. 
Though my song might sound too hard : 

'Tis thy mother sits beside thee. 
And her arm shall be thy guard. 

Yet to read the shameful story, 
How the Jews abused their King, 

How they served the Lord of glory, 
Makes me angry while I sing. 

See the kinder sliepherds round Him, 
Telling wonders from the sky ! 

Where they sought Him, there they found 
Him, 
With His virgin mother by. 

See the lovely Babe a-dressing ; 

Lovely Infant, how He smiled ! 
When He wept. His mother's blessing 

Sooth'd and hush'd the holy Child. 

Lo, He slumbers in a manger. 
Where the hornfed oxen fed : — 

Peace, my darling, here's no danger : 
There's no ox a-near thy bed. 

'Twas to save thee, child, from dying. 
Save my dear from burning flame. 

Bitter groans and endless crying. 
That thy blest Redeemer came. 



May'st thou live to know and fear Him, 
Trust and love Him all thy days, 

Then go dwell for ever near Him : 
See His face, and sing His praise ! 

I could give thee thousand kisses ! 

Hoping what I most desire, 

Not a mother's fondest w'ishes 

Can to greater joys aspire ! 

Isaac Watts. 



To A Child 

Embracing his Mother. 

Love thy mother, little one ! 

Kiss and clasp her neck again, — 
Hereafter she may have a son 

Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. 
Love thy mother, little one ! 

Gaze upon her living eyes. 

And mirror back her love for thee, — 
Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs 

To meet them when they cannot see. 
Gaze ujion her living eyes ! 

Press her lips the wliile they glow 

With love that they have often told, — 

Hereafter thou may'st press in woe, 
And kiss them till thine own are cold. 
Press her lips the while they glow ! 

Oh, revere her raven hair ! 

Although it be not silver-gray — 
Too early Death, led on by Care, 

May snatch save one dear lock away. 
Oh, revere her raven hair ! 

Pray for her at eve and morn, 

That Heaven may long the stroke defer— 
For thou may'st live the hour forlorn 
When thou wilt ask to die with her. 
Pray for her at eve and morn ! 

Thomas Hood. 

To Charlotte Pulteney. 

Timely blossom, infant fair. 
Fondling of a happy pair. 
Every morn and eveiy night 
Their solicitous delight ; 
Sleeping, waking, still at ease. 
Pleasing, without skill to please ; 
Little gossip, blithe and hale, 
Tattling many a broken tale ; 



POETRY OF HOME AXD CHILDHOOD. 



Singing many a tuneless song, 
Lavish of a heedless tongue ; 
Simple maiden, void of art. 
Babbling out the very heart, 
Yet a1);iiulon"d to thy will, 
Yet iiiiajrining no ill, 
Yet too inniiccnt to blush ; 
Like tiie linnet in the bush 
To the mother-linnet's note 
Moduling her slender throat, 
Chiriiin<r forth thy petty joys. 
Wanton in the change of toys ; 
Like the linnet green in May 
Flitting to each bloomy spray ; 
Wearied then and glad of rest, 
Like the linnet in the nest ; — 
This thy present hap|)y lot 
This, in time will be Ibrgot : 
Other pleasures, other cares, 
Ever-busy Time prepares ; 
And thou shalt in thy daughter see 
This picture, once, resembled thee. 

Ambrose Puiups. 



,1 Sleeping Child. 

Lips, lips, open ! 

Up comes a little bird that lives inside, 
Up comes a little bird, and peeps, and out 
he flies. 

All the day he sits inside, and sometimes 

he sings; 
Up he comes, and out he goes at night to 

spread his wings. 

Little bird, little binl, whither will you go? 
Kiiuiul about the world while nobody can 
know. 

Little bird, little bird, whither do you 

flee? 
Far away round the world Avhile nobody 

can see. 

Little bird, little bird, how long will you 

roam ? 
All round the world, and around again 

home. 

Round the round world, and back through 

the air. 
When the morning comes, the little bird is 

there. 



Back comes the little bird, and looks, and 

in he flies. 
Up wakes the little boy, and opens both his 

eyes. 

Sleep, sleep, little boy, little bird's away ; 
Little bird will come again, by the peei> of 
day; 

Sleep, sleep, little boy, little bird must go 
Round about the world, while nobody can 
know. 

Sleep, sleep sound, little bird goes round — 

Round and round he goes, — sleep, sleep 

sound ! 

Arthur Hugh Clocgii. 



Casa Wappy.* 

And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, 

Our fond, dear boy — 
The realms where sorrow dare not come. 

Where life is joy ? 
Pure at thy death, as at thy birth. 
Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; 
Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, 
Casa Wappy ! 

Despair was in our last farewell. 

As closed thine eye; 
Tears of our anguish may not tell 

When thou didst die; 
Words may not paint our grief for thee ; 
Sighs are but bubbles on the sea 
Of our unfathom'd agony ! 
Casa Wapjjy ! 

Thou wert a vision of delight. 

To bless us given ; 
Beauty embodied to our sight — 

A tyi)e of heaven ! 
So dear to us thou wert, thou art 
Even less thine own self, than a part 
Of mine, and of thy mother's heart, 
Casa Wapjiy ! 

Thy bright, brief day knew no decline — 

'Twas cloudless joy ; 
Sunrise and night alone were thine. 

Beloved boy ! 
This moon beheld thee blythe and gay ; 
That found thee prostrate in decay ; 
And ere a third shone, clay was clay, 
CiL^a ^Vappy ! 

* Tlie self-appellatiyo of a beloved child. 



28 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Gem of our hearth, our household pride, 


And though, perchance, a smile may 


Earth's undefiled, 


gleam 


Could love have saved, thou hadst uot died, 


Of casual mirth. 


Our dear, sweet child ! 


It doth not own, whate'er may seem, 


Humbly we bow to Fate's decree ; 


An inward birth ; 


Yet had we hoped that Time should see 


We miss thy small step on the stair ; — 


Thee mourn for us, not us for thee. 


We miss thee at thine evening prayer ; 


Casa AVappy ! 


All day we miss thee — everywhere — 


Do what I may, go where I will. 


Casa Wajipy ! 


Thou moet'st my sight ; 


Snows muffled earth when thou didst go. 


There dost thou glide before me still — 


In life's spring-bloom. 


A form of light ! 


Down to the appointed house below — 


I feel thy breath upon my cheek — 


The silent tomb. 


I see thee smile, I hear thee speak — 


But now the green leaves of the tree, 


Till oh ! my heart is like to break, 


The cuckoo and " the busy bee," 


Casa Wajjpy ! 


Return, but with them bring not thee, 


Methinks thou smil'st before me now, 


Casa Wappy ! 


With glance of stealth ; 


'Tis so ; but can it be— while flowers 


The hair thrown back from thy full brow- 


Revive again — 


In buoyant health ; 


Man's doom, in death that we and ours 


I see thine eyes' deep violet light — 


For aye remain ? 


Thy dimpled cheek carnation'd bright — 


Oh can it be, that, o'er the grave, 


Thy clasping arms so round and white — 


The grass renew'd should yearly wave. 


Casa Wappy ! 


Yet God forget our child to save? 


The nursery shows thy pictured wall. 


Casa Wappy ! 


Thy bat^-thy bow— 


It cannot be ; for were it so 


Thy cloak and bonnet — club and ball ; 


Thus man could die. 


But where art thou? 


Life were a mockery — thought were woe — 


A corner holds thine empty chair; 


And truth a lie ; 


Thy playthings, idly scatter'd there. 


Heaven were a coinage of the brain^ 


But speak to us of our despair. 


Religion frenzy — virtue vain — 


Casa Wappy ! 


And all our hopes to meet again, 


Even to the last, thy every word — 


Casa Wappy ! 


To glad — to grieve — 


Then be to us, dear lost child ! 


Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird 


With beam of love. 


On summer's eve ; 


A star, death's uncongenial wild 


In outward beauty undecay'd, 


Smiling above ! 


Death o'er thy sjiirit cast no shade. 


Soon, soon thy little feet have trod 


And, like the rainbow, thou didst fade. 


The skyward path, the seraph's road. 


Casa Wappy ! 


That led thee back from man to God, 


We mourn for thee, when blind, blank 


Casa Wappy ! 


night 


Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our dcsjiair. 


The chamber fills ; 


Fond, fairest boy. 


We pine for thee, when morn's first light 


That heaven is God's, and thou art there. 


Reddens the hills ; 


With him in joy ; 


The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, 


There past are death and all its woes ; 


All — to the wall-flower and wild-pea — 


There beauty's stream for ever flows ; 


Are changed ; we saw the world thro' thee, 


And pleasure's day no sunset knows. 


Casa Wappy ! 


Casa Wappy! 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



29 



Farewell, then — for a while, farewell — 

Pride of my heart ! 
It cannot be that lon^ we dwell 

Thus torn apart. 
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee; 
And, dark howe'er life's night may be, 
Beyond the jrrave I'll meet with thee, 
Ca.sa AVappy I 

David Macbeth Moib. 

Willie Wiskie. 

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, 
Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht- 

gown, 
Tirlin' at the window, eryin' at the lock, 
"Are the weans in their bed? — for it's now 

ten o'clock." 

Hey, Willie Winkie ! are ye comin' ben? 
The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' 

hen, 
The doug's spelder'd on the floor, and 

disna gie a cheep ; 
But here's a waukrife laddie that winna 

fa' asleep. 

Onything but sleep, ye rogue! — glowerin' 

like the moon, 
Rattlin' in an aim jug wi' an airn spoon, 
Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' 

like a cock, 
Skirlin' like a kenna-what — wauknin' 

sleepin' folk! 

Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel ! 
Waumblin' aff" a bodie's knee like a vera eel, 
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' 

her thrums: 
Hey, Willie Winkie ! — See, there he comes! 

Weary is the mither that has a storie wean, 
A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his 

lane. 
That has a battle aye wi' sleep before he'll 

close an ee ; 
But a kiss frae afl" his rosy lips gies strength 



anew to me. 



William Millkk. 



The Bab IE. 

Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, 
Nae stockings on her feet; 

Her supple ankles while as snow 
Of early blossoms sweet. 



Her simple dress of sprinkled pink, 
Her double, dimpled chin ; 

Her iniL'ker'd lip and bonny niou', 
With nae ane tooth between. 

Her een sae like her mither's een, 
Twa gentle, liquid things ; 

Her face is like an angel's face — 
We're glad she has nae wings. 

Uluii Miller. 



The Dumb Child. 

She is my only girl : 
I ask'd for her as some most precious 

thing. 
For all unfinish'd wa.s love's jewell'd 

ring 
Till set with this soft pearl : 
The shade that time* brought forth I could 

not see ; 
How pure, how perfect, seem'd the gift to 

me! 

Oh, many a soft old tune 
I used to sing unto that deaden'd ear, 
And surter'd not the lightest footstep 
near, 
Lest she might wake too soon. 
And hush'd her brothers' laughter while 

she lay — 
Ah, needless care ! I might have let them 
play ! 

'Twas long ere I believed 
That this one daughter might not speak to 

me: 
Waited and watch'd. God knows how 

patiently ! 
How willingly deceived! 
Vain Love was long the untiring nurse of 

Faith, 
And tended Hope until it starved to 

death. 

Oh if she coulil but hoar 
For one short hour, till I her tongue might 

teach 
To call me mother, in the broken speech 

Tliat thrills the mother's ear! 
AliLs! those seal'd lips never may be 

stirr'd 
To the deep miLsic of that lovely word. 



30 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



My heart it sorely tries 
To see her kneel, with such a reverent air, 
Beside her brothers, at their evening 
prayer; 
Or lift those earnest eyes 
To watch our lips, as though our words 

she knew, — ■ 
Then move her own, as she were speaking 
too. 

I've watch'd her looking up 
To the bright wonder of a sunset sky, 
With such a depth of meaning in her eye. 

That I could almost hope 
The struggling soul loould burst its bind- 
ing cords, 
And the long pent-up thoughts flow forth 
in words. 

The song of bird<ind bee. 
The chorus of the breezes, streams, and 

groves. 
All the grand music to which Nature 

moves. 
Are wasted melody 
To her; the world of sound a nameless 

void, 
While even Silence hath its charms de- 

stroy'd. 

Her face is very fair : 
Her blue eyfe beautiful : of finest mould 
The soft, white brow, o'er which in waves 
of gold 
Ripples her shining hair. 
Alas ! this lovely temple closed must be ; 
For He who made it keeps the master- 
key. 

Wills He the mind within 
Should from earth's Babel-clamor be kept 

free. 
E'en that His still small voice and step 

might be 
JFcard at its inner shrine, 
Through that deep hush of soul, with 

clearer thrill ? 
Then should I grieve? murmuring 

heart, be still ! 

She seems to have a sense 
Of quiet gladness in her noiseless play. 
She hath a pleasant smile, a gentle way. 

Whose voiceless eloquence 



Touches all hearts, though I had once the 

fear 
That even her father would not care for 

her. 

Thank God it is not so ! 
And when his sons are playing merrily, 
She comes and leans her head upon his 
knee. 
Oh, at such times I know, 
By his full eye and tones subdued and 

mild. 
How his heart yearns over his silent child. 

Not of atl gifts bereft. 
Even now. How could I say she did not 

speak ? 
What real language lights her eye and 
cheek. 
And renders thanks to Him who left 
Unto her soul j-et open, avenues 
For joy to enter, and for love to use ! 

And God in love doth give 
To her defect a beauty of its own : 
And we a deeper tenderness have known, 

Through that for which we grieve. 
Yet shall the seal be melted from her 

ear, 
Yes, and 7mj voice shall fill it— but not 
here ! 

AVhen that new sense is given. 
What rapture will its first experience be, 
That never woke to meaner melody 

Than the rich songs of Heaven — 

To hear the full-toned anthem swelling 

round, 

While angels teach the ecstasies of 

sound ! 

AuTHOu Unknown. 



The WoNDERFir Wean. 

Our wean's the most wonderfu' wean e'er 

I saw ; 
It would tak me a lang simmer day to 

tell a' 
His pranks, frae the mornin' till night 

shuts his ee. 
When he sleeps like a peerie, 'tween father 

and me ; 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



31 



For in his quite turns siccan questions 1 That I leuch clean outright, for I cou'dna 

he'll spier! | contain: 

How the moon can stii-k uj) in the skj' He was sic a conceit — sic an ancient-like 

that's sae clear? wean I 

What ears the wind blaw? and whar frae ^ ..,,,.,„ . ,. , 

^, . ., Hut mid a his damn sic kindness he shows, 

comes the rain .' ,«,,,, , . , 

That he s dear to my heart as the dew to 



He's a perfee' divirt — he's a wonderfu' 
wean I 

Or wha was the first bodie's father ? and 

wha 
Made the vera first snaw-shooer that ever 

did fa'? 
And wha made the first bird that sang on 

a tree? 
And the water that sooms a' the ships in 

the sea? 
But after I've told him as weel as I ken, 
Again he begins wi' his wha and his 

when ; 
And he looks aye sae wistfu' the whiles I 

explain : 
He's as auld as the hills — he's an auld- 

farrant wean. 

And folk wha hae skill o' the lumps on the 

head 
Hint there's mae ways than toilin' o' win- 

nin' ane's bread ; 
How he'll be a rich man, and hae men to 

work for him, 
Wi' a kyte like a baillie's, shug-shuggin' 

afore him ; 
Wi' a face like the moon — sober, sonsy, and 

douce — 
And a back, for its breadth, like the side 

o' a house. 
'Tweel ! I'm unco ta'en up wi't — they mak 

a' .sae plain. 
He's just a town's talk; he's a by-ord'nar 

wean ! 



the rose; 
And the unclouded hinny-beam aye in 

his ee 
Maks him every day dearer and dearer 

to me. 
Though Fortune be saucy, and dorty, and 

dour. 
And gloom through her fingers like hills 

through a shooer, 
When bodies hae gat a bit bit bairn o' 

their ain, 
How he cheers up their hearts I — he's a 

wonderfu' wean ! 

William SIillkr. 



James Melvilleps CniLD. 

One time my soul was pierced as with a 
sword. 
Contending still with men untaught and 
wild. 
When He who to the prophet lent his 
gourd 
Gave me the solace of a pleasant child. 

X summer gift my precious flower was 
given, 
A very summer fragrance was its life ; 
Its clear eyes soothed me as the blue of 
heaven. 
When home I tum'd, a wearj' man of 
strife. 

With unform'd laughter, musically sweet, 
How soon the wakening babe would 
meet my ki.ss: 
With outstretch'd arms its care-wrought 
father greet ! 
Oh, in the desert, what a spring was this ! 



I ne'er can forget sic a laugh as I gat. 
To see him put on father's waistcoat and 

hat; 
Then the lang-leggit boots gaed sac far 

owre his knees A few short months it blo-ssom'd near my 

The tap-loops wi' his fingers he grippit wi' heart : 

ease; A few short months, else toilsome all. 

Then he march'd through the house, he ' and sad ; 

march'd but, he march'd ben, But that home-solace nerved me for my 

Like owre mony mae o' our great little part, 

men, I And of the babe I was exceeding glad. 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Alas I my pretty bud, scarce form'd, was 
dying 
(The prophet's gourd, it wither'd in a 
niglit) ; 
And He who gave me all, my heart's pulse 
trying. 
Took gently home the child of my de- 
light. 

Not rudely cull'd, not suddenly it perish'd, 
But gradual faded from our love away : 

As if, still, secret dews, its life that cherish'd. 
Were drop by drop withheld, and day 
by day. 

My blessed Master saved me from repining, 
So tenderly He sued me for His own ; 

So beautiful He made my babe's declining. 
Its dying bless'd me as its birth had done. 

And daily to my board at noon and even 
Our fading flower I bade his mother 
briug. 
That we might commune of our rest in 
Heaven, 
Gazing the while on death, without its 
sting. 

And of the ransom for tliat baby paid 
So very sweet at times our converse 
seem'd. 
That the sure truth of grief a gladness 
made : 
Our little lamb by God's own Lamb re- 
deem'd ! 

There were two milk-white doves my wife 
had nourish'd ; 
And I too loved, erewhile, at times to 
stand 
Marking how each the other fondly cher- 
ish'd. 
And fed them from my baby's dimpled 
hand ! 

So tame they grew that, to his cradle flying. 
Full oft they coo'd him to his noontide 
rest; 

And to the murmurs of his sleep replying. 
Crept gently in and nestled in his breast. 

'Twas a fair sight: the snow-pale infant 
sleeping, 
So fondly guardian'd by those creatures 
mild, 



Watch o'er his closfed eyes their bright 
eyes keeping: 
Woudrous the love betwixt the birds 
and child ! 

Still as he sicken'd seem'd the doves too 
dwining. 
Forsook their food, and loathed their 
pretty play; 
And on the day he died, with sad note 
pining. 
One gentle bird would not be fray'd 
away. 

His mother found it, when she rose, sad- 
heai-ted, 

At early dawn, with sense of nearing ill ; 
And when, at last, the little spirit parted, 

The dove died too, as if of its heart-chill. 

The other flew to meet my sad home- 
riding. 
As with a human sorrow in its coo ; 
To my dear child and its dead mate then 
guiding. 
Most pitifully plain'd — and parted too. 

'Twas my first hansel and propine to 
Heaven ; 
And as I laid my darling 'neath the sod, 
Precious His comforts — once an infant 
given. 
And oft'er'd with two turtle-doves to 
God! 

Mrs. a. Stuart JIesteath. 



The Graves of a Household. 

They grew iu beauty, side by side, 
They fill'd one home with glee ; — 

Their graves are sever'd, far and wide, 
By mount, and stream, and sea. 

The same fond mother bent at night 
O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 

She had each folded flower in sight — 
Where are tliose dreamers now ? 

One, 'midst the forests of the West, 

By a dark stream is laid — 
The Indian knows his place of rest 

Far in the cedar shade. 

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one — 
He lies where pearls lie deep ; 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



33 



He was the loved of all, yet none 
O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are drest 

Above the noble slain : 
He wrajit Iiis colors round his breast 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 

And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 
Its leaves, Ijy soft winds fann'd ; 

She faded midst Italian flowers — 
The last of that bright band. 

And parted thus they rest, who play'd 

Beneath the same green tree; 
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd 

Around one parent knee ! 

They that with smiles lit up the hall, 
And cheer'd witli song the hearth .' — 

Alas! for love, if thoa wert all, 
And naught beyond, O earth ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemass. 

To A Child Tired of Play. 

" Tired of play ! Tired of play !" 

What hast thou done tliis livelong day? 

The birds are silent, and so is the bee ; 

The sun is creeping up steeple and tree ; 

The doves have flown to the sheltering 
eaves, 

And the nests are dark with the drooping 
leaves ; 

Twilight gathers, and day is done — 
. How hast thou spent it, restless one? 

" Playing ?" But what hast thou done 
beside 

To tell thy mother at eventide ? 

What promise of morn is left unbroken, — 

What kind word to tliy playmate spoken, — 

Whom hast thou pitied, and wiiom for- 
given,— 

How with thy faults has dutj' striven? 

What hiust thou learn'd by field and hill. 

By greenwood patli and singing rill ? 

Tliere will loinc an eve to a longer day, 

That will find thee tiredj but not with 

play. NATnA>'IEL\PARKER WILLIS. 

LITTLE CmLDR^y. 
TiinnF, is music, there is sunshine, 

Where tlie little children dwell, — 
In the cottage, in the mansion, 

In the hut, or in the cell ; 



There is music in their voices. 

There is sunshine in tlieir love, 
And a joy for ever round them. 

Like a glory from above. 
There's a laughter-loving spirit 

Glancing from the soft blue eyes, 
Fla-shing through the pearly tear-drops, 

Changing like the summer skies : 
Lurking in each roguish dimple, 

Nestling in each ringlet fair ; 
Over all the little child-face 

Gleaming, glancing everywhere. 
They all win our smiles and kisses 

In a thousand pleasant ways 
By the sweet, bewitching beauty 

Of their sunny, ujnvard gaze ; 
And we cannot help but love them 

When their young lips meet our own, 
And the magic of their presence 

Round about our hearts is thrown. 
When they ask us curious questions 

In a sweet, confiding way. 
We can only smile in wonder. 

Hardly knowing what to say ; 
As they sit in breathless silence, 

Waiting for our kind replies, 
What a world of mystic meaning 

Dwells within the lifted eyes ! 
When t^c soul, all faint and weary, 

Faltefi-s in the upward way. 
And the clouds around us gather. 

Shutting out each starrj' ray. 
Then the merry voice of childhood 

Seems a soft and soothing strain ; 
List we to its silvery cadence. 

And our hearts grow glad again. 
Hath this world of ours no angels? 

Do our dimly-shaded eyes 
Ne'er behold the seraph's glory 

In its meek and lowly guise? 
Can we see the little children, 

Ever beautiful and mild. 

And again repeat the story, 

Nothing but a little child ? 

Laura A. Boies. 



TSE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 

Between the dark and the daylight, 
Wlien tlie night is beginning to lower. 

Comes a pause in the day's occupations. 
That is known as the Children's Hour. 



34 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



I hear in the chamber al)ove me 

The patter of little feet, 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair, 

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper, and then a silence: 
Yet I know by their merry eyes 

They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 
A sudden raid from the hall ! 

By three doors left unguarded 
They enter my castle wall I 

They climb up into my turret 

O'er the arms and back of my chair; 

If I try to escape, they surround me ; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me entwine, 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine I 

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti. 
Because you have scaled the wall, 

Such an old moustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all ? 

I have you fast in my fortress, 

And will not let you depart. 
But put you down into the dungeon 

In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you for ever. 

Yes, for ever and a day, 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin. 

And moulder in dust away ! 

Henry VS^adsworth Losgfellow. 



The Mitherless Bairn. 

When a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their 

hamc 
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, 
Wha stands last and lancly, an' naebody 

carin' ? 
'T is the puir doited loonie, — the mitherless 

bairn ! 



The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane 

bed; 
Nane covers his cauld back or haps his 

bare head ; 
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the 

airn. 
An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless 

bairn. 

Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover 

there 
O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark 

hair; 
But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' 

stern. 
That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless 

bairn ! 

Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly-rock'd 

bed 
Now rests in the mools where her mammie 

is laid ; 
The father toils sair their wee bannock to 

earn. 
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless 

bairn. 

Her spirit, that passed in j-on hour o' his 

birth, 
Still watches his wearisome wanderings on 

earth ; 
Recording in heaven the blessings they 

earn 
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless 

bairn ! 

Oh, speak him na harshly, — he trembles the 

while. 
He bends to your bidding, and blesses your 

smile ; 
In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless 

shall learn 

That God deals the blow for the mitherless 

bairn ! 

William Thom. 

The Orphan Bors Tale. 

Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake, 
And hear a helpless orphan's tale; 

Ah, sure my looks must pity wake, — 
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale; 

Yet I was once a mother's pride. 

And my brave father's hope and joy ; 



POETRY OF HOME 


AND CHILDHOOD. 35 


But in the Nile's iiroud fight he died, 


But if hearts be true and strong. 


Aiul I am ndWiiu orphan boy! 


Baby mine, 


Poor, foolish child ! how pleased was I, 
AVhen news of Nelson's victory came, 
Along the crowded streets to fly, 


They shall brave Misfortune's blast. 
And be overpaid at last 
For all pain and sorrow i>ass'd, 
Babv niine. 


To see the lighted windows tlame I 




To force me home my mother sought, — 


Oh, I long to see his face. 


She could not hear to hear my joy ; 


Baby mine, baliy mine, 


For witli my father's life 'twas bought, — 


In bis old-accustom'd place, 


And made me a jwor orplian boy ! 

The people's shouts were long and loud ; 

My mother, shuddering, closed her ears; 
"Rejoice! KEJoi(E!"still cried thecrowd, — 

Jly mother answcr'd with her tears! 


Baby mine. 
Like the rose of May in bloom, 
Like a star amid the gloom. 
Like the sunshine in the room. 

Baby mine. 


"Oh why do tears steal down your cheek," 


Thou wilt see him and rejoice. 


Cried I, "while others shout for joy?" 


Baby mine, baby mine; 


She kiss'd mc ; and in accents weak, 


Thou wilt know him by his voice. 


She call'd me her poor (ir]i)iari boy ! 

" What is an orphan boy?" I said ; 

When suddenly she gasp'd for breath, 
And her eyes closed ! I shrick'd for aid. 


Baby mine, 
By his love-looks that endear, 
By his laughter ringing clear. 
By his eyes that know not fear, 

Baby mine. 


I?ut ah ! her eyes were closed in death. 
My hanlships since I will not tell ; 


I'm so glad — I cannot sleep. 


But now, no more a parent's joy. 
Ah, lady, I have learn'd Ion well 
What 'tis to be an orphan boy ! 


Baby mine, baby mine. 
I'm so happy — I could weep. 
Baby mine. 
He is sailing o'er the sea, 


Oh, were I by your bounty fed ! — 


He is coming home to me, 


Nay, gentle lady, do not chide ; 


He is coming back to thee, 


Trust me, I mean to earn my bread, — 


Baliy mine. 


The sailor's orphan boy has ]iride. 
Lady, you weep ; what is't you say? 

You'll give me clothing, food, employ? 
Look down, dear parents ! look and see 

Your hapj)y, hai)py orphan boy ! 

Amiii.i.v OriE. 


Part II. 
O'er the blue ocean gleaming 
She sees a distant ship, 
As small to view 
As the white sea-mew 




Whose wings in the billows dip. 


The SAILOR'S Wife. 

Part I. 
I've a letter from thy sire, 
Baby mine, baby mine; 
I can read and never tire. 
Baby milje. 
He is sailing o'er the sea. 
He is coming back to thee. 


"Blow, favoring gales, in her answering 
sails, 
Blow steadily and free! 
Rejoicing, strong. 
Singing a song 

Her rigging and her spars among. 
And waft the vessel in jiride along 
That bears my love to me." 


He is coming home to me. 
Baby mine. 


Nearer, still nearer driving. 
The white sails grow and swell ; 


He's been parted from us long. 
Baby mine, baby mine ; 


Clear t() her eyes 
The pennant flies. 
And the flag she knows so well. 



36 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


" Blow, favoring gales, in her answering 


Yet, when my eyes, now dim 


sails. 


With tears, I turn to him. 


Waft him, gentle sea ! 


The vision vanishes — he is not there ! 


And still, heart. 




Thy fluttering start ! 


I walk my parlor floor. 


Why throb and beat as thou wouldst 


And through the open door 


part. 


I hear a footfall on the chamber stair ; 


When all sohappy and bless'd thou art? 


I'm stepping toward the h;dl 


He comes again to thee !" 


To give the boy a call ; 


The swift ship drops her anchor, 


And then bethink me that — he is not there ! 


A boat puts ofl' for shore ; 


I thread the crowded street ; 


Against its prow 


A satchell'd lad I meet. 


The ripples flow 


With the same beaming eyes and color'd 


To the music of the oar. 


hair : 


" And art thou here, mine own, my dear. 


And, as he's running by. 


Safe from the perilous sea '? 


Follow him with my eye, 


Safe, safe at home, 


Scarcely believing that— he is not there ! 


No more to roam ! 

Blow, tempests, blow; my love has 
come ! 


I know his face is hid 
Under the coffin-lid ; 


And sprinkle the clouds with your 
dashing foam ! 


Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead fair ; 
My hand that marble felt ; 


He shall part no more from me." 

Charles Mackay. 


O'er it in prayer I knelt ; 
Yet my heart whispers that— he is not 


-—•*>• — ■ — - 


there ! 


The Widow and Child. 


I cannot inale him dead ! 


Home they brought her warrior dead : 
She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry : 


When passing by the bed. 
So long watch'd over with parental care, 


All her maidens, watching, said, 


My spirit and my eye 


" She must weep or she will die." 
Then they praised him, soft and low, 


Seek it inquiringly, 
Before the thought cotoes that — he is not 
there ! 


Called him worthy to be loved. 
Truest friend and noblest foe; 


When, at the cool, gray break 


Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 


Of day, from sleep I wake, 


Stole a maiden from her place, 
Lightly to the warrior stept, 

■Took the face-cloth from the face ; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 


With my first breatliing of the morning air 

My soul goes up, with joy. 

To Him who gave my boy. 
Then comes the sad thought that — he is not 
there ! 


Eose a nurse of ninety years, 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came her tears — 
"Sweet my child, I live for thee." 

Alfkkd Tennyson. 


When at the day's calm close, 

Before we seek repose, 
I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, 

Wbate'er I may be saying, 

I am, in spirit, praying 
For our boy s spirit, though — he is not 


iO* 


3fy Child. 


there ! 


I CANNOT make him dead : 


Not there ! Where, then, is he? 


His fair sunshiny head 


Tlie form \ used to see 


Is ever bounding round my study-chair; 


Was but the raiment that he used to wear; 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



37 



The grave, that now doth press 
Upon that cast-ott' dress, 
Is but his wardrobe lock'd ; — he is not 
there ! 

He lives ! In all the past 

He lives ; nor, to the last, 
Of seeing him again will I despair; 

In dreams I see him now; 

And, on his angel brow, 
I see it written, " Thou shaltsee me there/" 

Yes, we all live to Ood ! 

Father, thy chastening rod 
So help us, thine atflieted ones, to bear, 

That, in the spirft-land. 

Meeting at thy right hand, 

'Twill be our heaven to find that — he is 

there ! ■, „ 

John Piebpont. 

LVCY. 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A maid whom tliere were none to praise, 

And very few to love : 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye; 
Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and, oh. 

The difference to me ! 

William Wordsworth. 

Three Years she Grew. 

Three years she grew in sun and shower ; 
Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown ; 
This child I to myself will take; 
She shall l)e mine, and I will make 

A lady of my own. 

" Myself will to my darling he 
Both law and impulse, and with me 

The girl, in rock and plain. 
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower. 
Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

"She shall be sportive as the fawn. 
That wild with glee across the lawn 



Or up the mountain springs ; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm 

Of mute, insensate things. 

"The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her; for her the willow bend: 

Nor shall she fail to see 
Even in the motions of the storm 
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 

"The stars of midnight shall be dear 
To her ; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place. 
Where rivulets dance their wayward round. 
And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 

" And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom swell ; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
While she and I together live 

Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake ; the work was done — 
How soon my Lucy's race was run I 

She died, and left to me 
This heath, this calm and quiet scene, 
The memory of what has been. 

And never more will be. 

William Wordsworth. 



Not One to spare. 

" Which shall it be ? Which shall it be?" 
I look'd at John — .John look'd at me 
(Dear, patient John, who loves me yet . 
As well as though my locks were jet) ; 
And when I found that I must speak. 
My voice seem'd strangely low and weak: 
"Tell me again what Robert .said." 
And then I, listening, bent my head. 
"This is his letter: ' I will give 
A house and land while you shall live, 
If, in return, from out your seven. 
One child to me for aye is given.' " 
I look'd at John's old garments worn, 
I thouglit of all that John had borne 
Of jioverty and work and care, 
Which I, though willing, could not share; 
I tlumght of seven mouths to feed, 
Of seven little children's need. 



38 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



And then of this. " Come, John," said I, 

" We'll choose among them as they lie 

Asleep ;" so, walking hand in hand, 

Dear John and I survey'd our band. 

First to the cradle lightly stepp'd, 

Where Lilian, the baby, slept, 

A glory 'gainst the pillow white. 

Softly the father stoop'd to lay 

His rough hand down in a gentle way, 

When dream or whisper made her stir. 

And huskily he said, " Not her, not her !" 

We stopp'd beside the trundle-bed. 

And one long ray of lamplight shed 

Athwart the Ijoyish faces there, 

In sleejj so pitiful and fair ; 

I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek 

A tear undried. Ere John could speak, 

" He's but a baby, too," said I, 

And kiss'd him as we hurried by. 

Pale, patient Robbie's angel face 

Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace. 

" No, for a thousand crowns, not him !" 

He whisper'd, while our eyes were dim. 

Poor Dick ! bad Dick ! our wayward son. 

Turbulent, reckless, idle one — 

Could he be spared? Nay ; He who gave 

Bid us befriend him to his grave; 

Only a mother's heart can be 

Patient enough for such as he ; 

" And so," said John, " I would not dare 

To send him from her bedside prayer." 

Then stole we softly up above 

And knelt by Mary, child of love. 

" Perhaps for her 'twould better be," 

I said to John. Quite silently 

He lifted up a curl that lay 

Across her cheek in wilful way. 

And shook his head : " Nay, love ; not thee," 

The while my heart beat audibly. 

Only one more, our eldest lad. 

Trusty and truthful, good and glad — 

So like his father. " No, John, no — 

I cannot, will not, let him go." 

And 80 we wrote, in courteous way. 

We could not drive one child away ; 

And afterward toil lighter seem'd. 

Thinking of that of which we dream'd, 

Happy in truth that not one face 

Was miss'd from its accustom'd place; 

Thankful to work for all the seven. 

Trusting the rest to One in heaven. 

Author Unknown. 



The Three Soiffs. 

I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five 

years old. 
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness and 

mind of gentle mould. 
They tell me that unusual grace in all his 

ways appears, 
That my child is grave and wise of heart 

beyond his childish years. 
I cannot say how this may be ; I know his 

face is fair — 
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet 

and serious air ; 
I know his heart is kind and fond, I know 

he loveth me. 
But loveth yet his mother more with grate- 
ful fervency. 
But that which others most admire is the 

thought which fills his mind — 
The food for grave, inquiring speech he 

everywhere doth find. 
Strange questions doth he ask of me when 

we together walk ; 
He scarcely thinks as children think, or 

talks as children talk ; 
Nor cares he much for childish sports, 

dotes not on bat or ball, 
But looks on manhood's ways and works, 

and aptly mimics all. 
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes 

perplext 
With thoughts about this world of ours, 

and tlumghts about the next. 
He kneels at his dear mother's knee ; she 

teacheth him to pray ; 
And strange and sweet and solemn then 

are the words which he will say. 
Oh, should my gentle child be spared to 

manhood's years, like me, 
A holier and a wiser man I trust that he 

will be I 
And when I look into his eyes and stroke 

his thoughtful brow, 
I dare not think what I should feel were I 

to lose him now. 

I have a son, a second son, a simple child 

of three ; 
I'll not declare how bright and fair his 

little features be. 
How silver sweet those tones of his when 

he prattles on my knee ; 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



39 



I do not think his light-blue eye is, like 

liis brother's, keen, 
Nor his brow so full of childish thought 

as his hath ever been ; 
15ut his little heart's a. fountain pure of 

kind and tt'nder tVelinjr, 
And his every look's a gleam of light, rich 

dei)ths of love revealing. 
When he walks with me, the country folk, 

who pass us in the street, 
Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he 

looks so mild and sweet. 
A playfellow is he to all ; and yet, with 

eheiTful tone. 
Will sing his little song of love when left 

to sport alone. 
His presence is like sunshine sent to glad-' 

den home and hearth. 
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten 

all our mirth. 
Should he grow up to riper years, God 

grant his heart may prove 
As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now 

for earthly love ; 
And if, beside his grave, the tears our 

aching eyes must dim, 
God comfort us for all the love which we 

shall Iiise in liini. 

I have a son, a third sweet son, his age I 

cannot tell. 
For they reckon not by years and months 

where he is gone to dwell. 
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his 

infant smiles were given, 
And tluii he bade farewell to earth, and 

went to live in heaven. 
I cannot tell what form is his, what looks 

he weareth now, 
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his 

shining seraph brow. 
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the 

bliss which he doth feel. 
Are numl)er'd with the secret things which 

(tod will not reveal. 
But I know (for (iod hath told me this) 

that he is now at rest, 
Where other blessed infants be — on their 

Saviour's loving breast. 
I know his spirit feels no more this weary 

loail of Hesli, 
Hut his .sleep isbless'd willi ctidlesa dreams 

of joy for ever fresh. 



I know the angels fold him close beneath 

their glittering wings. 
And soothe him with a song that breathes 

of heaven's divinest things. 
I know that we shall meet our babe (his 

mother dear and I) 
Where God for aye shall wipe away all 

tears from every eye. 
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his 

bliss can never cease ; 
Their lot may here be grief and fear, but 

his is certain peace. 
It may be that the tempter's wiles their 

souls from bliss may sever; 
But, if our own poor faith fail not, he 

must be ours for ever. 
When we think of what our darling is, 

and wliat wc still must be — 
When we muse on that world's perfect 

bliss and this world's misery — 
When we groan beneath this load of sin, 

and feel this grief and pain — 
Oh, we'd rather lose our other two than 

have him here again ! 

•loiiN Moultrie. 

W£ ARE SF.VEX. 

— A SIMPLE child. 

That lightly draws its breath. 
And feels its life in every limb. 

What should it know of death? 

I met a little cottage girl ; 

She was eight years old, she said ; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl 

That cluster'd round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodland air. 

And she was wildly clad : 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair — 

Her beauty made me glad. 

"Sisters and brothers, little maid, 

How many may you be?" 
"How many? Seven in all," she said, 

And wondering look'd at me. 

" And where are they? I pray you tell." 
She answcr'd, " Seven are we ; 
And two of us at Conway dwell. 
And two are gone to sea. 

" Two of us in the churchyard lie. 
My sister and my brother ; 



40 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



And in the churchyard cottage I 
Dwell near them with my mother." 

" You say that two at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea, 
Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell, 
Sweet maid, how this may be?" 

Then did the little maid reply : . 

" Seven boys and girls are we ; 
Two of us in the churchyard lie, 

Beneath the churchyard tree." 

" You run about, my little maid. 
Your limbs they are alive; 
If two are in the churchyard laid, 
Then ye are only five." 

"Their graves are green, they may be 
seen," 
The little maid replied, 
" Twelve steps or more from my mother's 
door, 
And they are side by side. 

■'My stockings there I often knit. 
My kerchief there I hem ; 
And there upon the ground I sit — 
I sit and sing to them. 

" And often after sunset, sir. 
When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer, 
And eat my supper there. 

" The first that died was little Jane ; 
In bed she moaning lay. 
Till God released her of her pain ; 
And then she went away. 

" So in the churchyard she was laid ; 
And when the grass was dry, 
Together round her grave we play'd, 
My brother John and I. 

"And when the ground was white with 
snow, 
And I could run and slide. 
My brother John was forced to go. 
And he lies by her side." 

" How many are you, then," said I, 
" If they two are in Heaven?" 
The little maiden did reply, 
" Oh, master, we are seven !" 



" But they are dead — those two are dead, 
Their spirits are in Heaven !" 
'Twas throwing words away, for still 
The little maid would have her will, 
And said, " Nay, we are seven !" 

William Wordsworth. 



The MOTHER'S Hope. 

Is there, where the winds are singing 

In the happy summer-time, 
Where the raptured air is ringing 
With Earth's music heavenward springing, 

Forest chirp, and village chime ; 
Is there, of the sounds that float 
.Minglingly, a single note 
Half so sweet, and clear, and wild. 
As the laughter of a child? 

Listen ; and be now delighted. 

Morn hath touch'd her golden strings, 
Earth and sky their vows have plighted, 
Life and light are reunited. 

Amid countless carollings ; 
Yet, delicious as they are, 
There's a sound that's sweeter far — 
One that makes the heart rejoice 
More than all, — the human voice! 

Organ, finer, deeper, clearer. 
Though it be a stranger's tone ; 
Than the winds or waters dearer, 
More enchanting to the hearer. 

For it answereth his own. 
But of all its witching words, 
Sweeter than the songs of birds. 
Those are sweetest, bubbling wild 
Through the laughter of a child. 

Harmonies from time-touch'd towers. 

Haunted strains from rivulets. 
Hum of bees among the flowers, 
Rustling leaves, and silver showers, — 

These ere long the ear forgets ; 
But in mine there is a sound 
Ringing on the whole year round ; 
Heart-deep laughter that I heard. 
Ere my child could speak a word. 

Ah ! 'twas heard by ear far purer, 
Fondlier form'd to catch the strain — 

Ear of one whose love is surer ; 

Hers, the mother, the endurer 
Of the deepest share of pain ; 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



41 



Hers the deepest bliss, to tre<asure 
Momories of that cry of pleiisurc ; 
IUts to hoard, a lifetime after. 
Echoes of that infant laughter. 

Yes, a mother's large affection 

Hears with a mysterious sense; 
Breathings that evade detection, 
'\Vhis2)er faint, and fine inflection. 
Thrill in her with power intense. 
Childhood's honey'd tones untaught 
Heareth she, in loving thought I 
Tones that never thence depart. 
For she listens — with her heart ! 

Laman ISlaschard. 

Tbe Gambols of Childrex. 

Down the dini])led green-sward dancing. 
Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy — 

Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing. 
Love's irregidar little levy. 

Rows of liquid eyes in laughter, 

How they glimmer, how they quiver! 

Sparkling one another after, 
Like bright ripples on a river. 

Tipsy band of rubious faces, 

Flush'd with Joy's ethereal spirit. 

Make your mocks and sly grimaces 
At Love's self, and do not fear it. 

GEOUUE DAJiLBY. 

UNDER MY WlXDOW. 

Under my window, under my window, 
All in the Midsummer weather, 

Three little girls with fluttering curls 
Flit to and fro together: — 

There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen. 

And Maud with lier mantle of silver green. 
And Kate with her scarlet feather. 

Under my window, under my window. 

Leaning stealthily over. 
Merry and clear, the voice I hear. 

Of each glad-hearted rover. 
Ah ! sly little Kate, she steals my roses ; 
And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and 
posies. 

As merry as bees in clover. 

Under my window, under my window. 
In the blue Midsummer weather. 

Stealing slow, on a hush'd tip-toe, 
I catch them all together : — 



Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen. 
And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, 
And Kate with the scarlet feather. 

Under my window, under my window. 
And off through the orchard closes; 

While JIaud she flouts, and Bell she pouts. 
They scamper and drop their posies ; 

But dear little Kate takes naught amiss, 

And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss, 

And I give her all my roses. 

Thomas Wicstwood. 

Boyhood. 

An ! then how sweetly closed those crowded 

days ! 
The minutes parting one by one like rays, 
That fade upon a summer's eve. 
But oh ! what charm, or magic numbers 
Can give me back the gentle slumbers 
Those weary, happy days did leave? 
When by my bed I saw my mother kneel, 
And with her blessing took her nightly kiss; 
Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this — 
E'en now that nameless kiss I feel. 

Washisgtos Allston. 

The Children in the Wood. 

Now ponder well, you parents deare, 

These wordes, which I shall write ; 
A doleful story you shall hrare, 

In time bniught forth to light : 
A gentleman of good account 

In Xorfolke dwelt of late. 
Who did in honor far surmount 

Most men of his estate. 

Sore sicke he was, and like to dye, 

No helpe his life could save ; 
His wife by him as sicke did lye, 

And both possest one grave. 
No love between these two was lost. 

Each was to other kinde ; 
In love they liv'd, in love they dyed, 

And left two babes behinde : 

The one a fine and pretty boy, 

Not passing three ycares olde ; 
The other a girl more young than he, 

.\nd fram'd in beautyes moulde. 
The father left his little son. 

As plainlye doth appeare, 
When he to jjcrfect age should come, 

Three hundred potindes a yeare. 



42 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


And to his little daughter Jane 


He bargain'd with two rutBans strong, 


P'ive hundred poundes in gold, 


Which were of furious mood, 


To be paid downe on marriage-day, 


That they should take these children 3'oung, 


Which might not be controll'd ; 


And slaye them in a wood. 


But if the children chance to dye 


He told his wife an artful tale. 


Ere they to age should come, 


He would the children send 


Their uncle should possesse their wealth. 


To be brought up in faire London, 


For so the wille did run. 


With one that was his friend. 


Now, brother, said the dying man. 


Away then went those pretty babes. 


Look to my children dcare ; 


Eejoycing at that tide, 


Be good unto my boy and girl, 


Rejoycing with a merry minde, 


No friendes else have they here : 


They should on cock-horse ride. 


To God and you I recommend 


They prate and prattle pleasantly, 


My children deare this daye ; 


As they rode on the waye. 


But little while be sure we have 


To those that should their butchers be. 


^Vithin this world to staye. 


And work their lives decaye : 


You must be fiither and mother both, 


So that the pretty speeehe they had. 


And uncle all in one ; 


Made Murder's heart relent : 


God knowes what will become of them 


And they that undertooke the deed 


When I am dead and gone. 


Full sore did now repent. 


With that bespake their mother deare. 


Yet one of them more hard of heart. 


Oh brother kinde, quoth shee, 


Did vowe to do his charge, 


You are the man niust bring our babes 


Because the wretch, that hired him, 


To wealth or miserie : 


Had paid him very large. 


And if you keep them carefully, 


The other won't agree thereto. 


Then God will you reward ; 


So here they foil to strife ; 


But if you otherwise should deal, 


With one another they did fight. 


God will your deedes regard. 


About the childrens life : 


With lippes as cold as any stone, 


And he that was of mildest mood. 


They kist their children small : 


Did slaye the other there, 


God bless you both, my children deare ; 


Within an unfrequented wood ; 


With that the teares did tall. 


The liabes did quake for feare ! 


These speeches then their brother spake 


He took the children by the hand. 


To this sicke couple there : 


Teares standing in their eye. 


The keeping of your little ones. 


And bad them straitwaye follow him. 


Sweet sister, do not feare : 


And look they did not crye ; 


God never prosper me nor mine, 


And two long miles he ledd them on, 


Nor aught else that I have, 


While they for food complaine : 


If I do wrong your children deare, 


Staye here, quoth he, I'll bring ^'ou bread. 


When you are layd in grave. 


When I come back agaiue. 


The parents being dead and gone, 


These pretty babes, with hand in hand. 


The children home he takes. 


Went wandering up and downe. 


And bringes them straite unto his house. 


But never more could see the man 


^\'here much of them he makes. 


Approaching from the towue : 


He had not kept these pretty babes 


Their prettye lippes, with black-berries. 


A twelvemonth and a daye, 


Were all besmear'd and dyed, 


But, for their wealth, he did devise 


And, when they sawe the darksome night. 


To make them both awaye. 


They sat them downe and cry'd. 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 43 


Thus wandtTod these poor innocents, 


There pass'd a lady by the way, 


Till ilc:itlic (lid end their grief; 


Moaning in the face of day : 


III one aiiiithers arms thev dyed, 


There were tears upon her cheek, 


As wuntirijr due relief. 


Grief in her heart too great to speak ; 


No burial " this" pretty " pair" 


Her husband died but yester-morn. 


Of any man receives. 


And left her in the world forlorn. 


Till Robin-red-breast piously 
Did eover them with leaves. 




She stopp'd and listen'd to the child 




That look'd to heaven, and, singing. 


.Viul now the heavy wrathe of God 


smiled ; 


Upon their uncle fell ; 


And saw not, for her own despair, 


Yea, fearfull fiends did liauiit his house, 


Another lady, young and fair, 


His eonseienee felt an hell. 


Who also passing, stojip'd to hear 


His barnes were fir'd, his goodes consuni'd. 


The infant's anthem ringing clear. 


His hindes were barren made ; 




His cattle dyed within the field. 


For she but few sad days before 


And nothing with him stayd. 


Had lo.st the little babe she bore ; 




And grief was heavy at her soul 


And in a voyage to Portugal 


As that sweet memory o'er her stole. 


Two of his sonnes did dye ; 


And show'd how bright had been the past. 


And to conclude, himselfe was brought 


The present drear and overcast. 


To want and miserye : 




He pawn'd and mortgagc(l all his land 


And as they stood beneath the tree 


Ere seven years came about. 


Listening, .soothed and i]laeidly, 


And now at length this wicked act 


A youth came by, whose sunken eyes 


Did by this meanes come out : 


Spake of a load of miseries ; 




And he, arrested like the twain, 


The fellowe, that did take in hand 


Stopp'd to listen to the strain. 


These children for to kill, 




Was for a rol)bery judg'd to dye, 


Death had bow'd the youthful head 


Such was (iod's blessed will : 


Of his bride beloved, his bride unwed ; 


Who did confess the very truth, 


Her marriage robes were fitted on. 


As here hath been display'd : 


Her fair young face with blushes shone, 


Their uncle having dyed in gaol. 


When the destroyer smote her low, 


Where he for debt was layd. 


And changed the lover's bliss to woe. 


You that executors be made. 


And these three listen'd to the song. 


And overseers eke 


Silver-toned, and sweet, and strong. 


Of children that be fatherless, 


Which that child, the livelong day. 


And infants mild and meek ; 


Chanted to itself in play: 


Take you example by this thing. 


" When the wind blows the blossoms full ; 


And yield to each his right, 


But a good God reigns over all." 


Lest God, with such like miserye, 




Your wicked minds requite. 


The widow's lips impulsive moved; 


ACTIIOR USKNOWN. 


The mother's grief, though unreproved, 


"O* 


Soften'd, as her trenibliiig tongue 


y/ZA- rir/LD AND THE MOURNERS. 


Repeated what the infant sung; 




And the sad lover, with a start. 


A LiTTi.K child, beneath a tree. 


Conn'd it over to his heart 


Sat and chanted cheerily 




A little song, a plea.sant song, 


And though the child — if child it were. 


Which w;is — she sang it all day long — 


And not a seraph sitting there — 


" When the win<l blows the blossoms fall; 


Was seen no more, the sorrowing three 


But a good God reigns over all." 


Went on their way resignedly. 



44 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



The i5ong still ringing in their ears — 
Was it music of the spheres ? 

Who shall tell ? They did not know. 

But in the midst of deepest wos 

The strain recurr'd, when sorrow grew, 

To warn them, and console them too: 

" When the wind blows the blossoms fall ; 

But a good God reigns over all." 

Charles Mackay. 



Lucy Gbay; or, Solitude. 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray ; 
And, when I cross'd the wild, 
I chanced to see at break of day 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; 

She dwelt on a wide moor, — 
The sweetest thing that ever grew 
Beside a human door. 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 

The hare upon the green. 
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
Will nevermore be seen. 

"To-night will be a stormy night; 

You to the town must go, 
And take a lantern, child, to light 
Your mother through the snow." 

" That, father, will I gladly do ; 

'Tis scarcely afternoon ; 
The minster clock has just struck two. 
And yonder is the moon." 

At this the father raised his hook, 

And snapp'd a fagot-band ; 
He plied his work ; and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe : 

With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery snow. 
That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time : 

She wander'd up and down, 
And many a hill did Lucy climb. 
But never reach'd the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 
Went shouting tar and wide, 



But there was neither sound nor sight 
To serve them for a guide. 

At daybreak on a hill they stood 

That overlook'd the moor. 
And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 
A furlong from their door. 

They wept, and turning homeward, cried, 

" In heaven we all shall meet :" 
When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 

Half breathless, from the steep hill's edge 

They track'd the foot-marks small, 
And through the broken hawthorn-hedge. 
And by the long stone wall. 

And then an open field they cross'd : 

The marks were still the same ; 
They track'd them on, nor ever lost. 
And to the bridge they came. 

They follow'd from the snowy bank 

Those foot-marks one by one. 
Into the middle of the plank, 
And further there were none. 

Yet some maintain that to this day 

She is a living child ; 
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
Upon the lonesome wild. 

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 

And never looks behind ; 
And sings a solitary song 

That whistles in the wind. 

William Wordsworth. 



The Young grey head. 

Geief hath been known to turn the young 

head grey — 
To silver over in a single day 
The bright locks of the beautiful, their 

prime 
Scarely o'erpast: as in the fearful time 
Of Gallia's madness, that discrowned head 
Serene, that on the accursed altar bled 
Miscall'd of Liberty. Oh, martyr'd 

queen ! 
What must the sufferings of that night 

have been — 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



45 



That one — that sprinkled thy fair tresses 

o'er 
With time's untimely snow I But now no 

more, 
Lovely, au>:ust, unhappy one ! of thee — 
I have to tell an humhler history; 
A village tale, whose only eliarm, in sooth 
(If anyl, will he sad and simjile truth. 

"Mother," quoth Ambrose to his thrifty 

dame — 
So oft our peasant's use his wife to name, 
" Father " and " Master " to himself applied, 
As life's grave's duties matronize the bride — 
"Mother," quoth Ambrose, as he faced the 

north, 
With hard-set teeth, before he issued forth 
To his day labor from the cottage door — 
" I'm thinking that to-night, if not before, 
There'll be wild work. Dost hear old 

Chewton * roar ? 
It's brewing up down westward ; and look 

there, 
One of those sea-gulls ! ay, there goes a pair ; 
And such a sudden thaw ! If rain comes on, 
As threats, the waters will be out anon. 
That path by th' ford's a nasty bit of way — 
Best let the young ones bide from school 

to-day." 

" Do, mother, do !" the quick-ear'd urchins 

cried ; 
Two little las.ses to the father's side 
Close clinging, as they look'd from him, to 

spy 
The answering language of the mother's 

eye. 
There was denial, and she shook her head : 
"Nay, nay — no harm will come to them," 

she said ; 
" The mistress lets them off these short dark 

days 
An iiour the earlier; and our Liz, she says, 
May quite be trusted — and I know 'tis 

true — 
To take carp of herself and Jenny too. 
And so she ought — she, seven come first of 

May- 
Two years the oldest: and they give away 
The Christmas bounty at the school to- 
day." 

• A frcah-watcr spring ruxhiiif; into the sen, called 
Clicwton Bunny. 



The mother's will was law (alas for her 
That hapless day, poor soull). She could 

not err, 
Thought Ambrose; and his little fair-h a ir'd 

Jane 
(Her namesake) to his heart he hugg'd 

again. 
When each had had her turn ; she clinging 

so 
As if that day ijhe could not let him go. 
But Labor's sons must snatch a hasty bliss, 
In Nature's tend'rest mood. One last fond 

kiss, 
" God bless my little maids !" the father 

said. 
And cheerly went his way to win their 

bread. 
Then might be seen, the playmate parent 

gone, 
What looks demure the sister pair put on, 
Not of the mother as afraid, or shy. 
Or questioning the love that could deny ; 
But simply, as their simple training taught, 
In quiet, plain straightforwardness of 

thought 
(Submissively resign'd the hope of play). 
Toward the serious business of the day. 

To me there's something touching, I con- 
fess. 
In the grave look of early thoughtfuluess. 
Seen often in some little childish face 
Among the poor. Not that wherein we 

trace 
(Shame to our land, our rulers, and our 

race!) 
The unnatural sufferings of the factory 

child, 
But a staid quietness, reflective, mild. 
Betokening, in the depths of those young 

eyes, 
Sense of life's cares, without its miseries. 

So to the mother's charge, with thoughtful 

brow. 
The docile Lizzy stood attentive now ; 
Proud of her years and of imputed sense, 
.Villi prudence justifying confidence — 
.Vnd little Jenny more demurely still, 
Beside her waitc<l the matcrmd will. 
So standing hand iu hand, a lovelier twain 
Gainsb'rough ne'er painted : no — nor he 

of Spain, 



46 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Glorious Murillo ! — and by contrast shown 


Making it irksome to bide all alone 


More beautiful. The younger little one, 


By her own quiet hearth. Though never 


With large blue eyes, and silken ringlets 


known 


ftiir. 


For idle gossipry was Jenny Gray, 


By nut-brown Lizzy, with smooth-parted 


Yet so it was, that morn she could not stay 


hair. 


At home with her own thoughts, but took 


Sable and glossy as the raven's wing, 


her way 


And lustrous eyes as dark. 


To her next neighbor's, half a loaf to 




borrow — 


" Now, mind and bring 


Yet might her store have lasted out the 


Jennysafe home," the mother said; "don't 


morrow. 


stay 


— And with the loan obtain'd, she linger'd 


To pull a bough or berry by the way : 


still- 


And when you come to cross the ford, hold 


Said she : " My master, if he'd had his will, 


fast 


Would have kept back our little ones from 


Your little sister's hand, till you're quite 


school 


past — 


This dreadful morning; and I'm such a 


That plank's so crazy, and so slippery 


fool, 


(If not o'erflow'd) the stepping-stones will 


Since they've been gone, I've wisb'd them 


be. 


back. But then 


But you're good children — steady as old 


It won't do in such things to humor men — 


" folk, 


Our Ambrose especially. If let alone 


I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzy's 


He'd spoil those wenches. But it's coming 


cloak 


on. 


(A good gray duffle) lovingly she tied, 


That storm he said was brewing, sure 


And amply little Jenny's lack supplied 


enough. 


With her own warmest shawl. " Be sure," 


Well, what of that?— To think what idle 


said she, 


stuff- 


" To wrap it round and knot it carefully 


Will come into one's head ! and here with 


(Like this) when you come home; just 


you 


leaving free 


I stop, as if I'd nothing else to do — 


One hand to hold by. Now, make haste 


And they'll come home drown'd rats. I 


away — 


must be gone 


Good will to school, and then good right 


To get dry things, and set the kettle on." 


to play." 






His day's work done, three mortal miles 


Was there no sinking at the mother's heart. 


and more 


When, all equipt, they turn'd them to de- 


Lay between Ambrose and his cottage-door. 


part? 


A weary way, God wot ! for weary wight ! 


When down the lane, she watch'd them as 


But yet far off-, the curling smoke's in sight 


they went 


From his own chimney, and his heart feels 


Till out of sight, was no forefeeling sent 


light. 


Of coming ill? In truth, I cannot tell: 


How pleasantly the humble homestead 


Such warnings have been sent, we know full 


stood. 


well. 


Down the green lane by sheltering Shirley 


And must believe — believing that they 


Wood ! 


are — 


How sweet the wafting of the evening . 


In mercy then, to rouse, restrain, prepare. 


breeze 




In spring-time, from his two old cheery- 


And, now I mind me, something of the 


trees 


kind 


Sheeted with blossom! And in hot .Tuly, 


Did surely haunt that day the mother's 


From the brown moor-track, shadowless 


mind, 


and dry. 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



47 



How grateful the cool covert to regain 
Of his own avenue — that shady lane, 
With the white cottage, in a slanting glow 
Of sunset glory, gleaming bright below, 
And jasmine jmrch, his rustic portico! 

With what a thankful gladness in his face 
(Silent heart-hiiinage — plant of special 

grace I), 
At the lane's entrance, slackening oft his 

pace. 
Would Ambrose send a loving look before; 
Conceiting the caged blackbird at the 

door, 
The very blackbird, strain'd its little throat 
In welcome, with a more rejoicing note; 
And honest Tinker ! dog of doubtful breed. 
All bristle, back and tail, but "good at 

need," 
Pleasant hig greeting to the accustom'd 

ear; 
But of all welcomes, pleasantest, most dear. 
The ringing voices, like sweet silver bells. 
Of his two little ones. How fondly swells 
The father's heart as, dancing up the lane, 
Each clasps a hand in her small hand 

again; 
And each must tell her tale, and "say her 

say," 
Impeding as she leads, with sweet delay 
(Childhood's blest thoughtlessness I), his 

onward way. 

And when the winter day closed in so fast. 
Scarce for his ta.sk would drcarv davlight 

last ; 
And in all weathers — driving sleet and 

snow — 
Home by that bare, bleak moor-track must 

he go, 
Darkling and lonely. Oh, the blessed sight 
(His i)ok-star)()f that little twinkling light 
From one small window, tiiro' the lealless 

trees, 
Glimmering so fitfully, no eye but his 
Had spied it so far off. And sure was he, 
Entering the lane, a steadier beam to see, 
I'uddy and brcjail as [leat-fed heartli could 

pour, 
Streaming to meet him from the open door. 
Then, the' the blackbird's welcome was un- 
heard — 
Silenced bv winter — note of summer bird 



Still hail'd him ; — from no mortal fowl 

alive, 
But from the cuckoo-clock just striking 

five — 
And Tinker's ear and Tinker's nose were 

keen^ 
Off started he, and then a form was seen 
Darkening the doorway ; and a smaller 

sprite, 
And then another, peer'd into the night, 
Ready to follow free on Tinker's track, 
But for the mother's hand tliat held her 

liaek ; 
And yet a moment — a few steps — and there, 
Pull'd o'er the threshold by that e.tger pair, 
He sits by his own hearth, in his own chair; 
Tinker takes post beside, with eyes that say, 
" Master, we've done our business for the 

day." 
The kettle sings, the cat in chorus purrs, 
The busy housewife with her tea-things 

stirs; 
The door's made fast, the old stuff curtain 

drawn. 
How the hail clatters ! Let it clatter on. 
How the wind raves and rattles ! What 

cares he. 
Safe housed and warm beneath his own 

roof-tree, 
With a wee lassie prattling on each knee? 

Such was the hour — hour sacred and 

apart — 
Warm'd in expectancy the poor man's 

heart. 
Summer and winter, as his toil he plied. 
To him and his the literal doom applied. 
Pronounced on Adam. But the bread was 

sweet 
So carn'd for such dear mouths. The weary 

feet 
Hope-shod, stept lightly on the homeward 

way. 
So specially it fared with Ambrose Gray 
That time I tell of. He had work'd all 

day 
At a great clearing: vig'rous stroke on 

stroke 
Striking till, when he stopt, his back seem'd 

broke, 
And the strong arm dropt nerveless. What 

of that? 
There was a treasure hidden in his hat — 



48 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



A plaything for the young ones. He had 

I'dund 
A dormouse nest; the living ball coil'd 

round 
For his long winter sleep; and all his 

thought 
As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of 

naught 
But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes, 
And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise. 
When he should yield by guess, and kiss, 

and prayer, 
Hard won, the frozen captive to their care. 

'Twas a wild evening — wild and rough. 

" I knew," 
Thought Ambrose, " those unlucky gulls 

spoke true — 
And Gafler Chewton never growls for 

naught — 
I should be mortal 'mazed now, if I thought 
My little maids were not safe housed before 
That blinding hail-storm — ay, this hour 

and more. — 
Unless, by that old crazy bit of board, 
They've not pass'd dry-foot over Shallow- 
ford, 
That I'll be bound for — swollen as it must 

be . . . 
Well ! if my mistress had been ruled by 

me . . ." 
But, checking the half-thought as heresy, 
He look'd out for the Home-star. There 

it shone. 
And with a gladden'd heart he hasten'd 

on. 

He's in the lane again — and there below, 

Streams from the open doorway that red 
glow. 

Which warms him but to look at. For his 
prize 

Cautious he feels — all safe and snug it lies— 

"Down, Tinker! — down, old boy! — not 
quite so free — 

The thing thou sniffest is no game for thee. 

But what's the meaning? — no lookout to- 
night ! 

No living soul astir! Pray God all's right! 

Who's flittering round the peat-stack in 
sucli weather? 

Mother!" you might have fell'd him with 
a feather 



When the short answer to his loud 

"Hillo!" 
And hurried question, "Are they come?" 

was "No." 

To throw his tools down, hastily unhook 
The old crack'd lantern from its dusty 

nook. 
And while he lit it, speak a cheering word. 
That almost choked him, and was scarcely 

heard. 
Was but a moment's act, and he was gone 
To where a fearful foresight led him 

on. 
Passing a neighbor's cottage in his way — 
Mark Fenton's — him he took with short 

delay 
To bear him company — for who could 

say 
What need might be? They struck into 

the track 
The children should have taken coming 

back 
From school that day ; aiul many a call 

and shout 
Into the pitchy darkness they sent out. 
And, by the lantern light, peer'd all about. 
In every roadside thicket, hole, and nook. 
Till suddenly, as nearing now the brook. 
Something brush'd past them. That was 

Tinker's bark — 
Unheeded, he had follow'd in the dark. 
Close at his master's heels, but, swift as 

light. 
Darted before them now. "Be sure he's 

right — 
He's on the track," cried Ambrose. "Hold 

the light 
Low down — he's making for the water. 

Hark! 
I know that whine — the old dog's found 

them, Mark." 
So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on 
Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was 

gone ! 
And all his dull contracted light could 

show 
Was the black void and dark swollen 

stream below. 
"Yet there's life somewhere — more than 

Tinker's whine. 
That's sure," said Mark. "So, let the lan- 
tern shine 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



49 



Down yonder. There's the dog — and 

hark!" 

"Oh dear!" 
And a low sob came faintly on tlip ear, 
Mock'd by the sobbing gust. Down, quick 

• as thought, 
Into the stream leapt Ambrose, where he 

caught 
Fast hold of something — a dark huddled 

heap — 
Half in the water, where 'twas scarce knee- 
deep, 
For a tall man ; and half above it, propp'd 
By some old ragged side-piles that had 

stopt 
Endways the broken plank, when it gave 

way 
With the two little ones that luckless day! 
" My babes ! — my lambkins !" was the 

father's cry. 
One Utile voice made answer, " Here am I." 
'Twas Lizzy's. There she crouch'd, with 

face as white, 
More ghastly, by the flickering lantern- 
light, ' 
Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips, 

drawn tight. 
Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth, 
And eyes on some dark object underneath, 
Wash'd by the turbid water, fix'd like 

stone — 
One arm and hand stretch'd out, and rigid 

grown, 
Grasping, as in the death-gripe — Jenny's 

frock. 
There she lay drown'd. Could he sustain 

that shock, 
The doating father ? Where's the unriven 

rock 
Can bide such blasting in its flintiest part 
As that soft sentient thing — the human 

heart ? 

They lifted her from out her wat'ry 

bed- 
Its covering gone, the lovely little head 
Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside. 
And one small hand. The mother's shawl 

was tied. 
Leaving that free, about the child's small 



Too well obey'd— too fast ! A fatal hold 
Afliirding to the scrag by a thick fold 
That caught and pinn'd her in the river's 

bed, 
While through the reckless water over 

head 
Her life-breath bubbled up. 

" She might have lived. 
Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought 

that rived 
The wretched mother's heart when she 

knew all, 
" But for my foolishness about that shawl — 
And master would have kept them back 

the day ; 
But I was wilful — driving them away 
In such wild weather !" 

Thus the tortured heart 
Unnaturally against itself takes part, 
Driving the sharp edge deeper of a woe 
Too deep already. They had raised her 

now. 
And parting the wet ringlets from her 

brow. 
To that, and the cold check, and lips as 

cold. 
The father glued his warm ones, ere they 

roU'd 
Once more the fatal shawl — her winding- 
sheet — 
About the precious clay. One heart still 

beat, 
Warm'd by his heart's blood. To his onli/ 

chiid 
He turn'd him, but her piteous moaning 

mild 
Pierced him afresh — and now she knew 

him not. — 
" Mother !" — she murmur'd— " who says I 

forgot ? 
Mother ! indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold, 
And tied the sliawl quite close — she can't 

be cold — 
But she won't move — we slipt — I don't 

know how — 
But I held on — and I'm so weary now — 
And it's so dark and cold ! oh dear ! oh 

dear I — 

And she won't move — if daddy was but 

f here !" 

lorm, 

' ******* 

As was her last injunction— "/a«< and ^ Poor lamb— she wander'd in her mind, 



warm — 
4 



'twas clear- 



50 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJiDIA OF POETRY. 



But soon the piteous murmur died away, 
And quiet iu her father's arms slie hiy — 
They their dead Ijurtheu had resign'd, to 

tal^e 
The living so near lost. For her dear sake, 
And one at home, he arm'd himself to bear 
His misery like a man — with tender care, 
Doffing his coat her shivering form to 

fold— 
(His neighbor bearing //(0< which felt no 

cold,) 
He clasp'd her close — and so, with little 

said, 
Homeward they bore the living and the 

dead. 

From Ambrose Gray's poor cottage, all 

that night, 
Shone iitfuUy a little shifting light. 
Above — below : — for all were watchers 

there. 
Save one sound sleeper. — Her, parental 

care, 
Parental watchfulness, avail'd not now. 
But in the young survivor's throbbing 

brow. 
And wandering eyes, delirious fever burn'd ; 
And all night long from side to side she 

turn'd, 
Piteously plaining like a wounded dove, 
With now and then tlio nuirmur — " She 

won't move " — 
And lo ! when morning, as in mockery, 

bright 
Shone on that pillow, passing strange the 

siglit — 
That young head's raven hair was streak'd 

witli white ! 
No idle fiction this. Such things have 

been 
We know. And now I tell what I have seen. 

Life struggled long with death in that 

small frame. 
But it was strong, and conquer'd. All be- 
came 
As it had been with the poor family — 
All — saving that which never more might 

be- 
There was an empty place — they were but 

three. 

Caroline Bowles Southey. 



Tre Little Black Boy. 

My mother bore me in the southern wild, 
And I am black, but, oh, my soul is 
white ! 

White as an angel is the English chiki, 
But I am black, as if bereaved of light. 

My mother taught me underneath a tree ; 

And, sitting down before the heat of 
day. 
She took me on her lap and kissed me. 

And, pointing to the East, began to say: 

" Look on the rising sun : there God does 
live, 
And gives his light, and gives his heat 
away. 
And flowers, and trees, and beasts, and men, 
receive 
Comfort in morning, joy in the noon- 
day. 

"And we are put on earth a little space. 
That we may learn to bear the beams 
of love ; 
And these black bodies and this sunburnt 
face 
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 

" For, when our souls have learn'd the heat 
to bear. 
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear 
His voice 
Saying : ' Come from the grove, my love 
and care. 
And round my golden tent like lambs 
rejoice.' " 

Thus did my mother say, and kissfed me, 

And thus I say to little English boy. 
When I from black, and he from white 
cloud free, 
And round the tent of God like lambs 
we joy, 

I'll shade him from the heat, till he can 
bear 
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee ; 
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver 
hair. 
And be like him, and he will then love 

me. 

WiLLiAji Blake. 



POETRY OF HOME AXD CHILDHOOD. 



51 



TiTE BLIND Boy. 

Oh, say what is that thin^ call'd Light, 

Which I must ne'er enjoy? 
Wliat are the blessings of the sight, 

Oh, tell your poor blind boy ! 

You talk of wondrous things you see, 
You say the sun shines bright; 

I feel him warm, but how can he 
Or make it day or night? 

My day or night myself I make 

Whene'er I sleep or i)lay; 
And could I ever keej) awake 

With me 'twere always day. 

With hca\-y sighs I often hear 
You mourn my hapless woe; 

But sure with patience I can bear 
A loss I ne'er can know. 

Then let not what I cannot have 

My cheer of mind destroy ; 
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king. 

Although a poor blind boy. 

COLLEY ClBBES. 

IlOVrS MY BOYf 

" Ho, sailor of the sea ! 

How's my boy — my boy?" 
" What's your boy's name, good wife. 

And in what good ship sailed he?" 

" Jly boy .lohn — 
He that went to sea — 
What care I for the ship, sailor? 
My boy's my boy to me. 

" You come back from sea, 
And not know my .John? 
I might as well have a.sk'd some lands- 
man 
Yonder down in the town. 
There's not an ass in all the parish 
But knows my John 

" How's my boy — my boy ? 

.Vnd unless you let me know, 

I'll swear you are no sailor, 

Bluejacket or no. 

Brass buttons or no, sailor. 

Anchor and crown or no! 

Sure his ship was the Molly Briton'" — 
"Speak low, woman, speak low I" 



" And why should I .speak low, sailor. 

About my own boy John ? 

If I was loud as I am proud 

I'd sing him over the town! 

Why should I speak low, sailor?" 
"That good sliij) went down." 

" How's my boy — my boy? 

What care I for the ship, sailor, 

I was never aboard her? 

Be she afloat or be she aground, 

Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound 

Her owners can atl'ord her ! 

I say, how's my John ?" 
" Every man on board went down. 

Every man aboard her." 

" How's my boy — my boy? 
What care I for the men, sailor? 
I'm not their mother — 
How's my boy — my boy ? 
Tell me of him and no other ! 
How's my boy — my boy?" 

.Sydsev Dobell. 



TffE NIGHT Before Christmas. 

'TWAS the night before Christmas, when 

all through the house 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a 

mouse; 
The stockings were hung by the chimney 

with care, 
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be 

there ; 
The children were nestled all snug in their 

beds. 
While visions of sugar -plums danced 

through their heads; 
.Vnd mamma in her kerdiief, and I in my 

cap, 
Had just settled our brains for a long win- 
ter's nap. 
When out on the lawn there arose such a 

clatter, 
I sprang from my bed to see what was the 

matter. 
Away to the window I flew like a flash. 
Tore open the shutters and threw up the 

sash. 
The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen 

snow. 
Gave a lustre of mid-day to objects below ; 



52 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



When what to my wondering eyes should 

appear, 
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny 

reindeer. 
With a little old driver, so lively and 

quick, 
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
More rapid than eagles his coursers they 

came. 
And he whistled, and shouted, and call'd 

them by name : 
"Now, Dasher! now. Dancer! now, Pran- 

cer ! now. Vixen ! 
On, Comet ! on, Cupid ! on, Donder and 

Blitzen !— 
To the top of the porch, to the top of the 

wall! 
Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all !" 
As dry leaves that before the wild hurri- 
cane fly. 
When they meet with an obstacle, mount 

to the sky, 
So, up to the house-top the coursers they 

flew. 
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nich- 
olas too. 
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof 
The prancing and pawing of each little 

hoof. 
As I drew in my head, and was turning 

around, 
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with 

a bound. 
He was dress'd all iu fur from his head to 

his foot, 
And his clothes were all tarnish'd with 

ashes and soot ; 
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back. 
And he look'd like a peddler just opening 

his pack. 
His eyes how they twinkled ! his dimples 

how merry ! 
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a 

cherry. 
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a 

bow. 
And the beard on his chin was as white as 

the snow. 
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his 

teeth. 
And the smoke, it encircled his head like 
a wreath. 



He had a broad face and a little round 

belly 
That shook, when he laugh'd, like a bowl 

full of jelly. 
He was chubby and plump — a right jolly 

old elf— 
And I laugh'd when I saw him, in si)ite 

of myself. 
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his bead, 
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to 

dread. 
He spake not a word, but went straight to 

his work. 
And filled all the stockings; then turn'd 

with a jerk. 
And laying his finger aside of his nose. 
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave 

a whistle, 
And away they all flew like the down of a 

thistle ; 
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out 

of sight, 

" Happy Christmas to all, and to all a 

good-night !" 

Clement C. Moore. 



The Piper. 

PiPlXG down the valleys wild. 
Piping songs of pleasant glee, 

On a cloud I saw a child. 
And he laughing said to me : 

" Pipe a song about a lamb !" 
So I piped with merry cheer. 

"Piper, pipe that song again;" 
So I piped ; he wept to'hear. 

" Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe ; 
Sing thy songs of happy cheer !" 
So I sang the same again, 
While he wept with joy to hear. 

" Piper, sit thee down and write 
In a book, that all may read." 
So he vanish'd from my sight ; 
And I pluck'd a hollow reed, 

And I made a rural pen. 
And I stain'd the water clear, 

And I wrote my happy songs 
Every child may joy to hear. 

William Blake. 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



53 



Castles av the Air. 

The bonnie, bonnie bairn, who sits poking 

in tlie ase, 
Glowering in the fire with his wee round 

face ; 
Laughing at the fuffin' lowe, what sees he 

there? 
Ha ! the young dreamer's bigging castles 

in the air. 
His wee chubby face and his touzie curly 

pow, 
Are laughing and nodding to the dancing 

lowe ; 
He'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his 

sunny hair. 
Glowering at the imps wi' their castles in 

the air. 

He sees muckle castles towering to the 

moon! 
He sees little sogers pu'ing them a' doun ! 
Worlds whombling up and down, bleezing 

wi' a flare, 
See how he loups ! as they glimmer in the 

air. 
For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie 

ken? 
He's thinking upon naething, like mony 

mighty men, 
A wee thing maks us think, a sma' thing 

maks us stare. 
There are mair folk than liiui bigging 

castles in the air. 

Sic a night in winter may wcel mak him 

cauld : 
His chin uffbn his buffy hand will soon 

mak him auld ; 
His brow is bri-nt sae braid, oh, pray that 

daddy Care 
Would let tlie wean alane wi' his castles in 

the air. 
He'll glower at the fire! and he'll keek at 

the light! 
But mony s|>;irkling stars are swallow'd up 

by night; 
Aulder een than his are glamour'd by a 

glare. 
Hearts are broken, heads are turn'd, wi' 

castles in the air. 



The Quaker wwom 

Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah. — 

come in ! 'Tis kind of thee 
To wait until the Friends were gone, who 

came to comfort me. 
The still and quiet company a peace may 

give, indeed, 
But blessed is the single heart that comes 

to us at need. 

Come, sit thee down ! Here is the bench 

where Benjamin would sit 
On the First-day afternoons in spring, and 

watch the swallows flit ; 
He loved to smell the sprouting box, and 

hear the pleasant bees 
Go humming round the lilacs and through 

the apple trees. 

1 think he loved the spring : not that he 

cared for flowers; most men 
Think such things foolishness, — but we 

were first acquainted then. 
One spring : the ne.\t he spoke his mind ; 

the third I was his wife. 
And in the spring (it happen'd so) our 

children enter'd life. 

He was but seventj'-five : I did not think 

to lay him yet 
In Kcnnctt graveyard, where at Montlily 

Jleeting first we met. 
The Father's mercy shows in this : 'tis 

better I should be 
Pick'd out to bear the heax-y cross — alone 

in age — than he. 

We've lived together fifty years : it seems 

but one long day. 
One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was 

call'd away ; 
And as we bring from Meeting-time a 

sweet contentment home. 
So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all 

the days to come. 

I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard 

it wa.s to know 
If I had heard the Spirit right, that told 

me I should go ; 



54 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


For father had a deep concern upon his 


The neighbors met us in the lane, and 


mind that day, 


every face was kind, — 


But mother spoke for Benjamin, — she knew 


'Tis strange how lively everything comes 


what best to say. 


back upon my mind. 


Then she was still : they sat a while : at last 


I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wed- 


she spoke again. 


ding-dinner spread : 


"The Lord incline thee to the right!" and 


At our own table we were guests, with 


" Thou shalt have him, Jane !" 


father at the head. 


My father said. I cried. Indeed, 'twas 


And Dinah Passmore help'd us both— 


not the least of shocks, 


'twas she stood up with me, 


For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father 


And Abner Jones with Benjamin, — and 


Orthodox. 


now they're gone, all three ! 


I thought of this ten years ago, when 


It is not right to wish for death ; the Lord 


daughter Ruth we lost : 


disposes best. 


Her husband's of the world, and yet I 


His Spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits 


could not see her cross'd. 


them for His rest ; 


She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, 


And that He halved our little flock was 


she hears a hireling priest — 


merciful, I see: 


Ah, dear ! the cross was ours : her life's a 


For Benjamin has two in heaven, and two 


happy one, at least. 


are left with me. 


Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when 


Eusebius never cared to farm, — 'twas not 


she's as old as I, — 


his call, in truth. 


Would thee believe it, Hannah? once I 


And I must rent the dear old place, and 


felt temptation nigh ! 


go to daughter Ruth. 


My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too 


Thee'U say her ways are not like mine, — 


simple for my taste : 


young people now-a-days 


I wanted lace around the neck, and a rib- 


Have fallen sadly off, I think, from all the 


bon at the waist. 


good old ways. 


How strange it seem'd to sit with him 


Rut Ruth is still a Friend at heart; she 


upon the women's side ! 


keeps the simple tongue. 


I did not dare to lift my eyes : I felt more 


The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when 


fear than pride, 


she was young ; 


Till, " in the presence of the Lord," he 


And it was brought upon my mind, remem- 


said, and then there came 


bering her, of late, 


A holy strength upon my heart, and I 


That we on dress and outward things per- 


could say the same. 


haps lay too much weight. 


I used to blush when he came near, but 


I once heard Jesse Kersey say, a spirit 


then I show'd no sign ; 


clothed with grace. 


With all the meeting looking on, I held 


And pure, almost, as angels are, may have 


his hand in mine. 


a homely face. 


It seem'd my bashfulness was gone, now I 


And dress may be of less account: the 


was his for life : 


Lord will look within : 


Thee knows the feeling, Hannah, — thee. 


The soul it is that testifies of righteousness 


too, hast been a wife. 


or sin. 


As home we rode, I saw no fields look 


Thee mustn't be too hard on Ruth : she's 


half so green as ours ; 


anxious I should go, 


The woods were coming into leaf, the 


And she will do her duty as a daughter 


meadows full of flowers ; 


shcnild, I know. 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. M 


'Tis hard to change so late in life, but we 


So have I seen (who ha.s not, may con- 


must be resign'd : 


ceive) 


The Lord looks down contentedly upon a 


A lifeless phantom near a garden placed ; 


willing mind. 


So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave, 


Bayard Taylob. 


Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast ; 




They start, they stare, they wheel, they 


The ScHoouasTRESS. 


look aghast : 




Sad servitude ! such comfortless annoy 


An mol full sorely is my heart forlorn, 


May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste ! 


To think how modest worth neglected 


Xe superstition clog his dance of joy, 


lies ; 


Xe vision empty, vain, his native bliss 


While partial fame doth with her bhusts 


destroy. 


adorn 




Such deeds alone as pride and pomp 


Near to this dome is found a patch so 


disguise ; 


green. 


Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous em- 


On which the tribe their gambols do 


prize : 


display ; 


Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try 


And at the door impris'ning board is seen. 


To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies ; 


Lest weakly wights of smaller size 


Such as I oft have chancfed to espy, 


should stray. 


Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. 


Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day ! 




The noises iutermix'd, which thence re- 


In every village mark'd with little spire. 


.sound. 


Embower'd in trees, and hardly known 


Do learning's little tenement betray : 


to fame. 


Where sits the dame, disguised in look 


There dwells in lowly shed, and mean at- 


profound. 


tire. 


And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her 


A matron old, whom we schoolmistress 


wheel around. 


name ; 




Who boasts unruly brats with birch to 


Her cap, far whiter than the driven .snow. 


tame ; 


Emblem right meet of decency does 


They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent. 


yield ; 


Awed by the pow'r of this relentless 


Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trow. 


dame; 


As Is the harebell that adorns the 


And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent. 


field: 


For unkempt hair, or ta.sk unconn'd, are 


And in her hand, for sceptre, she does 


sorely shent. 


wield 




Tway birchen sprays ; with an.xious fear 


And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, 


entwined. 


Which learning near her little dome did 


With dark distrust, and .s.id repentance 


stow ; 


fiU'd; 


Whilom a twig of small regard to see. 


And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction 


Tho' now so wide its waving branches 


join'd. 


flow ; 


,\nd fury uncontroll'd and chastisement 


And work the .simple vassals mickle woe ; 


unkind. 


For not a wind might curl the leaves that 




blew. 


Few but have kenn'd, in semblance meet 


But their limbs shudder'd and their pulse 


portray'd, 


beat low ; 


The childish faces of old Eol's train ; 


And as they look'd they found their horror 


Libs, Notus, Auster ; the.se in frowns ar- 


grew. 


ray 'd, 


And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the 


How then would fare or earth, or sky. 


view. 


or main. 



56 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Were the stern god to give his slaves 


Fragment of bread, she would collect 


the rein ? 


the same. 


And were not she rebellious breasts to 


For well she knew, and quaintly could ex- 


quell, 


pound. 


And were not she her statutes to main- 


What sin it were to waste the smallest 


tain, 


crumb she found. 


The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the 




cell, 


Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each 


Where comely peace of mind and decent 


could speak 


order dwell. 


That in her garden sipp'd the silv'ry 




dew. 


A russet stole was o'er her shoulders 


Where no vain flow'r disclosed a gaudy 


thrown ; 


streak ; 


A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air ; 


But herbs for use and physic, not a few. 


'Twas simple russet, but it was her own ; 


Of gray renown, within those borders 


'Twas her owu country bred the flock so 


grew : 


fair ; 


The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme. 


'Twas her own labor did the fleece pre- 


Fresh balm, and marygold of cheerful 


pare ; 


hue. 


And, sooth to say, her pupils, ranged 


The lowly gill, that never dares to climb ; 


around, 


And more I foin would sing, disdaining 


Through pious awe, did term it passing 


here to rhyme. 


rare j 
For they in gaping wonderment abound. 


Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung. 


And think, no doubt, she been the greatest 


That gives dim eyes to wander leagues 


wight on ground. 


around ; 




And pungent radish, biting infant's tongue. 


Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth. 


And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reap- 


Ne pompous title did debauch her ear ; 


er's wound. 


Goody, good woman, gossip, n' aunt, for- 


And marj'ram sweet, in shepherd's posie 


sooth. 


found. 


Or dame, the sole additions she did 


And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom 


hear; 


Shall beerewhile in arid bundles bound, 


Yet these she challenged, these she held 


To lurk amidst the labors of her loom. 


right dear : 


And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle 


Ne would esteem him act as mought be- 


rare perfume. 


hove, 




Who should not honor'd eld with these 


And here trim rosemarine, that whilom 


revere ; 


crown'd 


For never title yet so mean could prove, 


The daintiest garden of the proudest 


But there was eke a mind which did that 


peer. 


title love. 


Ere, driven from its envied site, it found 




A sacred shelter for its branches here ; 


One ancient hen she took delight to feed, 


Where, edged with gold, its glitt'ring 


The plodding pattern of the busy dame, 


skirts appear. 


Which ever and anon, impell'd by need. 


Oh, wassel days! oh, customs meet and 


Into her school, begirt with chickens. 


well ! 


came; 


Ere this was banish'd from his lofty 


Such favor did her past deportment 


sphere : 


claim ; 


Simplicity then sought this humble cell. 


And, if neglect had lavish'd on the 


Nor ever would she more with thane and 


ground 


lordling dwell. 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 57 


Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent 


Some with vile copper prize e.xalt on high, 


eve, 


And some entice with pittance small of 


Ilymiifed sueh psalms as Stcrnhold forth 


praise; 


did mete ; 


And other some with baneful sprig she 


If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did 


'frays : 


cleave, 


Ev'n absent, she the reins of power doth 


But in her garden found a summer- 


hold. 


seat : 


While with quaint arts the giddy crowd 


Sweet melody I to hear her then repeat 


she sways 


How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign kinf;. 


Forewarn'd, if little bird their pranks be- 


While taunting foemen did a song en- 


hold. 


treat, 


'Twill whisper in her car, and all the scene 


All, for the nonce, untuning ev'ry string, 


unfold. 


Uphung their useless lyres; small heart 




had they to sing. 


Lo now with state she utters the command ! 




Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair; 


For she was just, and friend to virtuous 


Their books of stature small they take in 


lore. 


hand. 


And pass'd much time in truly virtuous 


Which with pellucid horn securid are; 


deed. 


To save from fingers wet the letters fair : 


And in those elfins' ears would oft deplore 


The work so gay, that on their back is seen, 


The times when truth by popish rage 


St. George's high achievements does de- 


did bleed, 


clare ; 


And tortuous death was true devotion's 


On wliich thilk wight that has y-gazing been. 


meed, 


Kens the forthcomingrod,unpleasing sight, 


And simple faith in iron chains did monrn. 


I ween ! 


That nould on wooden image placed her 




creed, 


Ah, luckless he, and born beneath the 


And lawny saints in smould'ring flames did 


beam 


burn ; 


Of evil star! it irks me whilst I write! 


Ah ! dearest Lord, forfend thilk days should 


As erst the bard by Mulla's silver stream. 


e'er return ! 


Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight. 




Sigh'd as he sung, and did in tears 


In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem, 


indite. 


By the sharp tooth of cank'ring eld de- 


For, brandishing the rod, .she doth begin 


faced. 


To loose the brogues, the strii>ling's late 


In which, when he receives his diadem, 


delight ! 


Our sov'reign prince and liefest liege is 


And down they drop; apjiears his dainty 


placed, 


skin. 


The matron sate ; and some with rank 


Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin. 


she graced 




(The source of children's and of cour- 


Oh, ruthful scene! when from a nook ob- 


tiers' pride). 


scure 


Redrcss'd affronts, for vile affronts there 


His little sister doth his peril see : 


pass'd. 


.\11 playful as she sate, slie prows demure; 


And warn'd them not the fretful to de- 


She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee; 


ride, 


She meditates a pray'r to set him free; 


But love each other dear, whatever them 


Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny 


betide. 


(If gentle pardon could with dames 




agree) 


Right well she knew each temper to descry : 


To her sad grief that swells in either eye. 


To thwart the proud, and the submiss to 


And wrings her so that all for pity she 


raise ; 


could die. 



58 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



No longer can she now her shrieks com- 
mand ; 
And hardly she forbears, through awful 
fear, 
To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous 
hand. 
To stay hard justice in its mid career. 
On thee she calls, on thee her parent 
dear ! 
(Ah ! too remote to ward the shameful 
blow!) 
She sees no kind domestic visage near, 
And soon a flood of tears begins to flow ; 
And gives a loose at last to unavailing 
woe. 

But, ah ! what pen his piteous plight may 
trace ? 
Or what device his loud laments ex- 
plain? 
The form uncouth of his disguised face ? 
The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain ? 
The plenteous shower that docs his cheek 
disdain? 
When he in abject-wise implores the 
dame, 
Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to 
gain ; 
Or when from high she levels well her 

aim. 
And, through the thatch, his cries each 
falling stroke proclaim. 

The other tribe aghast, with sore dismay, 
Attend, and con their tasks with mickle 
care: 
By turns, astonied, ev'ry twig survey, 
And, from their fellow's hateful wounds, 

beware ; 
Knowing, I wist, how each the same 
may share ; 
Till fear has taught them a performance 
meet, 
And to the well-known chest the dame 
repair ; 
Whence oft with sugar'd cates she doth 'em 

greet, 
And ginger-bread y-rare ; now, certes, 
doubly sweet! 

See to their seats they hie with merry 
glee, 
And in beseemly order sitten there ; 



All but the wight of bum y-gallfed ; he 
Abhorreth bench, and stool, and form, 

and chair 
(This hand in mouth y-fix'd, that rends 
his hair) ; 
And eke with snubs profound, and heaving 
breast, 
Convulsions intermitting ! does declare 
His grievous wrongs; his dame's unjust 

behest. 
And scorns her ofier'd love, and shuns to 
be caress'd. 

His face besprent with liquid crystal shines, 
His blooming face that seems a purple 
flow'r 
Which low to earth its drooping head de- 
clines. 
All smear'd and sullied by a vernal 

show'r. 

Oh, the hard bosoms of despotic pow'r ! 

All, all, but she, the author of his shame. 

All, all, but she, regret this mournful 

hour : 

Yet hence the youth, and hence the flow'r 

shall claim, 
If so I deem aright, transcending worth 
and fame. 

Behind some door, in melancholy thought^ 
Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff! 
pines; 
Ne for his fellows' joyaunce careth aught. 
But to the wind all merriment re- 
signs ; 
And deems it shame if he to peace in- 
clines; 
And many a sullen look askance is sent. 
Which for his dame's annoyance he 
designs ; 
And still the more to pleasure him she's 

bent, 
The more doth he, perverse, her 'havior 
past resent. 

Ah, me ! how much I fear lest pride it 
be! 
But if that pride it be, which thus in- 
spires, 
Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment 
see 
Ye quench not too the sjjarks of nobler 
fires: 



POETRY OF HOME AXD CHILDHOOD. 



59 



Ah, better far than all the muses' lyres, 
All CMjwiiril arts, is valor's ^n'li'rous hoat ; 
The (inn lixt breast which tit and right 
requires, 
Like A'ernon's patriot soul ; more justly 

great 
Than craft that pimps for ill, or flow'ry 
false deceit. 

Yet, nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits 
appear ! 
Ev'n now sagacious foresight points to 
show 
A little bench of heedless bishops here ! 
And there a chancellor in embryo, 
Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so, 
As Milton, Shakespeare, names that ne'er 
shall die ! 
Thougli now he crawl along the ground 
so low. 
Nor weeting how the muse should soar on 

high, 
Wishcth, poor starv'ling elf! his pa'per 
kite may fly. 

And this perhaps, who censuring the 
design, 
Low lays the house which that of cards 
doth build, 
Shall Dennis bel if rigid fates incline, 
And many an epic to his rage shall yield; 
And many a poet quit th' Aonian field ; 
And, sour'd by age, profound he shall 
ap|)ear, 
As he who now with 'sdainful fury 
thrill'd, 
Surveys mine work; and levels many a 

sneer. 
And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, 
" What stuff is here?" 

But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle sky. 

And liberty unbars her prison-door ; 
And like a rushing torrent out they fly. 
And now the grassy cirque ban cover'd 

o'er 
AVith boist'rous revel-rout and wild 
uproar; 
A thou.sand ways in wanton rings they run, 
Heav'n shield their short-lived pastimes 
I im|)lore 
For well may freedom, erst so dearly won, 
Apjjcar to I'ritish elf more gladsome than 
the sun. 



Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your sportive 
trade, 
Anil chase g.iy flics, and cull the fairest 
flow'rs ; 
For when my bones in grass-green sods 
are laid ; 
For never may ye taste more careless 

hours 
In knightly castles, or in ladies' bow'rs. 
Oh, vain to seek delight in earthly thing! 
But most in courts where proud ambi- 
tion tow'rs ; 
Deluded wight, who weens fair peace can 

spring 
Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of 
king. 

See in each sprite some various bent appear ! 

These rudely carol most incondite lay ; 
Those sauntering on the green, with jocund 
leer 
Salute the stranger passing on his way ; 
Some builden fragile tenements of clay ; 
Some to the standing lake their courses 
bend, 
With pebbles smooth at dUck and drake 
to play ; 
Thilk to the hu.xter's sav'ry cottage tend, 
In pastry kings and queens th' allotted 
mite to spend. 

Here, as each season yields a different 
store, 
Each season's stores in order ranged 
been ; 
Apples with cabbage-net y-eover'd o'er, 
Galling full sore th' unmoney'd wight, 

are seen ; 

And goose-b'rie clad in liv'ry red or 

green ; 

And here of lovely dye, the cath'rine jiear, 

Fine pear ! as lovely for thy juice I ween. 

Oh, may no wight e'er penniless come 

there, 
Lest smit with ardent love he pine with 
hopeless care ! 

See ! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound, 
With thread so white in tempting posies 
tied. 
Scattering like blooming maid their glances 
round. 
With pamper'd look draw little eyes 
a-side ; 



GO 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



And must be bought, though penury 

betide. 
The phim all azure, and the nut all 

brown, 
And here each season do those cakes 

abide. 
Whose honor'd names th' inventive city 

own, 
Eend'ring through Britain's isle Salopia's 

praises known. 

Admired Salopia ! that with venial pride 
Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient 
wave. 
Famed for her loyal cares in perils tried, 
Her daughters lovely and her striplings 

brave : 
Ah ! midst the rest, may flowers adorn 
his grave. 
Whose art did first these dulcet cates dis- 
play ! 
A motive fair to learning's imps he 
gave, 
Who cheerless o'er her darkling region 

stray ; 
Till reason's morn arise, and light them on 

their way. 

William Shenstone. 



The Children. 

When the lessons and tasks are all ended, 

And the school for the day is dismiss'd. 
And the little ones gather around me. 

To bid me good-night and be kiss'd : 
Oh, the little white arms that encircle 

My neck in a tender embrace ! 
Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, 

Shedding sunshine of love on my face ! 

And when they are gone I sit dreaming 

Of my childhood, too lovely to last : 
Of love that my heart will remember 

When it wakes to the pulse of the past. 
Ere the world and its wickedness made me 

A partner of sorrow and sin ; 
When the glory of God was about me. 

And the glory of gladness within. 

Oh ! my heart grows as weak as a woman's. 
And the fountains of feeling will flow, 

When I think of the paths steep and stony. 
Where the feet of the dear ones must go ; 



Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er 
them. 

Of the tempest of fate blowing wild ; 
Oh I there is nothing on earth half so holy 

As the innocent heart of a child. 

They are idols of hearts and of households ; 

They are angels of God in disguise ; 
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, 

His glol-y still beams in their eyes. 
Oh ! those truants from home and from 
heaven. 

They have made me more manly and 
mild, 
And I know how Jesus could liken 

The kingdom of God to a child. 

I ask not a life for the dear ones. 

All radiant, as others have done, 
But that life may have just enough shadow 

To temper the glare of the sun : 
I would pray God to guard them from evil, 

But my prayer would bound back to 
myself; 
Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner. 

But a sinner must pray for himself. 

The twig is so easily bended, 

I have banish'd the rule and the rod ; 
I have taught them the goodness of know- 
ledge, 
They have taught me the goodness of 
God ; 
My heart is a dungeon of darkness, 

Where I shut them from breaking a 
rule ; 
My frown is suflicient correction ; 
My love is the law of the school. 

I shall leave the old home in the autumn, 

To traverse its threshold no nun-e ; 
Ah ! how shall I sigh for the dear ones 

That meet me each morn at the door ! 
I shall miss the "good-nights" and the 
kisses, 

And the gush of their innocent glee. 
The group on the green, and the flowers 

That are brought every morning to me. 

I shall miss them at morn and at eve. 
Their song in the school and the street ; 

I shall miss the low hum of their voices, 
And the tramp of their delicate feet. 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 61 


When the lessons and tasks are all ended, 


"Your old earth," they say, "is very 


And Death says, "The school is dis- 


dreary, 


miss'd !" 


Our young feet," they say, "are very 


May the little ones gather around me, 


weak ; 


To bid me good-uight, and bo kiss'd ! 


Few paces have we taken, yet are weary — 


ClIillLUs M. DlCKINSOS. 


Our grave-rest is very far to seek : 




Ask the aged why they weep, and not the 




children. 


The Cur of the Cm ids en. 


For the outside earth is cold, 


Do ye hear the children weeping, my 


And we young ones stand without, in our 


brothers, 


bewildering, 


Ere the sorrow comes with years? 


And the graves are for the old. 


They are leaning their young heads against 




their mothers. 


" True," say the children, " it may happen 


And that cannot stop their tears. 


That we die before our time : 


The young lambs are bloating in the 


Little Alice died last year, her grave is 


meadows, 


shapen 


The young birds are chirping in the 


Like a snowball, in the rime. 


nest, 


We looked into the pit prepared to take her: 


The young fawns are playing with the 


Was no room for any work in the close 


shadows. 


clay ! 


The voung flowers are blowing toward 


From the sleep wherein she lieth none will 


'i 
the west — 


wake her. 


But the young, young children, O my 


Crj-ing, ' Get up little Alice ! it is day.' 


brothers. 


If you listen by that grave, in sun and 


They are weeping bitterly ! 


shower, 


They are weeping in the playtime of the 


With your ear down, little Alice never 


others, 


cries ; 


In the countrj' of the free. 


Could we see her face, be sure we should 




not know her. 


Do you question the young children in 


For the smile has time for growing in 


their sorrow 


her eyes : 


Why their tears are falling so ? 


And merry go her moments, luU'd and 


The old man may weep for his to-morrow 


stiird in 


Which is lost in Long Ago ; 


The shroud by the kirk-chime. 


The old tree is leafless in the forest. 


It is good when it happens," gay the 


The old year is ending in the frost, 


children, 


Tlie old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, 


" That we die before our time." 


The old hope is hardest to be lost : 




But the young, young children, my 


Alas, alas, the children ! they are seeking 


brothers. 


Death in life, as best to have: 


Do you a.sk them why they stand 


TKey are l)inding up their hearts away 


Weeping sore before the bosoms of their 


from breaking. 


niotliers, 


With a cerement from the grave. 


In our happy Fatherland ? 


Go out, ciiildren, from the mine and from 




the city. 


They look up with their pale and sunken 


Sing out, ciiildren, as the little thrushes 


faces. 


do; 


And their looks are sad to see. 


Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cow- 


For the man's hoary anguish draws and 


.slips i)retty, 


jiresses 


Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let 


Down the cheeks of infancy ; 


them through ! 



62 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


But they answer, "Are your cowslips of 


Let them prove their living souls against 


the meadows 


the notion 


Like our weeds a-near tlie mine? 


That they live in you, or under you, 


Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal- 


wheels ! 


shadows, 


Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, 


From your pleasures fair and fine ! 


Grinding life down from its mark ; 




And the children's souls, which God is 


" For oh," say the children, " we are weary. 


calling sunward. 


And we cannot run or leap ; 


Spin on blindly in the dark. 


If we cared for any meadows, it were 




merely 




To drop down in them and sleep. 


Now tell the poor young children, my 


Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping. 


brothers, 


We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; 


To look up to Him and pray ; 


And, underneath our heavy eyelids droop- 


So the blessed One who blesseth all the 


ing, 


others. 


The reddest flower would look as pale as 


Will bless them another day. 


snow. 


They answer, " Who is God, that He should 


For all day we drag our burden tiring 


hear us, 


Through the coal-dark, underground ; 


While the rushing of the iron wheels is 


Or all day we drive the wheels of iron 


stirr'd ? 


In the factories, round and round. 


When we sob aloud, the human creatures 




near us 


" For all day the wheels are droning, turn- 


Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a 


ing ; 


word. 


Their wind comes in our faces, 


And ve hear not (for the wheels in their 


Till our hearts turn, our heads with pulses 


resounding) 


burning. 


Strangers speaking at the door : 


And the walls turn in their ])laces : 


Is it likely God, with angels singing round 


Turns the sky in the high window blank 


Him, 


and reeling. 


Hears our weeping any more ? 


Turns the long light that drops adown 




the wall. 




Turn the black flies that crawl along the 


"Two words, indeed, of praying we re- 


ceiling. 


member, 


All are turning, all the day, and we with 


And at midnight's hour of harm. 


all. 


' Our Father,' looking upward in the cham- 


And all day the iron wheels are droning. 


ber. 


And sometimes we could pray, 


We say softly for a charm. 


'0 ye wheels' (breaking out in a mad 


We know no other words except ' Our 


moaning) 


Father,' 


' Stop ! be silent for to-day !' " 


And we think that, in some pause of 




angels' song, 


Ay, be silent ! Let them hear each other 


God may pluck them wuth the silence 


breathing 


sweet to gather. 


For a moment, mouth to mouth ! 


And hold both within His right hand 


Let them touch each other's hands, in a 


which is strong. 


fresh wreathing 


' Our Father !' If He heard us He would 


Of their tender human youth ! 


surely 


Let them feel that this cold metallic mo- 


(For they call Him good and mild) 


tion 


Answer, smiling down the steep world very 


Is not all the life God fashions or re- 


purely, 


veals ; 


' Come and rest with me. my child.' 



"But no!" say the children, weeping 
faster, 
" He is speechless as a stone : 
And they tell us of His image is the master, 

Who comiuiinds us to work on. 
Go to!" say the cliildron, — " up in heaven, 
Dark, wlieel-like, turning clouds are all 
we find. 
Do not mock us ; grief has made us un- 
believing : 
We look up for God, but tears have 
made us blind." 
Do you hear the children weeping and 
disproving, 
O my brothers, what ye preach ? 
For God's possible is taught by His world's 
loving. 
And the children doubt of each. 

And well may the children weep before you ! 

They are weary ere they run ; 
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the 
glory 
Which is brighter than the sun. 
They know the grief of man, without its 
wisdom ; 
They sink in man's despair, without its 
calm ; 
Are slaves, without the liberty in Christ- 
dom. 
Are martyrs, by the pang without the 
palm : 
Are worn lus if with age, yet unretrievingly 
The harvest of its memories cannot 
reap, — 
Are orplians of the earthly love and heav- 
enly. 
Let them weep ! let them weep ! 

They look up with their pale and sunken 
faces, 
And their look is dread to see. 
For they 'mind you of their angels in high 
places. 
With eyes turned on Deity. 
" How long," they say, " how long, O cruel 
nation. 
Will you stand, to move the world, on a 
child's heart. — 
Stifle down with a mailed heel it.s palpita- 
tion, 
And tread onward to your throne amid 
the mart? 



Our blood splashes upward, O gold- 

heaper. 
And your purple shows your path I 
But the child's sob in the silence curses 

deeper 

Than the strong man in his wrath." 
Elizabeth Barrett Bkowning. 



To A Highland Girl. 

(.\t Ixversseyde, upon Loch Lomoxd.) 
Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 
Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 
Twice seven consenting years have shed 
Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
And, tliese gray Kocks ; this household 

Lawn ; 
These Trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; 
This fall of water, that doth make 
A murmur near the silent Lake ; 
This little Bay, a quiet Road 
That liokls in shelter thy Abode ; 
In truth, together do ye seem 
Like something fashion'd in a dream ; 
Such Forms as from their covert peep 
When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
Yet, dream and vision as thou art, 
I bless thee with a human heart : 
God shield thee to thy latest years ! 
I neither know thee nor thy peers ; 
And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears. 

With earnest feeling I shall pray 
For thee when I am far away : 
For never saw I mien or face, 
In which more plainly I could trace 
Benignity and home-bred .sense 
Ripening in perfect innocence. 
Here scatter'd like a random seed. 
Remote from men, thou dost not need 
The embarrass'd look of shy distress, 
.\nd maidenly .shamefacedness : 

I Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
The freedom of a Mountaineer : 
\ face with gladness overspread I 
Soft smiles by human kindness bred ! 
.\nd scemliness complete, that sways 
Thy ccmrtesies, about thee plays : 
With no restraint, but sueh as springs 
From quick and eager visitings 
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 

I Of thy few words of English speech : 



64 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. 



A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife 
That gives tliy gestures grace and life ! 
So have I, not unmoved in mind, 
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, 
Thus beating up against the wind. 

What hand but would a garland cull 
For thee who art so beautiful ? 
Oh happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
Beside thee in some heathy dell ; 
Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 
A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess ! 
But I could frame a wish for thee 
More like a grave reality : 
Thou art to me but as a wave 
Of the wild sea : and I would have 
Some claim upon thee, if I could, 
Though but of common neighborhood. 
What joy to hear thee, and to see I 
Thy elder Brother I would be, 
Thy Father, anything to thee ! 

Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
Hath led me to this lonely place. 
Joy have I had ; and going hence 
I bear away my recompense. 
In spots like these it is we prize 
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes : 
Then, why should I be loth to stir ? 
I feel this place was made for her ; 
To give new pleasure like the past, 
Continued long as life shall last. 
Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart. 
Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part ; 
For I, methinks, till I grow old, 
As fair before me shall behold. 
As I do now, the Cabin small. 
The Lake, the Bay, the Waterfall ; 
And thee, the Spirit of them all ! 

William Wordsworth. 



Maidenhood. 

Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes, 
In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies 1 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun. 
Golden tresses, wreath'd in one. 
As the braided streamlets run ! 

Standing, with reluctant feet, 
AV^here the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 



Gazing, with a timid glance. 
On the brooklet's swift advance, 
On the river's broad expanse ! 

Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem, 
As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision, 
When bright angels in thj' vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 

Seest thou shadows sailing by. 
As the dove, with startled eye, 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly? 

Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more, 
Deafen'd by the cataract's roar? 

O thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands, — life hath snares ! 

Care and age come unawares. 

Like the swell of some sweet tune. 
Morning rises into noon. 
May glides onward into June. 

Childhood is the bough, where slumber'd 
Birds and blossoms many-number'd : — • 
Age, that bough with snows encumber'd. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows. 
When the young heart overflows. 
To embalm that tent of snows. 

Bear a lily in thy hand ; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth. 
In thy heart the dew of youth. 
On thy lips the smile of truth. 

Oh, that dew, like lialni, shall steal 
Into wounds that cannot heal. 
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; 

And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart, 
For a smile of God thou art. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



65 



THE May Queen. 

Yon must wake ami call me early, call me 

early, mother dear ; 
To-morrow 'ill l)e the liai)|)iost time of all 

the glad New-year ; 
Of all the glad New-year, mother, the 

maddest, merriest day ; 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

There's many a black black eye, they say, 

but none so bright as mine ; 
There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate 

and Caroline : 
But none so fair as little Alice in all the 

land, they say, 
So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I 

shall never wake, 
If you do not call me loud, when the day 

begins to break : 
But I must gather knots of flowers, and 

buds and garlands gay, 
For I'm to be (^ueen o' the May, mother, 

I'm to be Queen of the May. 

As I came up the valley, whom think ye 

should I see, 
But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath 

the hazel tree ? 
He thought of that sharp lonk, mother, I 

gave him yesterday — 
But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I'm to be tjueen b' the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I 

was all in white. 
And I ran by him without speaking, like 

a flash of light. 
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not 

what they say. 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I'm tf) be Queen o' the May. 

They say he's dying all for love, but th.it 

can never be : 
They say his heart is breaking, mother — 

what is that to me ? 
There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any 

.summer day. 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I'm to be Queen o' the May. 



Little EtHe shall go with me to-morrow to 

the green, 
And you'll be there too, mother, to sec me 

made the queen ; 
For the shepherd lads on everj- side 'ill 

come from far away. 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I'm to be Queen o' tlie May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has 

wov'n its wavy bowers. 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the 

faint sweet cuckoo-flowers ; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like 

fire in swamps and hollows gray. 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The night winds come and go, mother, 

upon the meadow grass. 
And the happy stars above them seem to 

brighten as they pass ; 
There will not be a drop of rain the Whole 

of the livelong day. 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I'm to be Queen o' the Alay. 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and 

green and still. 
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over 

all the hill. 
And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill 

merrily glance and play, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

So you must wake and call me early, call 
me early, mother dear, 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all 
the glad New-year : 

To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the mad- 
dest, merriest day. 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

Nkw- Year's Evk. 

If you're waking call me early, call me 

early, mother dear, 
For I would sec the sun rise upon the glad 

New-year. 
It is the last New-year tliat I sliall ever see, 
Then you may lay me low i' the mould and 

think no more of me. 



66 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left 


You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath 


behind 


the hawthorn shade, 


The good old year, the dear old time, and 


And you'll come sometimes and see me 


all my peace of mind ; 


where I am lowly laid. 


And the New-year's coming up, mother. 


I shall not forget you, mother ; I shall hear 


but I shall never see 


you when you pass. 


The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf 


With your feet above my head in the long 


upon the tree. 


and pleasant grass. 


Last May we made a crown of flowers : we 


I have been wild and wayward, but you'll 


had a merry day ; 


forgive me now ; 


Beneath the hawthorn on the green they 


You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive 


made me Queen of May ; 


me ere I go ; 


And we danced about the may-pple and in 


Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your 


the hazel copse. 


grief be wild, 


Till Charles's Wain came out above the 


You should not fret for me, mother, you 


tall white chimney-tops. 


have another child. 


There's not a flower on all the hills : the 


If I can I'll come again, mother, from out 


frost is on the pane : 


my resting-place ; 


I only wish to live till the snow-drops come 


Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look 


again : 


upon your face ; 


I wish the snow would melt and the sun 


Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken 


come out on high : 


what you say. 


I long to see a flower so before the day I 


And be often, often with you when you 


die. 


think I'm far away. 


The building rook 'ill caw from the windy 


Good-night, good-night, when I have said 


tall elm tree, 


good-night for evermore. 


And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow 


And you see me carried out from the 


lea. 


threshold of the door ; 


And the swallow 'ill come back again with 


Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave 


summer o'er the wave, 


be growing green : 


But I shall lie alone, mother, within the 


She'll be a better child to you than ever I 


mouldering grave. 


have been. 


Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that 


She'll find my garden-tools upon the gran- 


grave of mine. 


ary floor : 


In tlie early early morning the summer 


Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall 


sun 'ill shine. 


never garden more : 


Before the red cock crows from the farm 


But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the 


upon the hill. 


rose-bush that I set 


When you are warm-asleep, mother, and 


About the parlor-window, and the box of 


all the world is still. 


mignonette. 


When the flowers come again, mother. 


Good-night, sweet mother : call me before 


beneath the waning light 


the day is born. 


You'll never see me more in the long gray 


All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at 


fields at night; 


morn ; 


When from the dry dark wold the summer 


But I would see the sun rise upon the glad 


airs blow cool 


New-year, 


On the oat-grasa and the sword-grass, and 


So, if you're waking, call me, call me early. 


the bulrush in the pool. 


mother dear. 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



All in the wild March-morning I heard 

the angels call ; 
It was when the moon was setting, and the 

dark was over all ; 
The trees began to whisjier, and the wind 

began to roll, 
And in the wild March-morning I heard 

them call my soul. 

For lying broad awake I thought of you 

and Effie dear; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no 

longer here ; 
With all my strength I pray'd for both, 

and so I felt resign'd. 
And up the valley came a swell of music 

on the wind. 

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd 

in my bed. 
And then did something speak to me — I 

know not what was said, 
For great delight and shuddering took 

hold of all my mind. 
And up the valley came again the music 

on the wind. 

But j'ou were sleeping, and I said, " It's 

not for them, it's mine;" 
And if it comes three times, I thought, I 

take it for a sign. 
.Vnd once again it came, and close beside 

the window-bars. 
Then seem'd to go right up to heaven and 

die among the stars. 

So now I think my time is near. I trust 

it is. I know 
The blessed music went that way my soul 

will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go 

to-day, 
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I 

am pass'd away. 

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell 

him not to fret; 
There's many a worthier than I would 
make him happy yet. 
But sit l)eside my bed, mother, and put If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might 

your hand in mine, have been his wife, 

And Effie on the other side, and I will tell But all these things have ceased to be, with 
the sign. I my desire of life. 



Conclusion-. : 

I thought to pass away before, and yet ' 

alive I am ; 
And in the fields all round I hear the 

bleating of the lamb. 
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning 

of the year! 
To die before the snow-drop came, and now 

the violet's here. 

Oh, sweet is the new violet, that comes be- 
neath the skies, 

And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to 
mc that cannot rise, 

And sweet is all the land about, and all 
the flowers that blow, 

And sweeter far is death than life to me 
that long to go. 

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave 

the blessed sun, 
And now it seems as hard to stay; and yet, 

His will be done! 
But still I think it can't be long before I 

find release; 
And that good man, the clergj'man, has 

told nic words of peace. 

Oh, blessings on his kindly voice and on his 

silver hair. 
And blessings on his whole life long, until 

he meet me there ! 
Oh, blessings on his kindly heart and on his 

silver head ! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt 

beside my bed. 

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd 

me all the sin. 
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's 

One will let me in ; 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, 

if that could be, 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that 

died for me. 

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the 

death-watch beat, 
There came a sweeter token when the night 

and morning meet; 



68 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Oh, look ! the sun begins to rise, the heav- 
ens are in a glow ; 

He shines upon a hundred fields, and all 
of them I know. 

And there I move no longer now, and 
there his light may shine — 

Wild flowers in the valley for other hands 
than mine. 

Oh, sweet and strange it seems to me, that 

ere this day is done 
The voice, that now is speaking, may be 

beyond the sun. 
For ever and for ever with those just souls 

and true ; 
And what is life that we should moan ? 

why make we such ado ? 

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed 

home. 
And there to wait a little while till you 

and EfHe come. 
To lie within the light of God, as I lie 

upon your breast. 
And the wicked cease from troubling, and 

the weary are at rest. 

Alfked Tennyson. 



The POET'S Bridal-Day Song. 

Oh, my love's like the steadfast sun. 

Or streams that deepen as they run ; 

Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, 

Nor moments between sighs and tears — 

Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain. 

Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vain — • 

Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows 

To sober joys and soften woes. 

Can make my heart or fancy flee 

One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. 

Even while I muse I see thee sit 

In maiden bloom and matron wit — 

Fair, gentle as when first I sued. 

Ye seem, but of sedater mood ; 

Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee 

As when, beneatli Arbigland tree, 

We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the 

moon 
Set on the sea an hour too soon ; 
Or linger'd 'mid the falling dew, 
Wl.eu looks were fond and words were 

few. 



Though I see smiling at thy feet 
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet ; 
And time, and care, and birth-time woes 
Have dimm'd thine eye and touch'd thy rose; 
To thee, and thoughts of thee belong 
All tliat charms me of tale or song ; 
When words come down like dews un- 
sought 
With gleams of deep, enthusiast thought. 
And Fancy in her heaven flies free — 
They come, my love, they come from thee. 

Oh, when more thought we gave of old 
To silver than some give to gold, 
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er 
What things should deck our humble 

bower ! 
'Twas sweet to pull in hope with thee 
The golden fruit of Fortune's tree ; 
And sweeter still to choose and twine 
A garland for these locks of thine — 
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, 
While rivers flow and woods are green. 

At times there come, as come there ought, 
Grave moments of sedater thought — 
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night 
One gleam of her inconstant light ; 
And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower, 
Shines like the rainbow through the 

shower — 
Oh, then I see, while seated nigh, 
A mother's heart shine in thine eye ; 
And proud resolve and purpose meek. 
Speak of thee more than words can speak: 
I think the wedded wife of mine 
The best of all that's not divine. 

Allan Cunningham. 



Old Folks at Home. 

'Way down upon de Swannee Ribber, 

Far, far away, — 
Dare's wha my heart is turning ebber, — 

Dare's wha de old folks stay. 
All up and down de whole creation 

Sadly I roam ; 
Still longing for de old plantation. 
And for de old folks at home. 
All de world am sad and dreary 

Eb'rywliere I roam ; 
Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, 
Far from de old folks at home ! 



POETRY OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 69 


All 'round de little farm I wander'd 


I hope if you have you will soon be for- 


AVlicn I was young; 


given. 


Den many happy days I squander'd, — 


And shine again in your place. 


Many de songs I sung. 




AVIk'ii I was playing wid my brudder, 


velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, 


Happy was I ; 


You've powder'd your legs with gold ! 


Oh, take me to my kind old muddiT ! 


brave marshinary buds, rich and yellow, 


Dare let me live and die ! 


Give me your money to hold ! 


All de world am sad and dreary 


columbine, open your folded wrapper. 


Eb'rywhere I roam ; 


Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! 


Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, 


cuckoopiiit, toll me the purple clapper 


Far from de old folks at home ! 


That hangs in your clear green bell ! 


One little hut among de bushes, — 


And show me your nest with the young 


One dat I love, — 


ones in it; 


iStill sadly to my mem'ry ru.shes, 


I will not steal them away; 


Xo matter where I rove. 


I am old! you may trust me, linnet, lin- 


When will I see de bees a-humming 


net, — 


All round de comb ? 


I am seven times one to-day. 


When will I hear de banjo tumming 




Down in my good old home? 


SEVEN TIMES TWO. 


All de world am sad and dreary 




Eb'rywhere I roam ; 


ROMANCE. 


Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary. 


You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out 


Far from de old folks at home ! 


your changes. 


Stephen C. Foster. 


How many soever they be. 




And let the brown meadow-lark's note as 


SOXGS OF Sevex. 


he ranges 




Come over, come over to me. 


SEVEX TIMES ONE. 






Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by 


EXULTATION. 


swelling 


There's no dew left on the daisies and 


No magical sense conveys. 


clover, 


And bells have forgotten their old art of 


There's no rain left in heaven : 


telling 


I've said my " seven times " over and over, 


The fortune of future days. 


Seven times one are seven. 






"Turn again, turn again," once they rang 


I am old, so old, I can write a letter ; 


cheerily. 


My birtliday lessons arc done ; 


While a boy listen'd alone ; 


The lambs play always, they know no 


Made his heart yearn again, musing so 


better; 


wearily 


1 They are only one times one. 

1 


All by himself on a stone. 


<) moon! ill the night I have .seen you 


Poor bells! I forgive you; your good 


sailing 


days are over. 


And shining so round and low ; 


And mine, they are yet to be; 


You were bright I ah bright! but your 


No listening, no longing shall aught, aught 


light is failing, — 


discover : 


You are nothing now but a bow. 


You leave the story to me. 


You moon, have you done something 


The foxglove shoots out of the green mat- 


wrong in heaven 


ted heather. 


1 That God has hidden your face? 

i 
1 


Preparing her hoods of snow ; 



70 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny 
weather : 
Oh, children take long to grow. 

I wish, and I wish that the spring would 
go faster, 
Nor long summer bide so late ; 
And I could grow on like the foxglove and 
aster, 
For some things are ill to wait. 

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall 
discover. 
While dear hands are laid on my head ; 
" The child is a woman, the book may 
close over, 
For all the lessons are said." 

I wait for my story — the birds cannotsing it. 
Not one, as he sits on the tree ; 

The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh 
bring it ! 
Such as I wish it to be. 

SEVEN TIMES THREE. 
LOVE. 
I lean'd out of window, I smelt the 
white clover. 
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not 
the gate; 
" Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my 
one lover — 
Hush nightingale, hush ! O sweet night- 
ingale, wait 
Till I listen and hear 
If a step draweth near. 
For my love he is late ! 

" The skies in the darkness stoop nearer 
and nearer, 
A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the 
tree, 
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes 
clearer : 
To what art thou listening, and what 
dost thou see? 
Let the star-clusters glow, 
Let the sweet waters flow. 
And cross quickly to me. 

" You night-moths that hover where honey 
brims over 
From sycamore blossoms, or settle or 
sleep ; 



You glow-worms, shine out, and the path- 
way discover 
To him that comes darkling along the 
rough steep. 

Ah, my sailor, make haste, 
For the time runs to waste, 
And my love lieth deep — 

" Too deep for swift telling ; and yet, my 
one lover, 
I've conu'd thee an answer, it waits thee 
to-night." 
By the sycamore pass'd he, and through 
the white clover. 
Then all the sweet speech I had fashion'd 
took flight ; 
But I'll love him more, more 
Than e'er wife loved before. 
Be the days dark or bright. 

SEVEN TIMES FOUR. 
MATERNITY. 

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups. 

Fair yellow daflfodils, stately and tall ! 
When the wind wakes how they rock in 
the grasses, 
And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender 
and small ! 
Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's 
own lasses. 

Eager to gather them all. 

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups ! 

Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; 
Sing them a song of the pretty hedge- 
sparrow. 
That loved her brown little ones, loved 
them full fain , 
Sing, " Heart, thou art wide, though the 
house be but narrow," — 
Sing once, and sing it again. 

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups. 
Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and 
they bow ; 
A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, 
Aud haply one musing doth stand at her 
prow. 
O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little 
daughters, 

JIaybe he thinks on you now ! 

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups, 
Fair yellow daflbdils, stately and tall — 



POETRY OF HOME A^D CHILDHOOD. 



71 



A sunshiny world full of laughter and 
leisure, 
And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow 
and thrall ! 
Send down on their pleasure smiles passing 
its measure, 
God that is over us all I 

SEVEN TIMES FIVE. 
WIDOWHOOD. 

I SLEEP and rest, my heart makes moan 

Before I am well awake ; 
" Let me bleed ! oh let me alone. 

Since I must not break !" 

For children wake, though fathers sleep 
Willi a stone at foot and at head ; 

sleepless God, for ever keep, 
Keep both living and dead I 

1 lift mine eyes, and what to see 
But a worhl liiippy and fair? 

I have not wish'd it to mourn with me — 
Comfort is not there. 

Oh, what anear but golden brooms, 

And a waste of reedy rills I 
Oh, what afar but the fine glooms 

On the rare blue hills! 

I shall not die, but live forlorn ; 

How bitter it is to ])art ! 
Oh, to meet thee, my love, once more ! 

Oh, my heart, my heart! 

No more to hear, no more to see; 

Oh, that an echo might wake, 
And waft one note of thy psalm to me 

Ere my heart-strings break! 

I should kiiiiw it how faint soe'er, 

And with angel-voices blent; 
Oh, once to feel thy spirit anear, 

I could be content! 

Or once between the gates of gold, 
While an angel entering trod. 

But once — thee sitting to behold 
On the hills of God ! 

SEVEN TIMES SIX. 
GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 

To bear, to nurse, to rear. 
To watch, and then to lose: 

To see my bright ones disappear, 
Drawn uj) like iiKiriiing dews; 



To bear, to nurse, to rear. 

To watch, and then to lose : 
This have I done when God drew near 

Among his own to choose. 

To bear, to heed, to wed, 

And with thy Lord depart 
In tears that he, as soon as shed, 

Will let no longer smart; 
To hear, to heed, to wed. 

This while thou didst I smiled. 
For now it was not God who said, 

" Mother, give me thy child." 

Oh, fond, oh, fool, and blind, 

To God I gave with tears ; 
But when a man like grace would' find, 

My soul put by her fears. 
Oh, fond, oh, fool, and blind, 

God guards in happier spheres ; 
That man will guard where he did bind 

Is hope for unknown years. 

To hear, to heed, to wed. 

Fair lot that maidens choose, 
Thy mother's tenderest words are said, 

Thy face no more she views ; 
Thy mother's lot, my dear, 

She doth in naught accuse ; 
Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To love, — and then to lose. 

SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. 

LONGING FOE HOME. 

A SONG of a boat : — 

There wa.s once a boat on a billow : 

Lightly she roek'd to her port remote. 

And the foam was white in her wake like 

snow. 
And her frail mast bow'd when the breeze 
would blow, 
And bent like a wand of willow. 

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat 

Went curtseying over the billow, 
I mark'd her course till a dancing mote 
She faded out on the moonlit foam, 
And I stay 'd behind in the dear loved home; 
And my thoughts all day were about the 
boat 
And my dreams upon the pillow. 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



I pray you hear my song of a boat, 

For it is but short : — • 
My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat, 

In river or port. 
Long I look'd out for the lad she bore. 

On the open desolate sea. 
And I think he sail'd to the heavenly 
shore, 

For he came not back to me — 
Ah me! 

A song of a nest :— 

There was once a nest in a hollow : 
Down in the mosses and knot-grass press'd, 
Soft and warm, and full to the brim. 
Vetches lean'd over it purple and dim. 
With buttercup buds to follow. 

I pray you hear my song of a nest, 

For it is not long : — 
You shall never light, in a summer quest, 

The bushes among — 
Shall never light on a prouder sitter, 

A fairer nestful, nor ever know 
A softer sound than their tender twitter, 
That wind-like did come and go. 



I had a nestful once of my own. 

Ah happy, happy I ! 
Eight dearly I loved them : but when they 
were grown 

They spread out their wings to fly. 
Oh, one after one they flew away 

Far up to the heavenly blue. 
To the better country, the upper day. 

And — I wish I was going too. 

I pray you, what is the nest to me, 

My empty nest? 
And what is the shore where I stood to see 

My boat sail down to the west ? 
Can I call that home where I anchor 

yet. 

Though my good man has sail'd ? 
Can I call that home where my nest was 
set, 
Now all its hope hath fail'd ? 
Nay, but the port where my sailor went, 
And the land where my nestlings be, — 
There is the home where my thoughts 
are sent, 

The only home for me — 

Ah me ! 
Jean Isgelow. 



PART II, 



Poems of 



Memory and Retrospection. 



wi 




^'^ 



Poems 

OF 

Memory ajstd Retrospection. 


/ Remember, I Remember. 


The Old Armchair. 


I REMEMBER, I remember, 


I LOVE it, I love it ; and who shall dare 


The house where I was born, 


To chide me for loving that old arm-chair? 


The little window where the sun 


I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ; 


Came peeping in at morn : 


I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd 


lie never came a wink too soon, 


it with sighs. 


1 Nor brought too long a day ; 


'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my 


1 But now, I often wish the night 


heart ; 


Had borne my breath away. 


Not a tic will break, not a link will start. 




Would ye learn the spell? — a mother sat 


I remember, I remember, 


there ; 


The roses, red and wliite ; 


And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 


The violets and the lily-cups. 




Those flowers made of light ! 


In childhood's hour I linger'd near 


The lilacs where the robin built, 


The hallow'd seat with listening ear; 


And where my brother set 


And gentle words that mother would give 


The laburnum on his birthday, — 


To fit me to die, and teach me to live. 


The tree is living yet 1 


She told me shame would never betide. 




With truth for my creed and God for my 


I remember, I remember. 


guide ; 


Where I was used to swing ; 


She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer. 


And thouglit the air must rush as fresh 


As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 


To swallows on the wing : 




My spirit flew in feathers then. 


I sat and watch'd her many a day. 


That is so heavy now, 


When her eye grew dim, and her locks 


And summer pools could hardly cool 


were gray : 


The fever on my brow ! 


And 1 almost worshipp'd her when .she 




smiled, 


I remember, I remember, 


And turn'd from her Bible, to bless her 


The fir trees dark and high; 


child. 


I used to think their slender tops 


Years roll'd on : but the la.st one sped^ 


Were close against tiie sky: 


Jly idol wiw shatter'd ; my earth-star fled : 


It was a childish ignorance. 


I learnt how much the heart can bear, 


But now 'tis little joy 


When I saw her die in that old arm-ehair. 


To know I'm farther off from heaven 




Than when I was a boy. 


'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now 


Thomas Uood. 


With quivering breath and throbbing 




brow : 

75 



76 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



'Twas there she nursed me ; 'twas there 

she died : 
And Memory flows with lava tide. 
Say it is folly, and deem me weak, 
While the scalding drops start down my 

cheek ; 
But I love it, I love it ; and cannot tear 
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 

Eliza Cook. 

Rock bie to Sleep. 

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in 

your flight. 
Make me a child again just for to-night ! 
Mother, come back from the echoless shore, 
Take me again to your heart as of yore ; 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care. 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my 

hair ; 
Over my slumbers your loving watch 

keep ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to 

sleep ! 

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the 

years ! 
I am so weary of toil and of tears, — 
Toil without recompense, tears all in 

vain, — 
Take them, and give me my childhood 

again ! 
I have grown weary of dust and decay, — 
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away ; 
Weary of sowing for others to reap ; — 
Rock me to sleej), mother, — rock me to 

sleep ! 

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue. 
Mother! O mother! my heart calls for you ! 
Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
Blossom'd, and faded our faces between, 
Yet with strong yearning and passionate 

pain 
Long I to-night for your presence again. 
Come from the silence so long and so 

deep ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to 

sleep ! 

Over my heart, in the days that are flown. 
No love like mother-love ever has shone ; 
No other worship abides and endures, — 
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours: 



None like a mother can charm away pain 
From the sick soul and the world-weary 

brain. 
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids 

creep ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to 

sleep ! 

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted 

with gold. 
Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; 
Let it drop over my forehead to-night. 
Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; 
For with its sunny-edged shadows once 

more 
Haply will throng the sweet visions of 

yore ; 
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to 

sleep ! 

Mother, dear mother, the j'ears have been 

long 
Since I last listen'd your lullaby song : 
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood's years have been only a 

dream. 
Clasp'd to your heart in a loving embrace, 
With your light lashes just sweeping my 

face. 

Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; — 

Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to 

sleej) ! 

Elizabeth Akers Allen. 



The Old Oaken Bucket. 

How dear to this heart ai-e the scenes of 
my childhood, 
When fond recollection presents them 
to view ! 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled 
wild wood. 
And every loved spot which my infancy 
knew ; 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill 
which stood by it, 
The bridge and the rock where the cat- 
aract fell ; 
The cot of my father, the dairy -house nigh 

it. 
And e'en the rude bucket which hung 
in the well : 



POEMS OF MEMORY AXB RETROSPECTION. 



The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 

bucket, 
The moss-cover'd bucket, which hung in 

the well. 

That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a 

treasure ; 
For often, at noon, when return'd from 

the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite 

pleasure, 
The purest and sweetest that Xature can 

yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that 

were glowing ! 
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom 

it fell ; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth over- 
flowing, 
And dripping with coolness, it rose from 

the well : 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 

bucket, 
The moss-cover'd bucket arose from the 

well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to 
receive it, 
As poised on the curb it inclined to my 
lips ! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me 
to leave it. 
Though fiU'd with the nectar that Jupi- 
ter sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved 
situation. 
The tear of regret will intrusively swell. 
As fancy reverts to my father's planta- 
tion. 
And sighs for the bucket which hangs 
in the well : 
1 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
! bucket. 

The moss-cover'd bucket, which hangs in 

I the well. 

Samuel Woodwobtii. 



WooDMAx, Spare that Tree: 

Woodman, si)are that tree! 

Touch not a single bough! 
In youth it shclter'd me. 

And I'll protect it now. 



'Twas my forefather's hand 
That placed it near his cot ; 

There, woodman, let it stand, 
Thy axe shall harm it not ! 

That old familiar tree. 

Whose glory and renown 
Are spread o'er land and sea — 

And would'st thou hew it down? 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties; 
Oh, spare that agtd oak. 

Now towering to the skies 1 

When but an idle boy, 

I sought its grateful shade ; 
In all their gushing joy 

Here, too, my sisters play'd. 
My mother kiss'd me here ; 

My father prcss'd my hand — 
Forgive this foolish tear. 

But let that old oak stand ! 

My heart-strings round thee cling, 

Close as thy bark, old friend ! 
Here shall the wild bird sing. 

And still thy branches bend. 
Old tree ! the storm still brave ! 

And, woodman, leave the spot; 
While I've a hand to save. 

Thy axe shall harm it not ! 

Georoe p. Mobeis. 



The Stranger ox the Sjll. 

Between the broad fields of wheat and 

corn 
Is the lowly home where I was born ; 
The peach tree leans against the wall. 
And the woodbine wanders over all ; 
There is the shaded doorway still. 
But a .stranger's foot has cross'd the sill. 

There is the barn, and, as of yore, 
I can smell the hay from the open door, 
.\nd see the busy swallows throng, 
And hear the pewee's mournful song; 
But the stranger comes — oh, painful 

proof! — 
His sheaves are piled to the heated roof. 

There is the orchard — the very trees 
Where my childhood knew long hours of 
ease, 



78 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


And watch'd the shadowy moments run 


Along the ceiling, along the floor, 


Till my life imbibed more shade than sun : 


And seems to say, at each chamber-door, — 


The swing from the bough still sweeps the 


" Forever — never ! 


air, 


Never — forever !" 


But the stranger's children are swinging 
there. 


Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 




Through days of death and days of birth. 


There bubbles the shady spring below, 


Through every swift vicissitude 


With its bulrush brook where the hazels 


Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, 


grow ; 


And as if, like God, it all things saw, 


'Twas there I found the calamus root, 


It calmly repeats those words of awe, — 


And watched the minnows poise and shoot, 


" Forever — never ! 


And heard the robin lave his wing : — • 


Never — forever !" 


But the stranger's bucket is at the spring. 


In that mansion used to be 


ye who daily cross the sill, 


Free-hearted Hospitality ; 


Step lightly, for I love it still ; 


His great fires up the chimney roar'd ; 


And when you crowd the old barn eaves, 


The stranger feasted at his board ; 


Then think what countless harvest sheaves 


But, like the skeleton at the feast. 


Have pass'd within that scented door 


That warning timepiece never cea.sed, — 


To gladden eyes that are no more. 


" Forever — never ! 


Deal kindly with these orchard trees ; 


Never — forever !" 


And when your children crowd your knees. 


There groups of merry children play'd. 


Their sweetest fruit they shall impart, 


There youths and maidens dreaming 


As if old memories stirr'd their heart: 


stray'd ; 


To youthful sport still leave the swing, 


precious hours ! golden prime, 


And in sweet reverence hold the spring. 


And afHuence of love and time ! 


Thomas Buch.\nan Read. 


Even as a miser counts his gold. 


*ct 


Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 


The Old Clock on the Stairs. 


" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 


Somewhat back from the village street 




Stands the old-fashion'd country-seat. 


From that chamber, clothed in white. 


Across its antique portico 


The bride came forth on her wedding- 


Tall poplar trees their shadows throw : 


night ; 


And from its station in the hall 


There, in that silent room below. 


An ancient timepiece says to all, — 
" Forever — never ! 


The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; 
And in the hush that follow'd the prayer, 


Never — forever!" 


Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 




" Forever — never ! 


Halfway up the stairs it stands. 


Never — forever !" 


And points and beckons with its hands 




From its case of massive oak. 


All are scatter'd now and fled. 


Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 


Some are married, some are dead ; 


Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 


And when I ask with throbs of pain. 


With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — 


" Ah ! when shall they all meet again. 


" Forever — never ! 


As in the daj's long since gone by?" 


Never — forever !" 


The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 




" Forever — never ! 


By day its voice is low and light ; 


Never — forever !" 


But in the silent dead of night. 




Distinct as a passing footstep's fall. 


Never here, forever there. 


It echoes along the vacant hall. 


Where all parting, pain, and care, 



POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 



79 



And death, and time shall disappear, — 
Forever there, but never here ! 
The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

Henry Wai>swortii Longfellow. 



The Old Familiar Faces. 

I HAVE had playmates, I have had com- 
panions. 

In my days of childhood, in my joyful 
school-days ; 

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carous- 
ing. 

Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom 
cronies ; 

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a love once, fairest among women : 
Closed are her doors on me; I must not 

see her ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no 
man ; 

Like an ingrate, I left my friend ab- 
ruptly ; 

Left him, to muse on the old familiar 
faces. 

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of 
my childhood ; 

Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to trav- 
erse. 

Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bos(mi, thou more than a 

brother, 
Why wert not thou born in my father's 

dwelling? 
So might we talk of the old familiar : 

faces — 

How some they have died, and some they 

have left me, 
And some are taken from me ; all are de- ; 

parted, — \ 

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. i 
Charles Lamb. 



Oft, /a- the Stilly Night. 

Oft, in the stilly night. 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me ; 
The smiles, the tears. 
Of boyhood's years. 
The words of love then spoken ; 
The eyes that shone. 
Now dimm'd and gone. 
The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
Thus, in the stilly night. 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 



When I remember all 

The friends, so link'd together, 
I've seen around me fall. 
Like leaves in wintry weather ; 
I feel like one. 
Who treads alone 
Some banquet-hall deserted. 
Whose lights are fled, 
Wliose garlands dead. 
And all but he departed ! 
Thus, in the stilly night. 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. 
Sad Memorj- brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

TnoMA.-* Moore. 



Saturday Afterxoox. 

I LOVE to look on a scene like this. 

Of wild and carele,-vs play. 
And persuade myself that I am not old, 

.\nd my locks are not yet gray ; 
For it stirs the blood in an old man's 
heart, 

.\nd makes his pulses fly. 
To catch the thrill of a happy voice. 

And the light of a pleasiant eye. 

I have walk'd the world for fourscore 

years ; 
And they say that I am old. 
That my heart is ripe for the reaper, 

Death, 
And my years are wellnigh told. 



80 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



It is very true ; it is very true ; 

I'm old, and I " bide my time ;" 
But my iieai't will leap at a scene like 
this, 

And I half renew my prime. 

Play on, play on ; I am with you there, 

In the midst of your merry ring ; 
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, 

And the rush of the breathless swing. 
I hide with you in the fragrant hay, 

And I whoop the smother'd call. 
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor. 

And I care not for the fall. 

I am willing to die when my time shall 
come. 

And I shall be glad to go ; 
For the world at best is a weary place. 

And my pulse is getting low ; 
But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 

In treading its gloomy way ; 
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, 

To see the young so gay. 

Nathaniel Parker Willis. 



Twenty Years Ago. 

I've wander'd to the village, Tom, I've sat 

beneath the tree, 
Upon the school-house play-ground, which 

shelter'd you and me ; 
But none were there to greet me, Tom, and 

few were left to know, 
That play'd with us upon the grass some 

twenty years ago. 

The grass is just as green, Tom — barefooted 

boys at play, 
Were sporting just as we did then, with 

spirits just as gay ; 
But the "master" sleeps upon the hill, 

which, coated o'er with snow, 
Afforded us a sliding-place, just twenty 

years ago. 

The old school-house is alter'd some, the 
benches are replaced 

By new ones, very like the same our pen- 
knives had defaced ; 

But tlie same old bricks are in the wall, 
the bell swings to and fro. 

It's music, just the same, dear Tom, 'twas 
twenty years ago. 



The boys were playing some old game, 

beneath the same old tree — 
I do forget the name just now; you've 

play'd the same with nie. 
On that same spot 'twas play'd with knives, 

by throwing so and so. 
The leader liad a task to do, there, just 

twenty years ago. 

The river's running just as stiU, the willows 

on its side 
Are larger than they were, Tom, the 

stream appears less wide ; 
But the grapevine swing is ruin'd now 

where once we play'd the beau, 
And swung our sweethearts — " pretty girls " 

— just twenty years ago. 

The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, 

close by the spreading beech. 
Is very low — 'twas once so high that we 

could almost reach ; 
And kneeling down to get a drink, dear 

Tom, I even started so ! 
To see how much that I am changed since 

twenty years ago. 

Near by the spring, upon an elm, you know 

I cut your name. 
Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, 

and you did mine the same — 
Some heartless wretch had peel'd the bark, 

'twas dying sure but slow. 
Just as the one whose name was cut, died 

twenty years ago. 

My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears 

came in my eyes, 
I thought of her I loved so well— those 

early broken ties — 
I visited the old churchyard, and took 

some flowers to strew 
Upon the graves of those we loved, some 

twenty years ago. 

Some are in the churchyard laid, some 
sleep beneath the sea. 

But few are left of our old class, except- 
ing you and me, 

And when our time is come, Tom, and we 
are call'd to go, 

I hope they'll lay us where we play'd, just 
twenty years ago. 

Author Unknown. 



P0E3IS OF MEMORY AXD RETROSPECTION. 



81 



School and School-fellows. 

"Floreat Etona." 

Twelve years ago I made a mock 

Of filthy trades and traffics: 
I wonder'd what they meant by stock ; 

I wrote delifrhtful sapphics ; 
I knew the streets of Rome and Troy, 

I supp'd with Fates and Furies ; 
Twelve years ago 1 was a boy, 

A happy boy at Drury's. 

Twelve years ago I — how many a thought 

Of faded pains and pleasures 
Those whisper'd syllables have brought 

From Memory's hoarded treasures! 
The fields, the farms, the bats, the books, 

The glories and disgraces. 
The voices of dear friends, the looks 

Of old familiar faces ! 

Kind Mater smiles again to me. 

As bright as when wc parted; 
I seem again the frank, the free, 

Stout-limb'd and simple-hearted ! 
Pursuing every idle dream, 

And shunning every warning: 
With no hard work but Bovney stream. 

No chill except Long Morning: 

Now stopping Harrj' Vernon's ball 

That rattled like a rocket; 
Now hearing Wentworth's "Fourteen all!" 

And striking for the pocket ; 
Now feasting on a cheese and flitch, — 

Now drinking from the pewter; 
Now leajiing over Chalvey ditch. 

Now laughing at my tutor. 

Where are my friends? I am alone; 

No playmate shares my beaker : 
Some lie beneath the churcliyard stone, 

And some — before tlie Speaker ; 
Anil some compose a tragedy. 

And some compose a rondo ; 
And some draw sword for Liberty, 

And some draw pleas for John Doe. 

Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes 

Without the fear of sessions ; 
Charles Medlar loath'd false quantities, 

As much as false professions ; 
Now Mill keeps order in the land, 

A magistrate pedantic ; 
6 



And Medlar's feet repose unscann'd 
Beneath the wide Atlantic. 

Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din, 

Does Dr. Martext's duty ; 
And Mullion, with that monstrous chin, 

Is married to a beauty ; 
And Darrel studies, week by week. 

His Mant, and not his JIanton; 
And Ball, who was but poor at Greek, 

Is very rich at Canton. 

And I am eight-and-twenty now ; — 

The world's cold chains have bound me; 
And darker shades are on my brow. 

And sadder scenes around me : 
In Parliament I fill my seat. 

With many other noodles ; 
And lay my head in Jermyn street. 

And sip my hock at Boodle's. 

But often, when the cares of life 

Have set my temples aching. 
When visions haunt me of a wife, 

When duns await my waking, 
When Lady Jane is in a pet. 

Or Hoby in a hurry, 
When Captain Hazard wins a bet, 

Or Beaulicu spoils a curry, — 

For hours and hours I think and talk 

Of each remember'd hobby ; 
I long to lounge in Poets' Walk, 

To shiver in the lobby ; 
I wish that I could run away 

From House, and Court, and Levee, 
Where bearded men appear to-day 

Just Eton boys, grown heavy, — 

That I could bask in childhood's sun. 

And dance o'er childhood's rosea. 
And find huge wealth in one pound one, 

\'ast wit in broken noses. 
And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane, 

And call the milkmaids Houris, — 
That I could be a boy again, — 

A hai>py boy, — at Drury's. 

WiKTiiicor Mackwoktu Praed. 



.1 REFLECTIVE RETROSPECT. 

'Tis twenty years, and something more. 
Since, all athirst for useful knowledge, 



82 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



I took some draughts of classic lore, 
Drawn very mild, at rd College ; 

Yet I remember all that one 

Could wish to hold in recollection ; 

The boys, the joys, the noise, the fun; 
But not a single Conic Section. 

I recollect those harsh affairs. 

The morning bells, that gave us panics ; 
I recollect the formal prayers. 

That seemed like lessons in Mechanics; 
I recollect the drowsy way 

In which the students listen'd to them. 
As clearly, in my wig, to-day. 

As when a boy I slumber'd through 
them. 

I recollect the tutors all 

As freshly now, if I may say so, 
As any chapter I recall, 

In Homer or Ovidius Naso. 
I recollect extremely well 

" Old Hugh," the mildest of fanatics ; 
I well remember Matthew Bell, 

But very faintly Mathematics. 

I recollect the prizes paid 

For lessons fathom'd to the bottom ; 
(Alas that pencil-marks should fade!) 

I recollect the chaps who got 'em, — 
The light equestrians who soar'd 

O'er every passage reckon'd stony ; 
And took the chalks, — ^but never scored 

A single honor to the pony ! 

Ah me ! what changes Time has wrought, 

And how predictions have miscarried ! 
A few have reaeh'd the goal they sought. 

And some are dead, and some are mar- 
ried! 
And some in city journals war ; 

And some as politicians bicker ; 
And some are pleading at the bar— 

For jury-verdicts, or for liquor ! 

And some on Trade and Commerce wait ; 

And some in school with dunces battle ; 
And some the gospel propagate ; 

And some the choicest breeds of cattle ; 
And some are living at their ease ; 

And some were wreck'd in " the revul- 
sion ;" 
Some serve the State for handsome fees, 

And one, I hear, upon compulsion ! 



Lamostt, who, in his college days, 

Thought e'en a cross a moral scandal, 
Has left his Puritanic ways, 

And worships now with bell and candle ; 
And Mann, who mourn'd the negro's 
fate. 

And held the slave as most unlucky. 
Now holds him, at the market rate, 

On a plantation in Kentucky ! 

Tom Knox — who swore in such a tone 

It fairly might be doubted whether 
It was really himself alone, 

Or Knox and Erebus together — 
Has grown a very alter'd man. 

And, changing oaths for mild entreaty, 
Now recommends the Christian plan 

To savages in Otaheite ! 

Alas for young ambition's vow ! 

How envious Fate may overthrow it ! — 
Poor Hakvey is in Congress now. 

Who struggled long to be a poet ; 
Smith carves (quite well) memorial 
stones. 

Who tried in vain to make the law go ; 
Hall deals in hides; and " Pious Jones " 

Is dealing faro in Chicago ! 

And, sadder still, the brilliant Hays, 

Once honest, manly, and ambitious, 
Has taken latterly to ways 

Extremely profligate and vicious ; 
By slow degrees — I can't tell how — 

He's reaeh'd at last the very groundsel, 
And in New York he figures now, 

A member of the Common Council ! 

John G. Saxe. 



The Boys. 

Has there any old fellow got mix'd with 
the boys'? 

If there has, take him out, without mak- 
ing a noise. 

Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Cata- 
logue's spite ! 

Old Time is a liar ! We're twenty to-night ! 

We're twenty ! We're twenty ! Who says 

we are more ? 
He's tipsy, — young jackanapes ! — show him 

the door I 



POEMS OF MEMORY AND liETROSPECTIOS. 



83 



"Gray temples at twenty?" — Yes I xvhitc, ' But he shouted a song for the brave and 



if we ]>lea.se ; 



the free,- 



Where the snow-flakes foil thickest there's ; Just read on his medal, " My country," 



nothins; can freeze! 



'of thee!" 



Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the : You hoar that bov laughing ?— You think 



mistake ! 



he's all fun ; 



Look close,— you will sec not a sign of a , But the angels laugh, too, at the good he 



flake ! 



has done ; 



We want some new garlands for those we ; The children laugh loud as they troop to 

have shed, — 
And tliese are white roses in place of the 

red. 



We've a trick, we young fellows, you may 

have been told. 
Of talking (in publici as if we were old : 
That boy we call " Doctor," and this we 

call "Judge"; — 
It's a neat little fiction, — of course it's all 

fudge. 



That fellow's the " Speaker," — the one on 

the right ; 
" Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and 



his call. 
And the poor man that knows him laughs 
loudest of all ! 

Yes, we're boys, — always playing with 
tongue or with pen ; 

And I sometimes haveask'd, Shall we ever 
be men? 

Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, 
and gay, 

Till the last dear companion drops smil- 
ing away? 



to-night? 



Its gr.ay ! 



That's our " Member of Congress," we say The stars of its winter, the dews of its 

when we chafl"; 
There's the " Reverend " What's his name? 

— don't make me laugh I 



That boy with the grave mathematical 

look 
Made believe he had written a wonderful 

book. 
And the RoYAL Society thought it was 

true ! 
So they chose him right in, — a good joke 

it was too ! 

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three- 
decker l)rain. 

That could harness a team with a logical 
chain ; 

When he spoke for our manliood in syl- 
labled fire, 

We call'd liim " The Justice," but now 
he's " The Squire." 

And there's a nice youngster of excellent 

pith,— 
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him 

Smith ; 



May ! 

And when we have done with our life-last- 
ing toys, 

Dear Father, take care of thy children. 
The Boys. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



AVLD Laxg SrxE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

.Vnd never bronsrht to mind? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And auld lang syne ? 

For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne. 

And surely ye'll be your pint stowp ! 

.\nd surely I'll be mine ! 
And we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet. 
For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne. 
We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne. 



84 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



We twa ha'e run about the braes, 

And pou'd the gowans fine ; 
But we've wander'd niony a weary fitt 
Sin' auld hmg syne. 

For auld hing syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne. 
We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet. 
For auld lang syne. 

We twa ha'e paidl'd in the burn, 

Frae morning sun till dine ; 
But seas between us braid ha'e roar'd 
Sin' auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear. 
For auld lang syne, 
, We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne. 

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere ! 

And gie's a hand o' thine ! 

And we'll tak' a right gude-willie waught, 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne, 

We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

Robert Burns. 



3lY Playmate. 

The pines were dark on Ramoth hill, 
Their song was soft and low ; 

The blossoms in the sweet May wind 
Were falling like the snow. 

The blossoms drifted at our feet. 
The orchard birds sang clear ; 

The sweetest and the saddest day 
It seem'd of all the year. 

For, more to me than birds or flowers, 
My playmate left her home, 

And took with her the laughing spring, 
The music and the bloom. 

She kiss'd the lips of kith and kin, 

She laid her hand in mine : 
Wliat more could ask the bashful boy 

Who fed her father's kine ? 

She left us in the bloom of May : 
The constant years told o'er 

Their seasons with as sweet May morns. 
But she came back no more. 



I walk, with noiseless feet, the round 

Of uneventful years ; 
Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring 

And reap the autumn ears. 

She lives where all the golden year 

Her summer roses blow ; 
The dusky children of the sun 

Before her come and go. 

There haply with her jewell'd hands 
She smooths her silken gown, — 

No more the homespun lap wherein 
I shook the walnuts down. 

The wild grapes wait us by the brook, 

The brown nuts on the hill. 
And still the May-day flowers make sweet 

The woods of Follymill. 

The lilies blossom in the pond. 

The bird builds in the tree. 
The dark pines sing on Eamoth hill 

The slow song of the sea. 

I wonder if she thinks of them, 
And how the old time seems, — 

If ever the pines of Ramoth wood 
Are sounding in her dreams. 

I see her face, I hear her voice : 

Does she remember mine ? 
And what to her is now the boy 

AVho fed her father's kine? 

What cares she that the orioles build 

For other eyes than ours, — 
That other hands with nuts are fill'd, 

And other laps with flowers ? 

playmate in the golden timel 

Our mossy seat is green. 
Its fringing violets blossom yet, 

The old trees o'er it lean. 

The winds so sweet with birch and fern 

A sweeter memory blow ; 
And there in spring the veeries sing 

The song of long ago. 

And still the pines of Ramoth wood 

Are moaning like the sea, — 
The moaning of the sea of change 

Between myself and thee ! 

JOHS Gkeesleak Whittier. 



POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 



m 



The Chess-Uoahd. 

My little love, do you rcmemlier, 

Ere wc were grown so siidly wise, 
Those cvoninjrs in the blealc December, 
Curtain'd warm from the snowy weather. 
When you and I phiy'd diess together, 

Clieckmated by each otlier's eyes? 

Ah, still I see your soft wliite hand 
Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight. 

Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand : 
The doul)le Castles guard the wings : 
The Hishop, bent on distant things, 
Moves sidling tlirough the tight. 

Our fingers touch ; our glances meet, 

And falter ; falls your golden hair 

Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet 
Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen 
Rides slow her soldiery all between. 

And cliecks me unaware. 

Ah me ! the little battle's done, 
Dis])ersed is all its chivalry ; 
Full many a move since then have we 
Mid Life's perplexing checkers made, 
And many a game with Fortune play'd, — 

What is it we have won ? 

Tliis, this at least -if this alone ; — 
That never, never, never more, 
As in those old still nights of yore 

(Ere we were grown so sadly wise), 

Can you and I shut out the skies, 
Shut out the world, and wintry weather, 

And, eyes exdianging warmth with eyes. 
Play chess, as then we jday'd, together ! 

UoBF.BT BULWER LYTTON. 



We Parted in Silence. 

Wk parted in silence, we parted by night, 

On the banks of that lonely river; 
Where tlie fragrant limes their boughs 
unite. 

We met — and we parted for ever ! 
The niglit-bird sung, and the stars above 

Told many a touching story, 
Of friends long pass'd to the kingdom of 
love. 

Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. 

We parted in silence — our clieeks were 
wet 
With the tears that were past controlling ; 



We vow'd we would never — no, never for- 
get. 
And those vows at the time were consol- 
ing; 
But those lips that ceho'd the sounds of 
mine 
Are as cold as that lonely river; 
And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine, 
Has shrouded its fires for ever. 

And now on the midnight sky I look, 

And my heart grows full of weeping; 
Each star is to me a sealed book, 

Some tale of that loved one keeping. 
We parted in silence — we parted in tears, 

On the banks of that lonely river : 
But the odor and bloom of those bygone 
years 

Shall hang o'er its waters for ever. 

Julia Crawford. 



farewell! but whenever you 
Welcome the hour. 

Farewell ! but whenever you welcome 
the hour 

That awakens the night-song of mirth in 
your bower. 

Then think of the friend who once wel- 
comed it too. 

And forgot his own griefs to be happy with 
you. 

His griels may return — not a hope may re- 
main 

Of the few that have brighten'd his path- 
way of pain — 

But he ne'er will forget the short vision that 
threw 

Its enchantment around him while linger- 
ing with you I 

And still on that evening, wiicn plea.sure 

fills up 
To the highest top-sparkle each heart and 

each cup. 
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or 

bright, 
My soul, happy friends! shall be with you 

that night — 
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and 

your wiles. 
And return to me beaming all o'er with 

your smiles ; 



86 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Too blest if it tells me that, mid the gay 

cheer, 
Some kind voice had murmur'd, " I wish 

he were here !" 

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of 
joy, 

Bright dreams of the past, which she can- 
not destroy ! 

Which come in the night-time of sorrow 
and care. 

And bring back the features that joy used 
to wear. 

Long, long be my heart with such memo- 
ries fiU'd ! 

Like the vase in which roses have once 
been distill'd ; 

You may break, you may ruin the vase if 
you will, 

But the scent of the roses will hang round 

it still. 

Thomas Moobe. 

When we Two Parted. 

AVhen we two parted 

In silence and tears. 
Half broken-hearted. 

To sever for years. 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold. 

Colder thy kiss ; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken. 

And light is thy fame ; 
I hear thy name spoken. 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine car ; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 

Why wert thou so dear? 
They know not I knew thee, 

Who knew thee too well : — 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve. 
That thy heart could forget. 

Thy spirit deceive. 



If I should meet thee 

After long years. 
How should I greet thee ? — 

With' silence and tears. 

Lord Byrom. 

Lament of the Irish 
e .migrant. 

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, 

Where we sat side by side 
On a bright May mornin' long ago. 

When first you were my bride ; 
The corn was springin' fresh and green, 

And the lark sang loud and high ; 
And the red was on your lip, Mary, 

And the love-light in your eye. 

The place is little changed, Mary ; 

The day is bright as then ; 
The lark's loud song is in my ear. 

And the corn is green again ; 
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 

And your breath, warm on my cheek ; 
And I still keep list'nin' for the words 

You never more will speak. 

'Tis but a step down yonder lane. 

And the little church stands near — 
The church where we were wed, Mary ; 

I see the spire from here. 
But the graveyard lies between, Mary, 

And my step might break your rest — 
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep. 

With j'our baby on your breast. 

I'm very lonely now, Mary, 

For the poor make no new friends ; 
But, oh ! they love the better still 

The few our Father sends ! 
And you were all I had, Mary — 

My blessin' and my pride : 
There's nothing left to care for now. 

Since my poor Mary died. 

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, 

Tliat still kept hoping on. 
When the trust in God had left my soul. 

And my arm's young strength was 
gone; 
There was comfort ever on your lip, 

And the kind look on your brow — 
I bless you, Mary, for that same. 

Though you cannot hear me now. 



POEMS OF ME.VORV AXD RETROSPECTION. 



87 



I thank you for the patient smile 

When Vdiir hoart was lit ti) break — 
Wlicii the liungor-pain was giiawin' there, 

And you liid it for niy sake; 
I bless you for the pleasant word, 

When your heart wius sad and sore — 
Oh ! I'm tliankful you are gone, Mary, 

Where grief can't reach you more! 

I'm biddin' you a long farewell. 

My Mary — kind and true! 
But I'll not forget you, darling, 

In the land I'm goin' to ; 
They say there's bread and work for all. 

And the sun shines always there — 
But I'll not forget old Ireland, 

AVere it fifty times as fair ! 

And often in those grand old woods 

I'll sit, and shut my eyes. 
And my heart will travel back again 

To the i)lace wlicrc Mary lies ! 
And I'll think I see the little stile 

Where we sat side by side, 
And the springin' corn, and the bright 
May morn. 

When first you were my bride. 

Lady Dcffeeis. 

The age of Wisdom. 

IIo, pretty page with the dimpled chin 
That never has known the barber's 
shear. 
All your wish is woman to win. 
This is the way tliat boys begin, — 
Wait till you come to Forty Year. 

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains. 

Billing and cooing is all your cheer; 
Sighing and singing of midnight strains. 
Under Bonnybell's window-panes, — 
Wait till you come to Forty Year ! 

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass. 
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear — 
Then you know a boy is an ass, 
Then you know the worth of a lass. 
Once you have come to Forty Year. 

Pledge me round, I bid ye declare, 

All good fellows whose beards are grey, 
Did not the fairest of the fair 
Common grow and wearisome ere 
Ever a montli w;us p;iss'd away? 



The reddest lips that ever have kiss'd, 

The brightest eyes that ever have shone. 
May [iray and whisper, and we not list. 
Or look away, and never be miss'd, 
Ere yet ever a month is gone. 

Gillian's dead, God rest her bier ! 

How I loved her twenty years syne! 
Marian's married, but I sit here • 
Alone and merry at Forty Year, 

Dipping my nose in the Ga.scon wine. 
William Makepeace Thackeray. 



Ode to ax Indian Gold Coin. 

WUITTES IN ChERICAL, MaLABAB. 

Slave of the dark and dirty mine ! 

What vanity has brought thee here ? 
How can I love to see thee shine 

So bright, whom I liave bought so 
dear ? — 

The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear, 
For twilight converse, arm in arm ; 

The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear 
Whom mirth and music wont to charm. 

By Ch^rical's dark wandering streams. 
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, 

Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams 
Of Teviot, loved while still a child. 
Of castled rocks stupendous piled 

By Esk or Eden's classic wave. 

Where loves of youth and frienclshi]) 
smiled, 

Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory 
fiide !— 

The perish'd bliss of youth's first 
prime, 
That once so bright on fancy play'd, 

Revives no more in after time. 

Far from my sacred natal clime, 
I haste to an untimely grave; 

The daring thoughts that soar'd sublime 
Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. 

Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light 
Gleams balfful as the tomb-fire drear. 

A gentle vision eonies by night 
My lonely widow'd heart to cheer; 
Her eyes are dim with many a tear. 

That once were guiding stars to mine: 



88 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. 



Her fond heart throbs with many a fear! 
I cannot bear to see thee shine. 

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, 

I left a heart that loved me true ! 
I cross'd the tedious ocean-wave. 

To roam in climes unkind and new. 

The cold wind of the stranger blew 
Chill on my wither'd heart: the grave 

Dark and untimely met my view, — 
And all for thee, vile yellow slave! 

Ha ! comest thou now so late to mock 

A wanderer's banish'd heart forlorn, 
Now that his frame the lightning shock 

Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne ? 

From love, from friendship, country, torn, 
To memory's fond regrets the prey ; 

Vile .slave, thy yellow dross I scorn! 
Go mix thee with thy kindred clay ! 

JOH.N LeYDEN. 

Break, Break, Break. 

Bre.vk, break, break. 

On thy cold, gray stones, O sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

Oh, well for the fisherman's boy 
That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

Oh, well for the sailor lad 
That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the .stately ships go on 

To the haven under the hill ; 
But oh, for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still ! 
Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crags, O sea I 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 

Alfred Texnyson. 

On This Day I Complete my 
Thirty-sixth Year. 

MlssoLONO.Hl, Jan. 22, 1824. 

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 

Since others it has ceased to move: 
Yet, though I cannot be beloved. 

Still let me love ! 
My days are in the yellow leaf; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone ! 



The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 

No torch is kindled at its blaze — 

A funeral pile ! 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 

The exalted jjortion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot share, 
But wear the chain. 

But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not here — 
Such thoughts would shake my soul, nor 
nolo, 
Where glory decks the hero's bier. 
Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 
Crlory and Greece, around me see ! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield. 
Was not more free. 

Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake) 

Awake, my spirit ! Think through whom 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake. 
And then strike home ! 

Tread those reviving passions down. 

Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee 
Indifferent should the .smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regret'st fhy youth, vjhy livef 

The laud of honorable death 
Is here : — up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath ! 

Seek out — less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
And take thy rest. 

Lord Byron. 



Old Letters. 

Old letters ! wipe away the tear 
For vows and hopes so vainly worded? 

A pilgrim finds his journal here 
Since first his youthful loins were girded. 

Yes, here are wails from Clapham Grove, 
How could philosophy expect us 

To live with Dr. Wise, and love 

Kice-pudding and the Greek Delectus? 

Exjdain why childhood's path is sown 
With moral and scholastic tin-tacks ; 



M 
X 




POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 



89 



Ero sin original was known, 
Did Adam groan beneath the syntax? 

How strange to parley with the dead ! 

Keep ye your green, wan leaves ? How 
many 
From Friendship's tree untimely shed ! 

And here is one as sad as any ; 

A ghastly bill ! " I disapprove," 
And yet 8he helped nie to defray it — 

What tokens of a mother's love ! 
Oh, bitter thought ! I can't repay it. 

And here's the offer that I wrote 

In '33 to Lucy Diver ; 
And here John Wylie's begging note, — 

He never paid me back a stiver. 

And here my feud with Major Spike, 
Our bet about the French Invasion ; 

I must confess I acted like 
A diinkcy upon that occasion. 

Here's news from Paternoster Row ! 

How mad I was when first I learn'd it : 
They would not take my book, and now 

I'd give a trifle to have burnt it. 

And here a pile of notes, at last, 
With "love," and "dove," and "sever," 
" never :" 

Though hope, though passion maybe past. 
Their perfume is as sweet as ever. 

A human heart should beat for two. 
Despite tlie scoffs of single seorners; 

Anil all the hearths I ever knew 
Had g(jt a pair of chimney corners. 

See here a double violet — 

Two locks of hair — a deal of scandal ; 
I'll burn what only brings regret — 

Go, Betty, fetch a lighted candle. 

Kkeuerice Locker. 

TirE Ballad of Bouillabaisse. 

A STREET there is in Paris famous. 

For which no rhyme our language yields, 
Rue Xeuve des Petits Champs its name is — 

The New Street of the Little Fields. 
And here's an inn, not ricli and splendid, 

liut still in comfortable casr ; 
The wiiich in youtli I oft attended. 

To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 



This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — 

A sort of soup or broth, or brew. 
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes. 

That (ireenwich never could outdo; 
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron. 

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace : 
All these you eat at Terre's tavern, 

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis; 

And true philosophers, methinks. 
Who love all sorts of natural beauties. 

Should love good victuals and good 
drinks. 
And Cordelier or Benedictine 

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace. 
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, 

Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. 

I wonder if the house still there is? 

Yes, here the lamp is, as before ; 
The smiling rcd-cheek'd fcaillfere is 

Still opening oysters at the door. 
Is Terre .still alive and able? 

I recollect his droll grimace: 
He'd come and smile before your table, 

And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse. 

We enter — nothing's changed or older. 

" How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray?" 
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder — 

" Monsieur is dead this many a day." 
" It is the lot of .saint and sinner. 

So honest Terre's run his race." 
"What will Monsieur require for din- 
ner?" 

" Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ?" 

"Oh, oui. Monsieur," 's the waiter's an- 
swer ; 

"Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il?" 
"Tell me a good one." — "That I can, sir: 

The Chambcrtin with yellow seal." 
"So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in 

My old accustom'd corner-place ; 
" He's done with feasting and with drink- 
ing. 

With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." 

My old accustom'd corner here is. 

The table still is in the nook ; 
Ah ! vanish'd many a busy year is 

This well-known chair since last I 

took. 



90 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



When first I saw ye, cari luoghi, 
I'd scarce a beard upon my face, 

And now, a grizzled, grim old fogy, 
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 

Where are you, old companions trusty 

Of early days here met to dine ? 
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty — 

I'll pledge them in the good old wine. 
The kind old voices and old faces 

My memory can quick retrace ; 
Around the board they take their places. 

And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. 

There's Jack has made a wondrous mar- 
riage ; 

There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; 
There's brave Augustus drives his car- 
riage; 

There's poor old Fked in the Gazette ; 
On James's head the grass is growing : 

Good Lord ! the world has wagg'd apace 
Since here we set the Claret flowing. 

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 

Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! 

I mind me of a time that's gone, 
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting. 

In this same place — but not alone. 
A fair j'oung form was nestled near me, 

A dear, dear face look'd fondly up. 
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer 
me. 

— There's no one now to share my cup. 

* * * -X- * * 

I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes: 
Fill up the lonely glass and drain it 

In memory of dear old times. 
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; 

And sit you down and say your grace 
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal 
is. 

— Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse ! 
William Makepeace Thackeray. 



On Lending a Punch-Bowl. 

This ancient silver bowl of mine, — it tells 

of good old times. 
Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and 

merrj' Christmas chimes; 



They were a free and jovial race, but hon- 
est, brave, and true. 

That dipp'd their ladle in the punch when 
this old bowl was new. 

A Spanish galleon brought the bar, — so 

runs the ancient tale ; 
'Twas hammer'd by an Antwerp smith, 

whose arm was like a flail ; 
And now and then between the strokes, 

for fear his strength should fail, 
He wijjed his brow, and quaff'd a cup of 

good old Flemish ale. 

'Twas purchased by an English squire to 

please his loving dame. 
Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a 

longing for the same ; 
And oft as on the ancient stock another 

twig was found, 
'Twas fill'd with caudle spiced and hot, 

and handed smoking round. 

But, changing hands, it reach'd at length 
a Puritan divine. 

Who used to follow Timothy, and take a 
little wine, 

But hated punch and prelacy ; and so it 
was, perhaps. 

He went to Leyden, where he found con- 
venticles and schnaps. 

And then, — of course you know what's 

next — it left the Dutchman's shore 
With those that in the Mayflower came, — 

a hundred souls and more, 
Along with all the furniture to fill their 

new abodes : 
To judge by what is still on hand, at least 

a hundred loads. 

'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night 

was closing dim. 
When old Miles Standish took the bowl, 

and fiU'd it to the brim ; 
The little Captain .stood and stirr'd the 

posset with his sword. 
And all his sturdy men-at-arms were 

ranged about the board. 

He poured the fiery Hollands in, — the 

man that never fear'd, — 
He took a long and solemn draught, and 

wiped his yellow beard ; 



POFMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPKCTION. 



01 



And one by one the musketeers, the men 

that fought and pray'd, 
All drnnk as 'twere their mother's milk, 

and not a man afraid. 

That night, affrighted from his nest the 

screaming eagle flew. 
He heard the Pecjuot's ringing whoop, the 

soldier's wild halloo ; 
And there the saclu'ui learn'd the rule he 

tauglit to kith and kin, 
"Run from the white man when you find 

he smells of Hollands gin !" 

A hundred years, ami fifty more, had 

si)r('a<l their loaves and snows, 
A thousand rulis had flatten'd down each 

little cherub's nose, 
When once again the bowl was fiU'd, but 

not in mirth or joy — 
'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer 

her parting boy. 

" Drink, John,'' she said, " 'twill do you 

good, — po(ir child, you'll never bear 
This working in the dismal trench, out in 

the midnight air; 
And if — God bless me I — you were hurt, 

'twould keep away the chill ;" 
So John did drink,— and well he wrought 

that night at Bunker's Hill ! 

I tell you, there was generous warmth in 

good old English cheer; 
I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to 

bring its symbol here. 
'Tis but the fool that loves excess ; — hast 

thou a drunken soul? 
Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in 

my silver bowl ! 

I love the memory of the past, — its press'd 

yet fragrant flowers — 
The moss that clothes its broken walls,— 

the ivy on its towers ; 
Nay, this poor bauble it bequeath'd — my 

eyes grow moist and dim, 
To think of all the vanish'd joys that 

danced around its brim. 

Then fill a fair and honest cuji, and bear 

it straight to me ; 
The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er 

the liquid be ; 



And may the cherubs on its face protect 

me from the sin 
That dooms one to those dreadful words, 

" My dear, where have you been ?" 

OLIVEK \Ves1)KI.1, lliPLMES. 



The Days that a he no more. 

Te.\rs, idle tears, I know not what 
they mean. 
Tears from the depth of some divine de- 
spair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy autumn fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no 
more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a 
sail. 

That brings our friends up from the un- 
der-world. 

Sad as the last which reddens over one 

That sinks with all we love below the 
verge ; 

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no 
more. 

Ah, sad and strange a.s in dark summer 

dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering 

square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no 

more. 

Dear as remember'd kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy 

feign 'd 
On lips that are for others : deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all re- 
gret ; 
Oh, death in life! the days that are no 

more. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



The Past. 

Tnor unrelenting Past ! 
Strong are the barriers round thy dark 
domain, 

And fetters, sure and fast. 
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Far in thy realm withdrawn 
Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, 

And glorious ages gone 
Lie deep within the shadow of thy womh. 

Childhood, with all its mirth, 
Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to 
the ground, 

And hist, Man's life on earth. 
Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. 

Thou hast ray better years, 
Thou hast my earlier friends — the good — 
the kind, 

Yielded to thee with tears — 
The venerable form — the exalted mind. 

My spirit yearns to bring 
The lost ones back — ^j'earns with desire 
intense. 
And struggles hard to wring 
Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives 
thence. 

In vain — thy gates deny 
All passage save to those who hence depart; 

Nor to the streaming eye 
Thou giv'st them back — nor to the broken 
heart. 

In thy abysses hide 
Beauty and excellence unknown — to thee 

Earth's wonder and her pride 
Are gather'd, as the waters to the sea ; 

Labors of good to man, 
Unpublish'd charity, unbroken faith, — 

Love, that 'midst grief began, 
And grew with years, and falter'd not in 
death. 

Full many a mighty name 
Lurks in thy depths, unutter'd, unrevered ; 

With thee are silent fame. 
Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappear'd. 

Thine for a space are they — 
Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at 
last ; 

Thy gates shall yet give way. 
Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past ! 

All that of good and fair 
Has gone into thy wonili from earliest time, 

81uxll then come forth to wear 
The glory and the beauty of its prime. 



They have not perish'd — no ! 
Kind words, remember'd voices once so 
sweet. 

Smiles, radiant long ago, 
And features, the great soul's apparent seat. 

All shall come back, each tie 
Of pure afiection shall be knit again ; 

Alone shall Evil die. 
And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. 

And then shall I behold 
Him by whose kind paternal side I sprung, 

And her who, still and cold. 

Fills the next grave — the beautiful and 

young. 

William Cullex Bryant. 



The Retreat. 

Happy those early days, when I 
Shined in my angel-infancy ! 
Before I understood this place 
Appointed for my second race, 
Or taught my soul to fancy aught 
But a white celestial thought ; 
When yet I had not walk'd above 
A mile or two from my first love. 
And looking back at that short space 
Could see a glimj^se of his bright face ; 
When on some gilded cloud or flower 
Jly gazing soul would dwell an hour. 
And in those weaker glories spy 
Some shadows of eternity ; 
Before I taught my tongue to wound 
My conscience with a sinful sound, 
Or had the black art to dispense 
A several sin to every sense, 
But felt through all this fleshly dress 
Bright shoots of everlastingness. 

Oh how I long to travel back, 
And tread again that ancient track ! 
That I might once more reach that jilain, 
Where first I left my glorious train ; 
From whence th' enlightcn'd spirit sees 
That shady City of Palm trees : 
But ah ! my soul with too much stay 
Is drunk, and staggers in the way : 
Some men a forward motion love, 
But I by backward steps would move 
And when this dust falls to the urn, 
In that state I came, return. 

Hesby Vaughan. 



POEMS OF MEMORY 


AXD RETROSPECTION. 93 


The Nabob. 


In vain I sought in music's sound 


When silent time, wi' lightly foot, 


To find that magic art, 


Had trod on thirty years, 


Which oft in Scotland's ancient lays 


I sought again my native land 


Has thrill'd through a' my heart. 


Wi' mony hopes and fears. 


The song had mony an artfu' turn ; 


Wha kens gin the dear friends I left 


My ear confess'd 'twas fine ; 


May still continue mine? 


But miss'd the simple melody 


Or gin I e'er again shall taste 


I listen'd to langsyne. 


The joys I left langsyne? 


Ye sons to comrades o' my youth. 


As I drew near my ancient pile 


Forgi'e an auld man's spleen. 


5Iy heart heat a' the way ; 


Wha 'midst your gayest scenes still 


Ilk place I pass'd seem'd yet to speak 


mourns 


0' some dear former day ; 


The days he ance has seen. 


Those days that foUow'd me afar, 


When time has pass'd and sea.sons fled. 


Those happy days o' mine, 


Your hearts will feel like mine; 


Whilk made me think the present joys 


And aye the sang will maist delight 


A' naething to langsyne! 


That minds ye o' langsyne ! 




SlSAKSA BLAMIRE. 


The ivied tower now met my eye 




Where minstrels used to blaw ; 


^ 


Nae friend stei)p'd forth wi' open hand, 


Once upon a Time. 


Nac wcel-kcnn'd face I saw ; 




Till Donald totter'd to the door, 


I MIND me of a pleasant time. 


Wham I left in his prime. 


A season long ago ; 


And grat to see the lad return 


The pleasantest I've ever known. 


He bore about langsyne. 


Or ever now shall know. 




Bees, birds, and little tinkling rills 


I ran to ilka dear friend's room, 


So merrily did chime ; 


.Vs if to find them there, 


The year was in its sweet spring-tide. 


I knew where ilk ane used to sit. 


And I was in my prime. 


And hang o'er mony a chair; 




Till soft remembrance threw a veil 


I've never heard such music .since. 


Across these e'en o' mine. 


From every bending spray ; 


I closed the door, and .sobb'd aloud, 


I've never pluek'd such iiriniroses. 


To tiiink on auld langsyne. 


Set thick on bank and brae ; 


" 


I've never smelt such violets 


Some pensy chiels, a new-sprung race. 


As all that pleasant time 


Wad next their welcome pay, 


I found by every hawthorn root — 


Wlia shu<lder'd at my (Jotliic wa's 


When I was in my prime. 


And wisli'd my groves away. 




"Cut, cut," they cried, "those aged elms; 


Yon moory down, so black and bare, . 


Lay low yon mournfu' pine." 


Wa.s gorgeous then and gay 


Na ! na ! our fathers' names grow there, 


With golden gorsc — bright blossoming — 


Memorials o' langsyne. 


As none blooms nowaday. 




The blackbird sings but seldom now 


To wean me frac these waefu' thoughts. 


Up there in the old lime. 


They took me to the town ; 


Where hours and hours he used to sing — 


But sair on ilka weel-kenn'd face 


When I was in my jirirae. 


I miss'd the youthfu' bloom. 




At halls they pointed to a nymph 


Such cutting winds came never then 


Wham a' declared divine ; 


To pierce one through and through ; 


But sure her mother's blushing cheek-s 


More softly fell the silent shower, 


Were fairer far langsyne ! 


More balmily the dew. 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



The morning mist and evening haze — 

Unlike this cold gray rime — 
Seeni'd woven warm of golden air 

When I was in my prime. 

And blackberries — so mawkish now — 

Were finely flavor'd then ; 
And nnts — such reddening clusters ripe 

I ne'er shall pull again ; 
Nor strawberries blushing bright — as rich 

As fruits of sunniest clime ; 
How all is alter'd for the worse 

Since I was in my prime ! 

Caroline Bowles Southey. 



Forget he Not. 

Go, youth beloved, in distant glades 

New friends, new hopes, new joys to find, 
Yet sometimes deign, 'midst fairer maids. 

To think on her thou leav'st behind. 
Thy love, thy fiite, dear youth, to share, 

Jlust never be my happy lot, 
But thou mayst grant this humble prayer, 

Forget me not, forget me not ! 

Yet should the thought of my distress 

Too painful to thy feelings be. 
Heed not tlic wish I now exjiress, 

Nor ever deign to think on me ; 
But, oh, if grief thy steps attend, 

If want, if sickness be thy lot, 
And thou require a soothing friend; 

Forget me not, forget me not ! 

Amelia Opie. 



Youth and Age. 

Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying. 

Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — 
Both were mine ! Life went a-maying 
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
When I was young ! 
When I was young? — Ah, woful When ! 
Ah ! for the change 'twixt Now and Then ! 
This breathing house not built with hands. 
This body that does me grievous wrong. 
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands 
How lightly then it flash'd along : 
Like those trim skiifs, unknown of yore. 
On winding lakes and rivers wide, 
That ask no aid of sail or oar. 
That fear no spite of wind or tide ! 



Naught cared this body for wind or weather 
When Youth and I lived in 't together. 

Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; 
Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
Oh the joys, that came down shower-like. 
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 

Ere I was old ! 
Ere I was old ? — Ah, woful Ere, 
Which tells me. Youth's no longer here ! 

Youth ! for years so many and sweet 
'Tis known that thou and I were one, 
I'll think it but a fond conceit — 

It cannot be, that thou art gone ! 
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toU'd : — 
And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 
What strange disguise hast now put on 
To make believe that thou art gone ? 

1 see these locks in silvery slips. 
This drooping gait, this alter'd size : 
But springtide blossoms on thy lips. 
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! 
Life is but Thought : so think I will 
That Youth and I are housemates still. 

Dew-drops are the gems of morning. 
But the tears of mournful eve ! 
Where no hope is, life's a warning 
That only serves to make us grieve. 

When we are old : 
— That only serves to make us grieve 
With oft and tedious taking-leave, 
Like some poor nigh-related guest 
That may not rudely be dismist. 
Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while. 
And tells the jest without the smile. 

Samuel Taylok Coleridge. 



Stanzas. 

When midnight o'er the moonless skies 
Her pall of transient death has spread. 

When mortals sleep, when spectres rise, 
And naught is wakeful but the dead ; 

No bloodless shape my way pursues. 
No sheeted ghost my couch annoys ; 

Visions more sad my fancy views. 
Visions of long-departed joys ! 

The shade of youthful hope is there. 
That linger'd long, and latest died ; 



POEMS OF MEMORY AND RETROSPECTION. 



95 



Ambition all dissolved to air, 

With phiiiitum honors by his side. 

What empty shadows glimmer nigh ? 
They onee were Friendsliip, Truth, and 
Love ! 
Oh, (lie to thouglit, to memory die, 
Since lifeless to my heart ye prove ! 

William Ruueut Spencer. 



Go wiiicRE Glory waits Tuee. 

Go where glory waits thee ; 
But while fame elates thee, 

Oh still remember me! 
When the praise thou mectest 
To thine ear is sweetest. 

Oh then remember me ! 
Other arms may press thee. 
Dearer friends caress thee, 
All the joys that bless thee 

Sweeter far may be ; 
But wiien friends are neare.st. 
And when joys are dearest. 

Oh then remember me ! 

When at eve thou rovest 
By the star thou lovest, 

Oh then remember me ! 
Think, when home returning, 
Bri^'ht we've seen it burning. 

Oh thus remember mo ! 
Oft as summer closes. 
When thine eye reposes 
On its lingering roses, 

Once so loved by thee. 
Think of her who wove them, 
Her who made thee love them — 

Oh then remember me ! 

When around thee dying 
.\utumn leaves are lying, 

( )h then remember me ! 
And at night when gazing 
On the gay hearth blazing, 

Oh still remember me I 
Then should music, stealing 
All the soul of feeling. 
To thy heart appealing. 

Draw one tear from thee ; 
Then let memory bring thee 
Strains I used to sing thee — 

Oh then remember me ! 

Thomas SfooRS. 



The Closing Year. 

'Tis midnight's holy hour, and silence now 

Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er 

The still and pulseless world. Hark ! on 

the winds 
The bell's deep tones are swelling,— 'tis 

the knell 
Of the departed year. No funeral train 
Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and 

wood. 
With melancholy light, the moonbeams 

rest 
Like a i>ale, spotless shroud ; the air is 

stirr'd 
As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud 
That floats so still and placidly through 

heaven. 
The spirits of the .seasons seem to stand, — 
Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's 

solemn form, 
And Winter with its aged locks, — and 

breathe. 
In mournful cadences that come abroad 
Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching 

wail, 
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year. 
Gone from the Earth for ever. 

'Tis a time 
For memory and for tears. Within the 

deep. 
Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, 
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of 

Time 
Heard from the tomb of ages, points its 

cold 
And solemn finger to the beautiful 
And holy visions that have jiass'd away. 
And left no .shadow of their loveliness 
On the dead waste of life. That spectre 

lifts 
The collin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love, 
And, bending mournfully above the pale, 
Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters 

dead flowers 
O'er what has pass'd to nothingness. 

The year 
Has gone, and with it many a glorious 

throng 
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each 

brow. 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Ita shadow in each heart. In its swift 

course 
It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful, — 
And they are not. It laid its pallid hand 
Upon the strong man, — and the haughty 

form 
Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. 
It trod the hall of revelry, where throng'd 
The bright and joyous,— and the tearful 

wail 
Of stricken ones is heard where erst the song 
And reckless shout resounded. 

It pass'd o'er 
The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, 

and shield, 
Flash'd in the light of mid-day, — and the 

strength 
Of serried hosts is shiver'd, and the grass. 
Green from the soil of carnage, waves 

above 
The crush'd and mouldering skeleton. It 

came. 
And faded like a wreath of mist at eve ; 
Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air. 
It heralded its millions to their home 
In the dim land of dreams. 

Remorseless Time ! 
Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe ! — 

what power 
Can stay him in his silent course, or melt 
His iron heart to pity ? On, still on. 
He presses, and for ever. The proud bird, 
The condor of the Andes, that can soar 
Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or 

brave 
The fury of the northern hurricane. 
And bathe his plumage in the thunder's 

home. 



Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and 

sinks down 
To rest upon his mountain-crag, — but Time 
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, 
And night's deep darkness has no chain to 

bind 
His rushing pinions. 

Revolutions sweep 
O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the 

breast 
Of dreaming sorrow, — cities rise and sink 
Like bubbles on the water, — fiery isles 
Sj)ring blazing from the ocean, and go 

back 
To their mysterious caverns, — mountains 

rear 
To heaven their bald and blacken'd cliffs, 

and bow 
Their tall heads to the plain, — new empires 

rise. 
Gathering the strength of hoary centuries. 
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche. 
Startling the nations, — and the very stars. 
You bright and burning blazonry of God, 
Glitter a while in their eternal depths, 
And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their 

train. 
Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass 

away 
To darkle in the trackless void, — yet 

Time, 
Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce 

career. 
Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not 
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his 

path 
To sit and muse, like other conquerors. 
Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. 

Geokge D. Prentice. 



PART III. 



Poems of Love. 




Poems of Love. 



LOVES PHILOSOPHY. 

The fountains mingle with the river, 

And the rivers with the ocean, 
The winds of heaven mix for ever 

With a sweet emotion ; 
Notliiiiir in the world is single; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle — 

Why not I with thine ? 

See the mountains kiss high heaven. 

And the waves clasp one another ; 
Xo sister flower would be forgiven 

If it disdain'd its brother: 
And the sunlight clasps the earth, 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea ; — 
What are all these kissings worth, 

If thou kiss not me ? 

Pebct Byssue Shelley. 



Love will Find out the Way. 

Over the mountains 

And over the waves ; 
Vnder the fountains 

And under the graves; 
Under floods that are deepest, 

Whieh Neptune obey; 
Over rocks that are steepest. 

Love will find out the way. 

Where there is no place 

For the glow-worm to lye ; 
Where there is no space 

F"or reeeipt of a fly ; 
Where the midge dares not venture. 

Lest herself fast she lay ; 
If love come he will enter, 

And soon find out his way. 

You may esteem him 
A child for his might ; 



Or you may deem him 
A coward from his flight: 

But if she whom love doth honor 
Be conceal'd from the day, 

Set a thousand guards upon her, 
Love will find out the way. 

Some think to lose him 

By having him confined ; 
And some do suppose him. 

Poor thing, to be blind ; 
But if ne'er so close ye wall him. 

Do the best that you may, 
Blind love, if so ye call him, 

Will find out his way. 

You may train the eagle 

To stoop to your fist ; 
Or you may inveigle 

The phoenix of the East ; 
Tlie lioness, ye may move her 

To give o'er her prey ; 
But you'll ne'er stop a lover, 

He will find out his way. 

At'TIIOK U.VKNOWX. 



Ah, how Sweet it is to Love: 

Ah, how sweet it is to love ! 

Ah, how gay is young desire ! 
And what plea,sing pains we prove 
When we first approach love's fire ! 
Pains of love be sweeter far 
Than all other pleasures are. 

Sighs which are from lovers blown 
Do but gently heave the heart ; 
E'en the tears they shed alone, 
Cure, like trickling balm, their smart. 
Lovers, when they lose their breath, 
Bleed awav in easy death. 

99 



100 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Love and time with reverence use — 

Treat them like a parting friend, 
Nor the golden gifts refuse 

Whicli in youtli sincere they send ; 
For each year their price is more, 
And tliey less simple than before. 

Love, like spring-tides, full and high. 

Swells in every youthful vein ; 
But each tide does less supply, 
Till they quite shrink in again ; 
If a flow in age appear, 
'Tis but rain, and runs not clear. 

John Drydes. 



Love is a Sickness. 

Love is a sickness full of woes. 

All remedies refusing ; 
A plant that with most cutting grows. 
Most barren with best using : 
Why so ? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries, 
Hey, ho ! 

Love is a torment of the mind, 

A tempest everlasting; 
And Jove hath made it of a kind 

Not well, nor full, nor fasting : 

Why so ? 

More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 

If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries, 

Hey, ho ! 

Samuel Daniel. 



Panglory's Wooing Song. 

Love is the blossom where there blows 
Everything that lives or grows : 
Love doth make the heavens to move. 
And the sun doth burn in love ; 
Love the strong and weak doth yoke. 
And makes the ivy climb the oak. 
Lender whose shadows lions wild, 
Soften'd by love, grow tame and mild. 
Love no med'cine can appease; 
He burns the fishes in the seas ; 
Not all the skill his wounds can stanch ; 
Not all the sea his fire can quench. 
Love did make the bloody spear 
Once a leafy coat to wear. 



While in his leaves there shrouded lay 

Sweet birds, for love that sing and play ; 

And of all love's joyful flame 

I the bud and blossom am. 
Only bend thy knee to me — 
Thy wooing shall thy winning be. 

See ! see the flowers that below 

Now freshly as the morning blow, 

And of all, the virgin rose. 

That as bright Aurora shows — 

How they all unleavfed die, 

Losing their virginity; 

Like unto a summer shade. 

But now born, and now they fode: 

Everything doth pass away ; 

There is danger in delay. 

Come, come, gather then the rose; 

Gather it, or it you lose. 

All the sand of Tagus' shore 

In my bosom casts its ore ; 

All the valleys' swimming corn 

To my house is yearly borne ; 

Every grape of every vine 

Is gladly bruised to make me wine ; 

While ten thousand kings, as proud 

To carry up my train, have bow'd; 

And a world of ladies send me. 

In my chambers to attend me ; 

All the stars in heaven th'at shine. 

And ten thousand more, are mine. 
Only bend thy knee to me — 
Thy wooing shall thy winning be. 

Giles Fletcher. 



ROSALIND'S Madrigal. 

Love in my bosom, like a bee. 

Doth suck his sweet ; 
Now with his wings he plays with me, 

Now with his feet. 
Within mine eyes he makes his nest, 
His bed amidst my tender breast ; 
My kisses are his daily feast. 
And yet he robs me of my rest : 

Ah, wanton, will ye? 



And if I sleep, then percheth he 

With pretty flight. 
And makes his pillow of my knee 

The livelong night. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



101 



Strike I my lute, he tunes the string : 
He music plays if so I sing ; 
He lends me every lovely thing, 
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting : 
Whist, wanton, still ye : 

Else I with roses every day 

Will whip you hence. 
And bind you, when you long to play, 

For your oflence ; 
I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in, 
I'll make you fast it for your sin, 
I'll count your power not worth a pin : 
Alas ! what hereby shall I win. 

If he gainsay me? 

What if I beat the wanton boy 

With many a rod? 
He will repay me with annoy. 

Because a god. 
Then sit thou safely on my knee, 
And let thy bower my bosom be ; 
Lurk in mine eyes, — I like of thee, 
O Cupid ! so thou pity me, 

Spare not, but play thee. 

Thomas Lodge. 



Love still hath So.vething of 
THE Sea. 

Love still hath something of the sea. 
From whence his motlier rose ; 

No time his slaves from doubt can free, 
Nor give their thoughts repose. 

Thej' are becalm'd in clearest days. 
And in rough weather toss'd ; 

They wither under cold delays, 
Or arc in tempests lost. 

One whik" they seem to touch the port ; 

Then straight into the main 
Some angry wind, in cruel sport. 

The vessel drives again. 

At first disdain and pride they fear, 
Which if they chance to '.scape, 

Rivals and falseliood soon ajipear 
In a more dreadful sliape. 

By such degrees to joy they come. 

And are so long withstood; 
So slowly they receive tiie sum, 

It hardly does them good. 



'Tis cruel to prolong a pain ; 

And to defer a joy. 
Believe me, gentle Celemene, 

Offends the winged boy. 

A hundred thousand oaths your fears 
Perliaps would not remove ; 

And if I gazed a thousand years, 
I could no deeper love. 

Sir Cuakles Sedlev. 



LOVE'S Omnipresence. 

Were I as base as is the lowly plain. 
And you, my Love, as high as heaven 
above. 
Yet should the thoughts of me your humble 
swain 
Ascend to heaven, in honor of my Love. 

Were I as high as heaven above the plain. 
And you, my Love, as humble and as 
low 
As are the deepest bottoms of the main, 
Wheresoe'er you were, with you my love 
should go. 

Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the 
skies, 
My love should shine on you like to the 
sun. 
And look upon you with ten thousand eyes 
Till heaven wa.x'd blind, and till the 
world were done. 

Wheresoe'er I am, below, or else above you, 
Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly 
love you. 

Joshua Sylvester. 

Cupid and Campaspe. 

Cupid and my Campaspe playd 
At cardcs for kisses; Cupiil ]iayd : 
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows. 
His mothers doves, and teame of sparrows ; 
Loses them too; then down he throws 
The coral of his lippe, the rose 
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how), . 
With these, the crystal of his l)rowe, 
And then the dimple of his cliinne; 
All these did my Campaspe winne. 
At last he set her both his eyes. 
She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 



102 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Love I has she done this to thee? 
What shall, alas ! become of mee ? 

John Lyly. 
•<>• 

LOVE. 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 

All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 


But when I told the cruel scorn 

That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, 

Nor rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den, 
And sometimes from the darksome shade. 

And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, 


Oft in ray waking dreams do I 

Live o'er again that happy hour. 
When midway on the mount I lay, 
Beside the ruin'd tower. 


There came and look'd him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 

And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight! 


The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 

And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve ! 


And that, unknowing what he did. 

He leap'd amid a murderous band, 
And saved from outrage worse than death 

The Lady of the Land ! 


She leant against the armfed man. 
The statue of the armfed knight ; 

She stood and listen'd to my lay. 
Amid the lingering light. 


And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees ; 

And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain. 


Few sorrows hath she of her own 
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! 

She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 


And that she nursed him in a cave ; 

And how his madness went away. 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 

A dying man he lay. 


I play'd a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story — 

An old rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 


His dying words — but when I reach'd 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty. 

My ftvltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturb'd her soul with pity ! 


She listen'd with a flitting blush, 

With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 

For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 


All impulses of soul and sense 

Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve ; 

The music, and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve ; 


I told her of the Knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 

And that for ten long years he woo'd 
The Lady of the Land. 


And hopes, and fears that kindle hope. 
An undistinguishable throng. 

And gentle wishes long subdued. 
Subdued and cherish'd long ! 


I told her how he pined ; and ah ! 

The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love. 

Interpreted my own. 


She wept with pity and delight. 

She blush'd with love, and virgin-shame; 
And like the murmur of a dream, 

I heard her breathe my name. 


She listen'd with a flitting blush. 

With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 

And she forgave me, that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face. 


Her bosom heaved — she stepp'd aside. 

As conscious of my look she stepp'd — 
Then suddenly, with tiuKirous eye 
She fled to me and wept. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



103 



She half enclosed me with her arms, 
She pross'd me with a meek embrace ; 

And bending back her head, look'd up, 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly Love, and partly Fear, 
And partly 'twas a bashful art. 

That I might rather feel than see. 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calm'd her fears, and she was calm. 
And told her love with virgin pride. 

And so I won my Genevieve, 
My bright and beauteous Bride. 

Sami'el Taylor CoLERiDtjE. 

Cupid Swallowed. 

T'other day, as I was twining 

Roses, for a crown to dine in. 

What, of all things, midst the heap. 

Should I light on, fast asleep, 

But the little desperate elf, 

The tiny traitor, — Love himself! 

By the wings I pinch'd him up 

Like a bee, and in a cup 

Of my wine I plunged and sank him; 

And what d'ye think I did? — I drank him! 

Faith, I thought him dead. Not he! 

There he lives with tenfold glee ; 

And now this moment, with his wings 

I feel him tickling my heart-strings. 

LeIUU IlU.NT. 

Tl':iz,r, Waly, Love be Bonny. 

Oh waly waly up the bank. 

And waly waly down the brae. 
And waly waly yon burn side, 

Where I and my love were wont to gae. 
I leant my back unto an aik, 

I thought it was a trusty tree! 
But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, 

Sae my true love did lichtly me. 

Oh waly waly gin love be bonny, 

A little time while it is new ; 
But when its auld, it waxeth cauld, 

And fades awa' like morning dew. 
Oh wherefore shuld I busk my head ? 

Or wherefore shuld I kame my hair? 
For my true love ha.s me forsook. 

And says he'll never lo'e me mair. 



Now Arthur-seat sail be my bed. 
The sheets sail ne'er be fyl'd by me : 

Saint Anton's well sail be my drink. 
Since my true love has forsaken me. 

Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw, 
And shake the green leaves aft" the tree? 

gentle death, whan wilt thou cum? 
For of my life I am wearie. 

Tis not the frost, that freezes fell. 

Nor blawing snaws inclemencle; 
'Tis not sic cauld, that makes me cry. 

But my loves heart grown cauld to me. 
When we came in by (xhasgowe town, 

We were a comely sight to see. 
My love was cled in black velvet. 

And I my .sell in cramasle. 

But had I wist, before I kisst. 

That love had been sae ill to win ; 

1 had lockt my heart in a case of gowd. 
And pinn'd it with a siller pin. 

And, oh ! if my young babe were born. 
And set upon the nurses knee. 

And I my sell were dead and gane ! 
For a maid again Ise never be. 

Author Unknown. 



LIXES TO A.y IXDIAX AIR. 

I ARISE from dreams of thee 

In the first sweet sleep of night, 
When the winds are breathing low, 

-Vnd the stars are shining bright: 
I arise from dreams of thee, 

And a spirit in my feet 
Ha.s led me — who knows how? — 

To thy chamber-window, sweet ! 

The wandering airs they faint 

On the dark, the silent stream — 
The champak odors fiiil 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 
The nightingale's complaint. 

It dies upon her heart. 
As I must on thine. 

Beloved as thou an ! 



Oh lift me from the grass ! 

I die, I faint, I fail! 
Let thy love in kisses rain 

On my lips and eyelids paL 



104 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 

My heart beats loud and fast, 
Oh ! press it close to thine again, 

Where it will break at last. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



Why so Pale? 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 

Prethee, why so pale? 
Will, when looking well can't move her. 

Looking ill prevail ? 

Prethee why so pale? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? 

Prethee, why so mute ? 
AVill, when speaking well can't win her. 

Saying nothing do't? 

Prethee why so mute ? 

Quit, quit for shame ; this will not move, 

This cannot take her ; 
If of herself she will not love. 

Nothing can make her, 

The devil take her ! 

Sir John Suckling. 



Lady Geraldine's Courtship. 

A KOMANCE OF THE AGE. 

A poet writus to his friend. Place — A room in Wycombe 
Hall. Time — Late in the evening. 

Dear my friend and fellow-student, I 
would lean my spirit o'er you ! 
Down the purple of this chamber tears 
should scarcely run at will. 
I am humbled who was humble. Friend, 
I bow my head before you : 
You should lead me to my peasants, but 
their foccs are too still. 

There's a lady, an earl's daughter — she is 
proud and she is noble. 
And she treads the crimson carpet, and 
she breathes the perfumed air. 
And a kingly blood sends glances up, her 
princely eye to trouble. 
And the shadow of a monarch's crown is 
soften'd in her hair. 

She has halls among the woodlands, she 
has castles by the breakers, 
She has farms and she has manors, she 
can threaten and command. 



And the palpitating engines snort in steam 
across her acres, 
As they mark upon the blasted heaven 
the measure of the land. 

There are none of England's daughters 
who can show a prouder presence ; 
Upon princely suitors, praying, she has 
look'd in her disdain. 
She was sprung of English nobles, I was 
born of English peasants ; 
What was / that I should love her, save 
for competence to pain ? 

I was only a poor poet, made for singing 
at her casement. 
As the finches or the thrushes, while she 
thought of other things. 
Oh, she walk'd so high above me, she ap- 
pear'd to my abasement. 
In her lovely silken murmur, like an 
angel clad in wings I 

Many vassals bow before her as her car- 
riage sweeps their door-ways ; 
She has blest their little children, as a 
priest or queen were she : 
Far too tender, or too cruel far, her smile 
upon the poor was. 
For I thought it was the same smile 
which she used to smile on me. 

She has voters in the commons, she has 
lovers in the palace, 
And of all the fair court-ladies, few have 
jewels half as fine ; 
Oft the prince has named her beauty 'twixt 
the red wine and the chalice : 
Oh, and what was /to love her? my be- 
loved, my Geraldine ! 

Yet I could not choose but love her : I was 
born to poet-uses. 
To love all things set above me, all of 
good and all of fair. 
Nymphs of mountain, not of valley, we 
are wont to call the Muses ; 
And in nympholeptic climbing, poets 
pass from mount to .star. 

And because I was a poet, and because the 
public praised me, 
With a critical deduction for the modern 
writer's fault. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



105 



I could sit at rich men's tables — though 
the courtesies that raised uie, 
Still su^'gested clear between us the pale 
spectrum of the salt. 

And they praised me in her presence ; — 
"Will your book appear this sum- 
mer ?" 
Then returning to each other — "Yes, 
our plans are for the moors." 
Then with whisper dropp'd behind me — 
" There he is I the latest comer. 
Oh, she only likes his verses ! what is 
over, she endures. 

" Quite low-born, self-educated ! somewhat 
gifted though by N.iture, 
And we make a point of asking him — 
of being very kind. 
You may speak, he does not hear you ! 
and besides he writes no .satire — 
All these serpents kept by charmers leave 
the natural sting behind." 

I grew scornftiller, grew colder, as I stood 
up there among them, 
Till as frost intense will burn you, the 
cold scorning scorch'd my brow ; 
When a sudden silver speaking, gravely 
cadenced, overrung them, 
And a sudden silken stirring touch'd 
my inner nature through. 

I look'd upward and beheld her. With a 
calm and regnant spirit. 
Slowly round she swept her eyelids, and 
said clear before them all— 
" Have you such superfluous honor, sir, 
that, able to confer it. 
You will come down. Mister Bertram, as 
my guest to Wycombe Hall ?" 

Here she paused ; she had been paler at 
the first word of her speaking, 
But becau.se a silence foUow'd it, blush'd 
somewhat, as for shame, 
Then, as scorning her own feeling, resumed 
calmly — " I am seeking 
-More distinction than these gentlemen 
think worthy of my claim. 

" Ne'ertheless, you see, I seek it — not be- 
cause I am a woman " 
(Here her smile sprang like a fountain, 
and, so, overflow'd her mouth). 



" But becau.se my woods in 8us.<e.x have 
some purple shades at gloaming 
Which are worthy of a king in state, or 
poet in his youth. 

" I invite you, Mister Bertram, to no scene 
for worldly speeches — 
Sir, I scarce should dare — but only 
where God ask'd the thrushes first : 
And if you will sing beside them, in the 
covert of my beeches, 
I will thank you for the woodlands, . . . 
for the human world, at worst." 

Then she smiled around right childly, then 
she gazed around right queenly. 
And I bow'd — I could not answer; al- 
ternated light and gloom — 
While as one who quells the lions, with a 

steady eye serenely, 
. She, with level fronting eyelids, pass'J 
out stately from the room. 

Oh, the blessfed woods of Sussex, I can hear 
them still around me. 
With their leafy tide of greenery still 
rippling up the wind. 
Oh, the cursfcd woods of Susse.\ ! where the 
hunter's arrow found me. 
When a fair face and a tender voice had 
made me mad and blind ! 

In that ancient hall of Wycombe throng'd 
the numerous guests invited, 
And the lovely London ladies trod the 
floors with gliding feet ; 
And their voices low with fashion, not with 
feeling, softly freighted 
All the air about the windows with elas- 
tic laughter sweet. 

For at eve the open windows flung their 
light out on the terrace 
Which the floating orbs of curtains did 
with gradual shadow sweej). 
While the swans upon the river, fed at 
morning by the heiress. 
Trembled downward through their snowy 
wings at music in their sleep. 

And there evermore was music, both of 
instrument and singing. 
Till the finches of the shrubberies grew 
restless in the dark ; 



106 



FIRESIDE ENCYCIOP.EDIA OF POETRY. 



But the cedars stood up motionless, each 
in a moonlight ringing, 
And the deer, half in the glimmer, 
strew'd the hollows of the park. 

And though sometimes she would bind me 
with her silver-corded speeches 
To commix my words and laughter with 
the converse and the jest, 
Oft I sate apart, and, gazing on the river 
through the beeches, 
Heard, as pure the swans swam down it, 
her pure voice o'erfloat the rest. 

In the morning, horn of huntsman, hoof 
of steed, and laugh of rider, 
Spread out cheery from the courtyard 
till we lost them in the hills. 
While herself and other ladies, and her 
suitors left beside her, 
Went a-wandering up the gardens 
through the laurels and abeles. 

Thus, her foot upon the new-mown grass, 
bareheaded, with the flowing 
Of the virginal white vesture gather'd 
closely to her throat. 
And the golden ringlets in her neck just 
quicken'd by her going. 
And appearing to breathe sun for air, 
and doubting if to float, — 

With a bunch of dewy maple, which her 
right hand held above her, 
And which trembled a green shadow in 
betwixt her and the skies, 
As she turn'd her face in going, thus, she 
drew me on to love her, 
And to worship the divineness of the 
smile hid in her eyes. 

For her eyes alone smile constantly ; her 
lips have serious sweetness, 
And her front is calm, the dimple rarely 
ripples on the cheek ; 
But her deep-blue eyes smile constantly, 
as if they in discreetness 
Kept the secret of a happy dream she 
did not care to speak. 

Thus she drew me the first morning, out 
across into the garden. 
And I walk'd among her noble friends, 
and could not keep behind. 



Spake she unto all and unto me — " Be- 
hold, I am the warden 
Of the song-birds in these lindens, 
which are cages to their mind. 

"But within this swarded circle into which 
the lime-walk brings us. 
Whence the beeches, rounded greenly, 
stand away in reverent fear, 
I will let no music enter, saving what the 
fountain sings us 
Which the lilies round the basin may 
seem pure enough to hear. 

" The live air that waves the lilies waves 
the slender jet of water 
Like a holy thought sent feebly up from 
soul of fasting saint : 
Whereby lies a marble Silence, sleeping 
(Lough the sculptor wrought her). 
So asleep she is forgetting to say Hush ; 
— a fancy quaint. 

" Mark how heavy white her eyelids ! not 
a dream between them lingers ; 
And the left hand's index droppeth from 
the lips upon the cheek : 
While the right hand — with the symbol- 
rose held slack within the fingers — 
Has fallen backward in the basin — yet 
this Silence will not speak ! 

" That the essential meaning growing may 
exceed the special symbol. 
Is the thought as I conceive it : it ap- 
plies more high and low. 
Our true noblemen will often through 
riglit nobleness grow humble. 
And assert an inward honor by denying 
outward show." 

" Nay, your Silence," said I, "truly, holds 
her symbol-rose but slackly. 
Yet «Ae hoMs it, or would scarcely be a 
Silence to our ken : 
And your nobles wear their ermine on the 
outside, or walk blackly 
In the presence of the social law as mere 
ignoble men. 

" Let the poets dream such dreaming ! 
madam, in these British islands 
'Tis the substance that wanes ever, 'tis 
the symbol that exceeds. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



107 



Soon we shall have naught but symbol, and, j And the river running under, and across it 
for stiitucs like this 8ilenco, ! from the rowans 

Shall accept the rose's image— in another A brown i)artridge whirring near u< till 



case, the weed's." 

" Not so quickly," she retorted — " I con- 
fess, where'er you go, you 
Find for things, names — shows for ac- 
tions, and pure gold for honor clear : 
But when all is run to symbol in the Social, 
I will throw you 
The world's book which now reads drily, 
and sit down with Silence here." 

Half in playfulness she spoke, I thought, 
and half in indignation ; 
Friends who listen'd laugh'd her words 
off, while her lovers deem'd her fair : 
A fair woman, flush'd with feeling, in her 
noble-lighted station 
Near the statue's white reposing — and 
both bathed in sunny air ! 

With the trees round, not so distant but 
you heard their vernal murmur, 
And beheld in light and shadow the 
leaves in and outward move, 
And the little fountain leaping toward the 
sun-heart to be warmer. 
Then recoiling in a tremble from the too 
much light above. 

'Tis a picture for remembrance. And thus, 
morning after morning, 
Did I follow as she drew me by the spirit 
to her feet. 
Why, her greyhound followed also ! dogs — 
we both were dogs for scorning — 
To be sent back when she pleased it and 
her path lay through the wheat. 

And thus, morning after morning, spite of 
vows and spite of sorrow, 
Did I follow at her drawing, while the 
week-days pass'd along, 
Just to feed the swans this noontide, or to 
sec the fawns to-morrow, 
Or to teach the hillside echo some sweet 
Tuscan in a song. 

Ay, for sometimes on the hillside, while 
we sate down in the gowans. 
With the forest green behind us and its 
shadow cast before, 



we felt the air it bore — 

There, obedient to her praying, did I read 
aloud the poems 
Made to Tuscan flutes, or instruments 
more various of our own ; 
Read the pastoral parts of Spenser, or the 
subtle interfiowings 
Found in I'etrarch's sonnets — here's the 
book, the leaf is folded down ! 

Or at times a modern volume, Wordsworth's 
solemn-thoughted idyl, 
Howitt's ballad-verse, or Tennyson's 
enchanted reverie — 
Or from Browning some " Pomegranate," 
which, if cut deep down the middle, 
Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, 
of a vein'd humanity. 

Or at times I read there, hoarsely, some 
new poem of my making: 
Poets ever fail in reading their own 
verses to their worth. 
For the echo in you breaks upon the words 
which you are speaking. 
And the chariot wheels jar in the gate 
through which you drive them forth. 

After, when we were grown tired of books, 
the silence round us flinging 
A slow arm of sweet comi)ression, felt 
with beatings at the breast. 
She would break out on a sudden in a gush 
of woodland singing. 
Like a child's emotion in a god — a naiad 
tired of rest. 

Oh, to see or hear her singing! scarce I 
know which is divinest. 
For her looks sing too — she modulates 
her gestures on the tune, 
And her mouth stirs with the song, like 
song; and when the notes arc finest, 
'Tis the eyes that shoot out vocal light 
and seem to swell them on. 

Then we talk'd — oli, how we talk'd 1 her 
voice, so cadenced in the talking, 
Made another singing — of the soul I a 
music without bars : 



108 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



While the leafy sounds of woodlands, hum- 
ming round where we were walking, 
Brought interjiosition worthy-sweet — as 
skies about the stars. 

And she spake such good thoughts natural, 
as if she always thought them ; 
She had sympathies so rapid, open, free 
as bird on branch, 
Just as ready to fly east as west, whichever 
way besought them. 
In the birchen-wood a chirrup, or a 
cock-crow in the grange. 

In her utmost lightness there is truth — 
and often she speaks lightly. 
Has a grace in being gay which even 
mournful souls approve. 
For the root of some grave earnest thought 
is understruck so rightly 
As to justify the foliage and the waving 
flowers above. 

And she talk'd on — ice talk'd, rather! — 
upon all things, substance, shadow. 
Of the sheep that browsed the grasses, 
of the reapers in the corn, 
Of the little children from the schools, 
seen winding through the meadow, 
Of the poor rich world beyond them, 
still kept poorer by its scorn. 

So, of men, and so, of letters — books are 
men of higher stature. 
And the only meu that speak aloud for 
future times to hear ; 
So, of mankind in the abstract, which 
grows slowly into nature. 
Yet will lift the cry of " progress," as it 
trod from sphere to sphere. 

And her custom was to praise me when I 
said — "The Age culls simples. 
With a broad clown's back turn'd broadly 
to the glory of the stars. 
We are gods by our own reck'ning, and 
may well shut up the temples. 
And wield on, amid the incense-steam, 
the thunder of our cars. 

" For we throw out acclamations of self- 
thanking, self-admiring, 
With, at every mile run faster, — ' O the 
wondrous, wondrous age !' 



Little thinking if we work our SOULS as 
nobly as our iron. 
Or if angels will commend us at the goal 
of pilgrimage. 

" Why, what is this patient entrance into 
nature's deep resources 
But the child's most gradual learning to 
walk upright without bane ? 
When we drive out, from the cloud of 
steam, majestical white horses. 
Are we greater than the first men who 
led black ones by the mane? 

" If we trod the deeps of ocean, if we 

struck the stars in rising, 
If we wrapp'd the globe intensely with 

one hot electric breath, 
'Twere but power within our tether, no new 

spirit-power comprising. 
And in life we were not greater meu, nor 

bolder men in death." 

She was patient with my talking ; and I 
loved her, loved her, certes. 
As I loved all heavenly objects, with up- 
lifted eyes and hands ; 
As I loved pure inspirations, loved the 
graces, loved the virtues. 
In a Love content with writing his own 
name on desert sands. 

Or at least I thought so, purely; thought 
no idiot Hope was raising 
Any crown to crown Love's silence, 
silent love that sate alone: 
Out, alas ! the stag is like me, he that 
tries to go on grazing 
With the great deep gun-wound in his 
neck, then reels with sudden moan. 

It was thus I reel'd. I told you that her 
hand had many suitors ; 
But she smiles them down imperially, as 
Venus did the waves, 
And with such a gracious coldness that 
they cannot press their futures 
On the present of her courtesy, which 
yieldingly enslaves. 

And this morning as I sat alone within 
the inner chamber 
^Vith the great saloon beyond it, lost in 
pleasant thought serene. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



109 



For I had been reading CamSens, that ! Seem'd to seethe and fuse my senses till 



they ran on all sides darkening, 
And scorcli'd, weigh'd like melted metal 
round my feet that stood therein. 

And that voice, I hoard it pleading, for 
love's sake, for wealth, position. 
For the sake of liheral uses and great 
actions to be done — 
And she interrupted gently, " Xay, my 
lord, the old tradition 
Of your Normans, by some worthier hand 
than mine is, should be won." 

"Ah, that white hand!" he said quickly — 
and in his he either drew it 
Or attempted — for with gravity and in- 
stance she replied, 
" Nay indeed, my lord, this talk is vain, 
and we had best eschew it 
And pass on, like friends, to other points 
less easy to decide." 

AVhat he said again, I know not : it is 
likely that his trouble 
Work'd his pride up to the surface, for 
she answer'd in slow scorn, 
" And your lordship judges rightly. Whom 
I marry, shall be noble, 
Ay, and wcaltliy. I shall never blush to 
think how he was born." 

There, I mailden'd ! her words stung me. 
Life swept through me into fever. 
And my soul sprang up astonish'd, 
sprang full-statured in an hour. 
Know you what it is when anguish, with 
apocalyi)tic xever. 
To a Pythian height dilates you, and 
despair sublimes to power? 

From my brain the soul-wings budded, 
waved a flame about my body, 
Whence conventions coil'd to ashes. I 
felt self-drawn out, as man. 
From amalgamate false natures, and I saw 
the skies grow ruddy 
With the deepening feet of angels, and I 
knew what sjiirits can. 

Thus, I knew that voice, I heard it, and I I was mad, inspired — say either! (anguish 

could not help the hearkening: worketh inspiration) 

In the room I stood up blindly, and my , Was a man or beitst — perhaps so, for the 

burning heart within tiger roars when spear'd ; 



poem, you remember. 
Which his lady's eyes are praised in iw 
the sweetest ever seen. 

And the book lay open, and my thought 
flew from it, taking from it 
A vibration and impulsion to an end be- 
yond its own. 
As the branch of a green osier, when a 
child would overcome it. 
Springs up freely from his claspings and 
goes swinging in the sun. 

As I mused I heard a murmur ; it grew 
deep as it grew longer. 
Speakers using earnest language — " Lady 
Geraldine, you would/" 
And I heard a voice that pleaded, ever on 
in accents stronger. 
As a sense of reason gave it power to 
make its rhetoric good. 

Well I knew that voica ; it was an earl's, 

of soul that niatch'd his station. 
Soul completed into lordship, might and 

right read on his brow ; 

finely courteous; far too proud to 

doubt his domination 
Of the common peo|ile, he atones for 

grandeur by a bow. 

High straight forehead, nose of eagle, cold 
blue eyes of less expression 
Than resistance, coldly casting off" tlie 
looks of other men. 
As steel, arrows ; unelastic lips which seem 
to taste possession, 
And be cautious lest the common air 
should injure or distrain. 

For the rest, accomplish'd, upright — ay, 
arid standing by his order 
With a bearing not ungraceful ; fond of 
art and letters too ; 
Just a good man made a proud man — as 
the sandy rocks that border 
A wild coast, by circumstances, in a 
regnant ebb and flow. 



Verv 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



And I walk'd on, step by step along the 
level of my passion — 
O my soul ! and pass'd the doorway to 
her face, and never fear'd. 

He had left her, peradventure, when my 
footstep proved my coming. 
But for her — she half arose, then sate, 
grew scarlet and grew pale. 
Oh, she trembled ! 'tis so always with a 
worldly man or woman 
In the presence of true spirits ; what else 
can they do but quail ? 

Oh, she flutter'd like a tame bird, in 
among its Ibrest brothers 
Far too strong for it ; then drooping, 
bow'd her face upon her hands ; 
And I spake out wildly, fiercely, brutal 
truths of her and others ; 
/, she planted in the desert, swathed her, 
windlike, with my sands. 

I pluck'd up her social fictions, bloody- 
rooted though leaf-verdant. 
Trod them down with words of shaming, 
all the jHirple and the gold. 
All the "landed stakes" and lordships, 
all that spirits pure and ardent 
Are cast out of love and honor because 
chancing not to hold. 

" For myself I do not argue," said I, 
" though I love you, madam, 
But for better souls that nearer to the 
height of yours have trod. 
And this age shows, to my thinking, still 
more infidels to Adam 
Than directly, by profession, simple infi- 
dels to God. 

" Yet, O God," I said, " O grave," I said, 
" O mother's heart and bosom, 
With whom first and last are equal, saint 
and corjjse and little child, 
We are fools to your deductions iu these 
figments of heart-closing. 
We are traitors to your causes in these 
sympathies defiled. 

" Learn more reverence, madam ; not for 
rank or wealth — that needs no learn- 
ing; 
That comes quickly, quick as sin does ; 
ay, and culminates to sin ; 



But for Adam's seed, man ! Trust me, 'tis 
a clay above your scorning, 
With God's image stamp'd upon it, and 
God's kindling breath within. 

" What right have you, madam, gazing in 
your palace mirror daily. 
Getting so by heart your beauty, which 
all others must adore, 
While you draw the golden ringlets down 
your fingers, to vow gaily 
You will wed no man that's only good to 
God, and nothing more? 

" Why, what right have you, made fair by 
that same God, the sweetest woman 
Of all women he has fashion'd, with 
your lovely spirit-face. 
Which would seem too near to vanish if 
its smile were not so human, 
And your voice of holy sweetness, turn- 
ing couimon words to grace, 

"What right mh .you have, God's other 
works to scorn, despise, revile them 
In the gross, as mere men, broadly — not 
as noble men, forsooth — 
As mere Pariahs of the outer world, forbid- 
den to assoil them 
In the hope of living, dying, near that 
sweetness of your mouth ? 

"Have you any answer, madam? If my 
spirit were less earthly. 
If its instrument were gifted with a 
better silver string, 
I would kneel down where I stand, and 
say, ' Behold me! I am worthy 
Of thy loving, for I love thee! I am 
worthy as a king.' 

" As it is — your ermined pride, I swear, 
shall feel this stain upon her. 
That /, poor, weak, tost with passion, 
scorn'd by me and you again. 
Love you, madam, dare to love you, to 
my grief and your dishonor. 
To my endless desolation and your im- 
potent disdain I" 

More mad words like these — mere mad- 
ness ! friend, I need not write them 
fuller, 
For I hear my hot soul dropping on the 
lines in showers of tears. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



Ill 



Oh, a woman ! friend, a woman ! why, a 
beast had scarce been duller 
Than roar bestial loud eoinplaints 
against the shining of the spheres. 

But at last there came a pause. I stood 
all vibratiiijr with thunder 
Which my soul had used. The silence 
drew her face up like a call. 
Could you gues.s what word she utter'd? 
She look'd up, as if in wonder, 
With tears beaded on her lashes, and 
said, " Bertram !" — it was all. 

If she had cursed me — and .she might 
have — or if even with queenly bear- 
ing 
Which at need is used by women, she 
had risen up and said, 
"Sir, you are my guest, and therefore I 
have given you a full hearing ; 
Now, beseech you, choose a name exact- 
ing somewhat less, instead !" 

I had borne it: but that " Bertram " — why, 
it lies there on the paper 
A mere word, without her accent; and 
you cannot judge the weight 
Of the calm which crush 'd my passion : 
I .seem'd drowning in a vapor. 
And her gentleucs.s destroy'd me whom 
her scorn made desolate. 

So, struck backward and exhausted by 
that inward How of passion 
Which had rush'd on, .sparing nothing, 
into forms of abstract truth. 
By a logic agonizing through unseemly 
demonstration. 
And by youth's own anguish turning 
grimly gray the hairs of youth. 

By the sense accursed and instant, that if 
even I spake wisely 
I spake basely, using truth, if what I 
spake indeed was true. 
To avenge wrong on a woman — her, who 
sate there weighing nicely 
A poor manhood's worth, found guilty of 
such deeds as I could do ! — 

By such wrong and woe exhausted — what I 
sufTcr'd and occiusion'd, — 
As a wild horse through a city runs with 
lightning in his eyes, 



And then dashing at a church's cold and 

passive wall, impassion'd, 
Strikes the death into his burning brain, 
and blindly drops and dies — 

So I fell, struck down before her— do you 
blame me, friend, for weakness? 
'Twas my strength of passion slew me! 
— fell before her like a stone; 
Fast the dreadful world roU'd from me 
on its roaring wheels of blackness : 
When the light came, I was lying in this 
cliamber and alone. 

Oh, of course, she charged her lacqueys to 
bear out the sickly burden. 
And to cast it from her scornful sight, 
but not beyond the gate ; 
She is too kind to be cruel, and too haughty 
not to pardon 
Such a man as I ; 'twere something to be 
level to her hate. 

But for me — you now arc conscious why, 
my friend, I write this letter. 
How my life is read all backward, and 
the charm of life undone. 
I shall leave her house at dawn ; I would 
to-night, if I were better — 
And I charge my soul to hold my body 
strcngthcn'd for the sun. 

^V^len the sun hath dyed the oriel, I depart 
with no last gazes, 
}S'o weak moanings (one word only, left 
in writing for her hands). 
Out of reach of all derision, and some lui- 
availiug praises. 
To make front against this anguish in 
the far and foreign lands. 

Blame me not. I would not squander life 
in grief — I am abstemious. 
I but nurse my spirit's falcon that its 
wing may soar again. 
There's no room for tears of weakness in 
the blind eyes of a Phemius: 
Into work the poet kneads them, and he 
does not die till then. 

Conclusion. 
Bertram finish'd the last pages, while 
along the silence ever 
Still in hot and heavy splashes fell the 
tears on every leaf 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Having ended, he leans backward in his 
chair, with lips that quiver 
From the deep unspoken, aj', and deep 
unwritten thoughts of grief. 

Soh ! how still the lady standeth ! 'tis a 
dream — a dream of mercies! 
'Twixt the purple lattice-curtains how 
she standeth still and pale ! 
'Tis a vision, sure, of mercies, sent to soften 
his self-curses, 
Sent to sweep a patient quiet o'er the 
tossing of his wail. 

" Eyes," he said, " now throbbing through 
me ! are ye eyes that did undo me'? 
Shining eyes, like antique jewels set in 
Parian statue-stone ! 
Underneath that calm white forehead, are 
ye ever burning torrid 
O'er the desolate sand-desert of my heart 
and life undone?" 

With a murmurous stir uncertain, in the 
air the jnirple curtain 
Swelleth in and swelleth out around her 
motionless pale brows, 
While the gliding of the river sends a 
rippling noise for ever 
Through the open casement whiten'd by 
the moonlight's slant repose. 

Said he : " Vision of a lady ! st.and there 
silent, stand there steady ! 
Now I see it plainly, plainly, now I can- 
not hope or doubt — 
There, the brows of mild repression — there, 
the lips of silent passion. 
Curved like an archer's bow to send the 
bitter arrows out." 

Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence 
she kept smiling. 
And approach'd him slowly, slowly, in a 
gliding measured pace ; 
With her two white hands extended as if 
praying one offended. 
And a look of supplication gazing earnest 
in his face. 

Said he : " Wake me by no gesture — sound 
of breath, or stir of vesture ! 
Let the blessed apparition melt not yet 
to its divine ! 



No approaching — hush, no breathing ! or 
my heart must swoon to death in 
The too utter life thou bringest, O thou 
dream of Geraldine !" 

Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence 
she kept smiling, 
But the tears ran over lightly from her 
eyes and tenderly : — 
" Dost thou, Bertram, truly love me ? Is 
no woman far above me 
Found more worthy of thy poet-heart 
than such a one as If" 

Said he : " I would dream so ever, like the 
flowing of that river. 
Flowing ever in a shadow greenly onward 
to the sea! 
So, thou vision of all sweetness, princely 
to a full completeness, 
Would ray heart and life flow onward, 
deathvvard, through this dream of 
THEE !" 

Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence 
she kept smiling. 
While the silver tears ran faster down 
the blushing of her cheeks ; 
Then with both her hands enfolding both 
of his, she softly told him, 
" Bertram, if I say I love thee, . . . 'tis 
the vision only speaks." 

Soften'd, quicken'd to adore her, on his 
knee he fell before her. 
And she whisper'd low in triumph, "It 
shall be as I have sworn. 
Very rich he is in virtues, very noble — 
noble, certes ; 
And I shall not blush in knowing that 
men call him lowly-born." 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



The Nut-Brown maid. 

Be it ryght, or wrong, these men among 

On women do complayne ; 
Affyrmynge this, how that it is 

A labour spent in vayne, 
To love them wele ; for never a dele 

They love a man agayne : 
For late a man do what he can, 

Theyr favour to attayne, 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



113 



Yet, yf a newe do them persue, 

Theyr first true lover tlian 
Laboureth for nought : for from her thought 

He is a banysh'd man. 

I say nat nay, but that all day 

It is bothc writ and sayd 
That womans faith is, as who sayth, 

All utterly dooayd ; 
But, ncvcrthck'sse ryght good wytnfesse 

In this case might be layd, 
That they love true, and continiie : 

Recorde the Xot-br'owne 5Iayde : 
Which, when her love came, her to prove, 

To her to make his mone, 
Woldc nat depart ; for in her hart 

.She loved but hym alone. 

Than betwaine us late us dyscus 

What was all the manere 
Betwayne them two : we wyll also 

Tell all the paync, and fere. 
That she was in. Now I begyn 

So that ye me answtre ; 
Wherfore, all ye that present be 

I pray you, gyve an ere : 
" I am the knyght ; I come by nyght. 

As secret as I can ; 
Sayinge, Alas '. thus standeth the case, 

I am a banysh'd man." 

SHE. 
And I your wyll for to fulfyll 

In this wyll nat refuse; 
Tru-^tying to shewe, in word^s fewe. 

That men have an yll use , 
(To theyr own shame) women to blame, 

And causelesse them accuse ; 
Therfore to you I answere nowe. 

All women to excuse, — 
Myne owne hart dere, with you what chere ? 

I pray you, tell anone ; 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 

HE. 
It standeth so ; a dedc is do 

Whereof grete harme shall growe ; 
My destiny is for to dy 

A shamefull deth, I trowe ; 
Or elles to fle : the one must be. 

None other wav I kaowe, 

8 



But to withdrawe as an outlawe, 

And take me to my bowe. 
Wherfore, adue, my owne hart true ! 

None other rede I can ; 
For I must to the grene wode go. 

Alone, a banysh'd man. 

SHE. 

Lord, what is thys worldys blysse, 
That changcth as the mone ! 

My somers day in lusty may 
Is derkcd before the none. 

1 here you say farewell : Nay, nay. 
We depart nat so sone. 

Why say ye so ? wheder wyll ye go ? 

Alas ! what have ye done ? 
All my welfilre to sorrowe and care 

Sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone ; 
For in my mynde, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 

HE. 

I can beleve, it shall you greve, 

And somewhat you dystrayne ; 
But, aftyrwarde, your paynes harde 

Within a day or twayne 
Shall sone aslake ; and ye shall take 

Comfort to you agayne. 
Why sholde ye ought ? for, to make 
thought. 

Your labour were in vayne. 
And thus I do ; and pray you to 

As hartely, as I can ; 
For I must to the grene wode go. 

Alone, a banysh'd man. 

SHE. 

Now, syth that ye have shew'd to me 

The secret of your mynde, 
I shall be playne to you agayne, 

Lyke as ye shall me fynde. 
Syth it is so, that ye «-j-ll go, 

I wolle not leve behynde : 
Shall never be sayd, the Not-browne Mayd 

Was to her love unkynde : 
Make you redy, for so am I, 

Allthough it were anone ; 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 

HE. 

Yet I you rede to take good hede 
What men wyll thynke, and say ; 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Of yonge, and olde it shall be tolde, 

That ye be gone away, 
Your wanton wyll for to fulfill, 

In grene wode you to play ; 
And that ye myght from your delyght 

No lenger make delay. 
Bather than ye sholde thus for me 

Be called an yll womin, 
Yet wolde I to the grene wode go 

Alone, a banysh'd man. 

SHE. 

Though it be songe of old and yonge, 

That I sholde be to blame, 
Theyrs be the charge, that speke so large 

In hurtynge of my name : 
For I wyll prove, that faythfulle love 

It is devoyd of shame ; 
In your dystresse, and hevynesse. 

To part with you, the same : 
And sure all tho, that do not so. 

True lovers are they none ; 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 



I counceyle you, remember howe, 

It is no maydens lawe, 
Nothynge to dout, but to renne out 

To wode with an outliwe : 
For ye must there in your hand here 

A bowe, redy to drawe ; 
And, as a thefe, thus must you lyve, 

Ever in drede and awe ; 
Wherby to you grete harme myght growe : 

Yet had I lever than. 
That I had to the grene wode go, 

Alone, a banysh'd man. 

SHE. 

I thinke nat nay, but as ye say. 

It is no maidens lore : 
But love may make me for your sake, 

As I have sayd before 
To come on fote, to hunt, and shote 

To gete us mete in store ; 
For so that I your company 

May have, I aske no more : 
From which to part, it maketh my hart 

As colde as ony stone ; 
For in my mynde, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 



HE. 

For an outlawe this is the lawe. 

That men hym take and bynde ; 
Without pytfe, hanged to be, 

And waver with the wynde. 
If I had nede, (as God forbede !) 

What rescous coude ye fynde ? 
Forsoth, I trowe, ye and your bowe 

For fere wolde drawe behynde : 
And no mervayle ; for lytell avayle 

Were in your counceyle than : 
Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go. 

Alone, a banysh'd man. 

SHE. 

Right wele know ye, that woman be 

But feble for to fyght ; 
No womanhede it is indede 

To be bolde as a knyght : 
Yet, in such fere yf that ye were 

With enemyes day or nyght, 
I wolde withstande, with bowe in hande 

To greve them as I myght, 
And you to save ; as women have 

From deth ' men ' many one : 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 

HE. 

Yet take good hede ; for ever I drede 

That ye coude nat sustayne 
The thornie wayes, the deep vallfeies, 

The snowe, the frost, the rayne. 
The colde, the hete : for dry, or wete, 

We must lodge on the playne ; 
And, us above, none other rofe 

But a brake bush, or twayne : 
Which sons sholde greve you, I beleve ; 

And ye wolde gladly than 
That I had to the grene wode go, 

Alone, a banysh'd man. 



Syth I have here bene partynfere 

With you of joy and blysse, 
I must also part of your wo 

Endure, as reson is : 
Yet am I sure of one plesdre 

And, shortely, it is this : 
That, where ye be, me senietb, jiardfe, 

I could not fare amvsse. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



115 



Without more speche, I you beseche 

That we were sone ajroiie : 
For in my mynde, of all mankyiule 

I love but you alone. 

HE. 

If ye go thyder, ye must consyder, 

Wlian ye have lu.st to dyne, 
There shall no mete be for you gete, 

Nor drinke, here, ale, ne wyne. 
No schetes elene, to lye betwene. 

Made of threde and twyne ; 
None other lumse, but leves and bowes. 

To cover your hed and myne. 

myne harte .swete, this evyll dyfete 
Sholde make you pale and wan ; 

Wherfore I wyll to the grcne wode go, 
Alone, a banysh'd man. 

SHE. 

Amonge the wild dere, such an archfere, 

As men say that ye be, 
Ne may nat fayle of good vitayle, 

Where is so grete plentfe : 
And water clere of the ryvfere 

Shall be full swete to me ; 
With which in hele I shall ryght wele 

Endure, as ye shall see ; 
And, or we go, a bcdde or two 

I can provyde anone; 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 

HE. 
Lo yet, before, ye must do more, 

Yf ye wyll go with me : 
As cut your here up by your ere, 

Your kyrtol by the kne ; 
With bowe in hande, for to withstande 

Your enemyes yf node be ; 
And this same nyght before day-light, 

To wode-warde wyll I fie. 
Yf that ye wyll all this fulfill, 

Do it shortely as ye can ; 
Els wyll I to the grcne wode go, 

Alone, a banysh'd man. 

SHE. 

1 shall as nowc do more for you 
Than longetli to wonianhede; 

To shote my Iiere, a bowe to here, 
To shote in tyme of nede. 



my swete mother, before all other 

For you I have most drede : 
But nowe, adue ! I must ensue, 

Where fortune doth me lede. 
All this make ye: Now let us fie: 

The day conieth fast upon ; 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 

HE. 

Nay, nay, nat so ; ye shall nat go. 

And I shall tell ye why,— 
Your appetyght is to be lyght 

Of love, I wele espy : 
For, lyke as ye have sayd to me, 

In lyke wyse hardely 
Ye wolde answfere whosoever it were. 

In way of company. 
It is sayd of olde, 8one bote, sone colde; 

And so is a woman. 
Wherfore I to the wode wyll go, 

Alone, a banysh'd man. 

SHE. 

Yf ye take hede, it is no nede 

Such wordes to say by me ; 
For oft yc pray'd, and longe assay'd. 

Or I you loved, pard^ ; 
And though that I of auncestry 

A barons daughter be. 
Yet have you proved bowe I you loved 

A squyer of lowe degrfe ; 
And ever shall, wliatso befall ; 

To dy therforc anone ; 
For in my mynde, of all mankyiuK! 

I love but vou alone. 



II K. 

A barons chylde to be begylde! 

It were a curst-d dede : 
To be felawe with an outlawe ! 

Almighty God forbede! 
Yet beter were, the pore squyfrre 

Alone to forest yede. 
Than ye sholde say another day. 

That, by my eurse<I deile. 
Ye were betray'd : Wherfore, good mayd, 

The best rede that I can, 
Is, that I to the grcne wode go, 

Alone, a banysh'd man. 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



SHE. 

Whatever befall, I never shall 

Of this thyng you upbrayd : 
But yf ye go, and leve me so. 

Then have ye me betrayd. 
Remember you wele, howe that ye dele ; 

For, yf ye, as ye sayd, 
Be so unkynde, to leve behynde 

Your love the Not-browne Jlayd, 
Trust me truly, that I shall dy 

f^one after ye be gone ; 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 



Yf that ye went, ye sholde repent ; 

For in the forest nowe 
I have purvay'd me of a mayd, 

Whom I love more than you ; 
Another fayrere, than ever ye were, 

I dare it wele avowe ; 
And of ye bothe eche sholde be wrotlie 

With other, as I trowe : 
It were myne ese, to ly ve in pese ; 

So wyll I, yf I can ; 
Wherfore I to the wode wyll go, 

Alone, a banysh'd man. 

SHE. 

Though in the wode I undyrstode 

Ye had a jiaramour. 
All this may nought remove my thought. 

But that I will be your : 
And she shall fynde me soft, and kynde, 

And courteys every hour ; 
Glad to fulfyll all that she wyll 

Commaunde me to my power : 
For had ye, lo, an hundred mo, 

' Of them I wolde be one ;' 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde . 

I love but you alone. 

HE. 

Myne owne dere love, I se the prove 

That ye be kynde, and true : 
Of mayde, and wyfe, in all my lyfe, 

The best that ever I knewe. 
Be mery and glad, be no more sad. 

The case is chaungt?d newe ; 
For it were rutlie, that, for your truthe, 

Ye sholde have cause to rewe. 



Be nat dismay'd ; whatsoever I sayd 

To you, whan I began, 
I wyll nat to the grene wode go, 

I am no banysh'd man. 



SHE. 
These tydings be more gladd to me. 

Than to be made a queue, 
Yf I were sure they sholde endure; 

But it is often sene, 
Whan men wyll breke promyse, they 
speke 

The wordfes on the splene. 
Ye shape some wyle me to begyle. 

And stele from me, I wene : 
Than were the case worse than it was, 

And I more wo-begone : 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 



Ye shall nat nede further to drede; 

I will nat dysi)ar;\ge 
You (God forfend!), syth ye descend 

Of so grete a lynige. 
Nowe undyrstande ; to Westmarlande, 

Which is myne herytage, 
I wyll you brynge, and with a rynge 

By way of maryage 
I wyll you take, and lady make, 

As shortely as I can : 
Thus have you won an erlys son 

And not a banysh'd man. 



Author. 
Here may ye se, that women be 

In love, meke, kynde, and stable ; 
Late never man reprove them than. 

Or call them variable ; 
But, rather, pray God that we may 

To them be comfortable. 
Which sometyme proveth such, as he lov- 
eth, 

Yf they be charytable. 
For syth men wolde that women sholde 

Be meke to them each one, 
Moche more ought they to God obey. 

And serve but Hyni alone. 

Author Uxksown. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



117 



THE Friak of Orders Gray. 

It was a friar of orders gray 
Walkt forth to tell his hcades ; 

And he met with a lady faire 
Clad in a pilgrime's weedes. 

Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, 

I pray thee tell to me. 
If ever at yon holy shrine 

My true love thou didst see. 

And how should I know your true love 

For many another one? 
O, by his cockle hat, and staff. 

And by his sandal shoone. 

But chiefly by his face and mien, 

That were so fair to view ; 
His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, 

And eyne of lovely blue. 

lady, he is dead and gone ! 

Lady, he's dead and gone! 
And at his head a green grass turfe, 

And at his heels a stone. 

AVithin these holy cloysters long 

He languisht and he dyed. 
Lamenting of a ladyes love. 

And 'plaining of her pride. 

Here bore him barefaced on his bier 

8ix proper youths and tall. 
And many a tear bedew'd his grave 

Within yon kirk-yard- wall. 

And art thou dead, thou gentle youth ! 

And art thou dead and gone I 
And didst thou dye for love of me ! 

Break, cruel heart of stone! 

weep not, lady, weep not soe : 

Some ghostly comfort seek : 
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, 

Ne teares bedew thy cheek. 

O do not, do not, holy friar, 

My sorrows now reprove ; 
For I have lost the sweetest youth 

That e'er wan ladyes love. 

And nowe, alas ! for thy sad losse, 

I'll evermore weep and sigh : 
For thee I only wisht to live, 

For thee I wish to dye. 



Weep no more, lady, weep no more, 

Thy sorrowe is in vaine : 
For violets pluckt the sweetest showers 

Will ne'er make grow againe. 

Our joj's as wingfed dreams doe flye, 
Why, then, should sorrow last? 

Since grief but aggravates thy losse, 
Grieve not for what is past. 

O say not soe, thou holy friar ; 

I pray thee say not soe : 
For since my true-love dyed for mee, 

'Tis meet my tears should flow. 

And will he ne'er come again ? 

AVill he ne'er come again ? 
Ah ! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, 

For ever to remain. 

His cheek was redder than the rose ; 

The comeliest youth was he ! 
But he is dead and laid in his grave: 

Alas, and woe is me ! 

Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more. 

Men were deceivers ever : 
One foot on sea and one on land, 

To one thing constant never. 

Hadst thou been fond, he had been false. 

And left thee sad and heavy ; 
For young men ever were fickle found. 

Since summer trees were leafy. 

Now say not soe, thou holy friar, 

I pray thee say not soe ; 
My love he had the truest heart : 

O he was ever true ! 

And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth, 

And didst thou dye for mee? 
Then farewell home, for ever-more 

A pilgrim I will bee. 

But first upon my true-loves grave 

My weary limbs I'll lay. 
And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf. 

That wraps his breathless clay. 

Yet stay, fair lady : rest a while 

Beneath this cloyster wall : 
See through the hawthorn blows the cold 
wind, 

And drizzly rain doth fall. 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



O stay me not, thou holy friar ; 

stay me not, I pray ; 

No drizzly rain that falls on me. 
Can wash my fault away. 

Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, 

And dry those pearly tears ; 
For see beneath this gowu of gray 

Thy owne true-love appears. 

Here forced by grief and hopeless love. 

These holy weeds I sought : 
And here amid these lonely walls 

To end my days I thought. 

But haply, for my year of grace 

Is not yet pass'd away, 
Might I still hope to win thy love, 

No longer would I stay. 

Now farewell grief, and welcome joy 

Once more unto my heart ; 
For since I have found thee, lovely youth. 

We never more will part. 

Thomas Percy. 

Sonnet. 

To THE Moon. 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st 
the skies! 
How silently, and with how wan a face! 
What ! may it be, that e'en in heav'nly 
place 
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? 
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted 
eyes 
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's 
case; 

1 read it in thy looks; thy languish'd 

grace 
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. 
Then, ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell 
me. 
Is constant love deem'd there but want of 
wit? 
Are beauties there as proud as here they 
be? 
Do they above love to be loved, and yet 
Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth 

possess ? 
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? 
Sir Philip Sidney. 



Jeanie Morrison. 

I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west. 

Through mony a weary way ; 
But never, never can forget 

The luve o' life's young day ! 
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en 

May weel be black gin Yule ; 
But blacker fa' awaits the heart 

Where first fond luve grows cule. 

Oh dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

The thochts o' bygane years 
Still fling their shadows ower my path, 

And blind my een wi' tears : 
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, 

And sair and sick I pine. 
As memory idly summons up 

The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 

'Twas then we twa did part ; 
Sweet time — sad time ! twa bairns at scule, 

Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 
'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink. 

To leir ilk ither lear ; 
And tones and looks and smiles were shed, 

Remember'd evermair. 

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet. 

When sitting on that bink. 
Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, 

What our wee heads could think. 
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, 

Wi' ae bulk on "our knee. 
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 

My lesson was in thee. 

Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads. 

How clieeks brent red wi' shame. 
Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin,' said 

We cleek'd thcgither hame? 
And mind ye o' the Saturdays 

(The scule then skail't at noon). 
When we ran off to speel the braes, — 

The broomy braes o' June ? 

My head rins round and round about — 

My heart flows like a sea, 
As ane by ane the thochts rush back 

O' scule-time and o' thee. 
Oh mornin' life! oh mornin' luve! 

Oh lichtsome days and lang, 
When hinny'd hopes around our hearts 

Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



119 



Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 

The deavin' dinsome touii. 
To wander by the green burnsidc, 

And hear its waters eroon ? 
Tiie siiiiiiK'r leaves Imiig ower our heads, 

The flowers burst nmml our I'eet, 
And ill the gloainin' o' the wood 

The throssil wliusslit sweet; 

The tlirossil whusslit in the wood, 

The burn sang to the trees — 
And we, with Nature's heart in tune, 

Concerted harmonies : 
And on the l<nowe abune tlie burn 

For liours tliegitlier sat 
In the sih'ntness o' joy, till baith 

A\'i' very gladness grat. 

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Tears trinkled doun your cheek 
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 

Had ony power to speak ! 
That was a time, a blessed time, 

When hearts were fresh and young, 
When freely gusli'd all feelings forth, 

Unsyllabled — unsung ! 

1 marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 

Gin I hae been to thee 
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts 

As ye hae been to me '.' 
Oh. tell nie gin their music fills 

Tliine ear as it does mine? 
Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit 

AVi' dreamings o' langsyne? 

I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, 

I've borne a weary lot ; 
But in my wanderings, far or near, 

Ye never were forgot. 
The fount that first burst frae this heart 

Still travels on its way; 
And channels deeper, as it rins, 

The hive o' life's young day. 

O dear, dear .Jeanie Morrison, 

Since we were sinder'd young 
I've never seen your face, nor heard 

The music o' your tongue; 
Hut I could hug all wretehednessj, 

.\n(l happy could I dee, 
Did I but ken your heart still dream'd 

O' bygone days and me I 

William Motiikrwell. 



Sweet William's Farewell to 
Black-Eyed Susan. 

All in the Downs the fleet was nioor'd. 
The streamers waving in the wind, 

When black-eyed Susan came aboard : — 
" Oh I where shall I my true-love find ? 

Tell me, ye jovial sailors ! tell me true 

If my sweet William sails among the crew." 

William, who high upon the yard 

Kock'il with the billow to and fro. 
Soon as her well-known voice he heard. 

He sigh'd, and east his eyes below : 
The cord slides swiftly through his glow- 
ing hands, 
And quick as lightning on the deck he 
stands. 

So the sweet lark, high poised in air. 
Shuts close his pinions to his brejust. 

If chance his mate's shrill call he hear. 
And drops at once into her nest. 

The noblest captain in the British fleet 

Might envy William's lij) tliose kisses 
sweet. 

"O Susan! Susan! lovely dear. 

My vows shall ever true remain ; 
Let me kiss ofl' that falling tear ; 

We only part to meet again. 
Change as ye list, ye winds I my heart 

shall be 
The faithful compass that still i)oints to 
thee. 

"Believe not what the landmen say 

Who tem])t with doubts tliy constant 
minil : 
They'll tell thee, sailors, when away. 

In everj' port a mistress find : 
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee 

so. 
For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. 

" If to l';ir India's coast we sail. 
Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, 

Thy breath is .\ trie's s])icy gale. 
Thy skin is ivory, so white : 

Thus every beauteous object that I view 

Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely 
Sue. 

"Though b.attle call me from thy arms. 
Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms 

William shall to his dear return. 
Love turns aside the balls that round me 

fly, 

Lest precious tears should drop from 
Susan's eye." 

The boatswain gave the dreadful word ; 

The sails their swelling bosom sjiread ; 
No longer must she stay aboard ; 

They kiss'd ; she sigh'd ; he hung his head. 

Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land : 

" Adieu !" she cries ; and waved her lily 

hand. 

John G.\y. 



Highland Mary. 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As, underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings. 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life 

Was my sweet Highland Mary ! 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again. 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But, oh, fell death's untimely frost. 

That nipp'd my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips 

I aft ha'e kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust. 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ; 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary ! 

EOBERT Burns. 



Sally in our Alley. 

Of all the girls that are so smart. 

There's none like pretty Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 
There is no lady in the land 

Is half so sweet as Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 

Her father he makes cabbage-nets, 

And through the streets docs cry 'em ; 
Her mother she sells laces long 

To such as please to buy 'em : 
But sure such folks could ne'er beget 

So sweet a girl as Sally ! 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

When she is by, I leave my work, 

I love her so sincerely ; 
My master comes like any Turk, 

And bangs me most severely — • 
But let him bang his bellyful, 

I'll bear it all for Sally; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 

Of all the days that's in the week 

I dearly love but one day — 
And that's the day that comes betwixt 

A Saturday and Monday ; 
For then I'm drest all in my best 

To walk abroad with Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 

My master carries me to church. 

And often am I blamed 
Because I leave him in the lurch 

As soon as text is named ; 
I leave the church in sermon-time 

And slink away to Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

When Christmas comes about again. 

Oh then I shall have money ; 
I'll hoard it up, and box it all, 

I'll give it to my honey: 
I would it were ten thousand pound, 

I'd give it all to Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



121 



My master and the ueighbors all 
Make game of me and Sally, 

And, but for her, I'd better be 
A slave and row a galley , 

But when my seven long years are out, 
Oh then I'll marry Sally,— 

Oh then we'll wed, and then we'll bed, 

But not in our alley. 

IlENRV Cabev. 



A SUPPLICATIOX. 

AWAKK, awake, my Lyre! 

And tell thy silent master's humble 

tale 
In sounds that may prevail ; 
Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire : 
Though so exalted she 
And I so lowly be, 
Tell her, such different notes make all thy 
harmony. 

Hark ! how the strings awake : 

And, though the moving hand approach 

not near, 
Themselves with awful fear 
A kind of numerous trembling make. 
Xfiw all thy forces try ; 
Now all thy charms apply ; 
Revenge upon her ear the conquests of 
her eye. 

Weak Lyre I thy virtue sure 

Is useless here, since thou art only 

found 
To cure, but not to wound, 
And she to wound, but not to cure. 
Too weak too wilt thou prove 
My passion to remove ; 
Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment 
to love. 

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre! 

For thou canst never tell ray humble 

tale 
In sounds that will prevail, 
Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire ; 
All thy vain mirth lay by, 
Bid thy strings silent lie, 
Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy 
master die. 

Abkaiiam Cowley. 



Wishes for the Supposed 
Mistress. 

Whoe'er she be, 

That not impossible She 

That shall command my heart and me ; 

Where'er she lie, 

Lock'd u[) from mortal eye 

In shady leaves of destiny : 

Till that ripe birth 

Of studied Fate stand forth. 

And teach her fair steps to our earth ; 

Till that divine 

Idea take a .shrine 

Of crystal flesh, through which to shine : 

— Meet you her, my Wishes, 

Bespeak her to my blisses. 

And be ye call'd, ray absent kisses. 

I wish her beauty 

That owes not all its duty 

To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie : 

Soraething more than 

Tafl'ata or tissue can, 

Or rampant feather, or rich fan. 

A face that's best 

By its own beauty drest, 

And can alone command the rest: 

A face made up 

Out of no other shop 

Than what Nature's white hand sets ope. 

Sydneian showers 

Of sweet discfiurse, whose powers 

Can crown old Winter's head with flowers. 

Whatc'er delight 

Can make day's forehead bright 

Or give down to the wings of night. 

Soft silken hours, 

Open sjins, shady bowers; 

'Bove all, nothing within that lowers. 

Days, that need borrow 

No part of their good morrow 

From a fore-spent night of sorrow: 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



Days, that in spite 

Of darkness, by the light 

Of a clear mind are day all night. 



Life, that dares send 
A challenge to his end, 
And when it comes, say, 
friend." 



' Welcome, 



I wish her store 

Of worth may leave her poor 

Of wishes ; and I wish no more. 

— Now, if Time knows 

That Her, whose radiant brows 

Weave them a garland of my vows ; 

Her that dares be 

What these lines wish to see : 

I seek no further, it is She. 

'Tis She, and here 

Lo ! I unclothe and clear 

My wishes' cloudy character. 

Such worth as this is 
Shall fix my flying wishes, 
And determine them to kisses. 

Let her full glory, 

My fancies, fly before ye ; 

Be ye my fictions : — but her story. 

ElCHAKU CHASIIAVV. 

Lovely Mary Donnelly. 

O LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love 

the best ! 
If fifty girls were around you, I'd hardly see 

the rest ; 
Be what it may the time of day, the place 

be where it will, 
Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom 

before me still. 

Her eyes like mountain water that's flow- 
ing on a rock, 

How clear they are, how dark they are! 
and they give me many a shock ; 

Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted 
with a shower, 

Could ne'er express the charming lip that 
has me in its power. 



Her nose is straight and handsome, her 

eyebrows lifted up, 
Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth 

like a china cup ; 
Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty 

and so fine — 
It's rolling down upon her neck, and gath- 

er'd in a twine. 

The dance o' last Whit Monday night ex- 
ceeded all before — 

No pretty girl for miles around was missing 
from the floor ; 

But Mary kept the belt of love, and oh ! but 
she was gay ; 

She danced a jig, she sung a song, and took 
my heart away ! 

When she stood up for dancing, her steps 

were so complete. 
The music nearly kill'd itself, to listen to 

her feet : 
The fiddler mourn'd his blindness, he 

heard her so much praised ; 
But bless'd himself he wasn't deaf when 

once her voice she raised. 

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what 

you sung ; 
Your smile is always in my heart, your 

name beside my tongue. 
But you've as many sweethearts as you'd 

count on both your hands, 
And for myself there's not a thumb or 

little finger stands. 

Oh, you're the flower of womankind, in 

country or in town ; 
The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast 

down. 
If some great lord should come this way 

and see your beauty bright. 
And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but 

right. 

Oh, might we live together in lofty palace 
hall 

Where joyful music rises, and where scar- 
let curtains fall ! 

Oh, might we live together in a cottage 
mean and small. 

With sods of grass the only roof, and mud 
the only wall ! 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



123 



O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my 

distress — 
It's far too beauteous to bo iiiiiio, but I'll 

never wish it less ; 
The proudest place would fit your face, and 

I am j)oor and low, 
But blessiiijrs 1)0 about vou, dear, wherever 



you may go 



William Allinguam. 



Shall I Tell you H7/o.v / LovEf 

Shall I tell you whom I love ? 

Hearken then a while to me; 
Anil if such a wnman move 

As I now shall versify, 
Bo assured 'tis slie, or none, 
That I love, and love alone. 

Nature did her so much right 
As she scorns the help of art. 

In as many virtues dight 

As e'er yet embraced a heart. 

So much good so truly tried, 

Some for less were doifiod. 

Wit she hath, without desire 

To make known how much she hath ; 
And her anger flames no higher 

Than may fitly sweeten wrath. 
Full of pity as may be, 
Though perhaps not so to me. 

Keason masters every sense. 

And her virtues grace her birth ; 

Lovely as all excellence. 

Modest in her most of mirth. 

Likelihood enough to prove 

Only worth could kindle love. 

Such she is ; and if you know 

Such a one as I have sung ; 
Be she brown, or fair, or so 

That she be but somewhile young; 
Be a.ssured 'tis she, or none. 
That I love, and love alone. 

William ItitowNi:. 

to virotxs, to make much of 
Time. 

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, 

Old Time is still a-flying, 
And this same flower that smiles to-day, 
To-niurrow will be dying. 



The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, 

The higher he's a-gotting 
The sooner will his race be run. 

And nearer he's to setting. 

That age is best which is the first. 
When youth and blood are warmer. 

But being spent, the worse, and worst 
Times still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time, 
And while ye may, go marry; 

For having lost but once your prime, 
You may for ever tarry. 

liOBEKT HeRRICK. 



Rosaline. 

Like to the clear in highest sphere 
Where all imperial glory shines, 
Of selfsame color is her hair. 
Whether unfolded, or in twines; 

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! 
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, 
Resembling heaven by every wink ; 
The gods do fear whonas they glow, 
And I do tremble when I think. 

Heigh ho, would she wore mine ! 

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud 
That beautifies Aurora's face. 
Or like the silver crimson shroud 
That Phtebus' smiling looks doth grace ; 

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 
Ilor lips are like two budded roses 
Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh. 
Within which bounds she balm encloses 
Apt to entice a deity ; 

Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 

Her neck is like a .stately tower 
Where Love himself imprison'd lies, 
To watch for glances every hour 
From her divine and sacred eyes: 

lloigh lio, fair Rosaline! 
Ilor ])aps are centres of delight, 
Iler brea.st8 are orbs of heavenly frame, 
Where Nature moulds the dew of light 
To feed perfection with the same; 

Heigh ho, would she were mine! 

With orient pearl, with ruby red. 
With marble white, with sapphire blue. 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Her body every way is fed, 

Yet soft in touch and sweet in view ; 

Heigli lie, fair Rosaline ! 
Nature lierself lier sliape admires ; 
The gods are wounded in her siglit, 
And Love forsakes his lieavenly fires 
And at lier eyes his brand doth liglit; 

Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 

Then muse not, nymphs, though I be- 
moan 
The absence of fair Rosaline, 
Since for a fair there's fairer none, 
Nor for her virtues so divine ; 

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ; 
Heigh ho, my heart ! would God that she 

were mine I 

TiiosiAS Lodge. 



To Altuea from Prison. 

WliEX Love, with unconlined wings, 

Hovers within my gates. 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at my grates ; 
When I lye tangled in her haire ; 

And fetter'd with her eye, 
The birds that wanton in the aire 

Know no such libcrtye. 

When flowing cups run swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our carelesse heads with roses crown'd, 

Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty griefe in wine we steepe. 

When healths and draughts goe free, 
Fishes, that tipple in the deepe, 

Know no such libertie. 

W^hen, linnet-like, confined I 

With shriller note shall sing 
The mercye, sweetness, majestye. 

And glories of my king ; 
When I sliall voyce aloud how good 

He is, how great should be, 
Th' enlarged windes, that curie the flood. 

Know no such libertle. 

Stone walls doe not a prison make. 

Nor iron barres a cage, 
Mindes, innocent, and quiet, take 

That for an hermitage : 
If I have freedom in my love, 

And in my soule am free. 



Angels alone, that soare above, 
Enjoy such libertie. 

EicHARD Lovelace. 



The Silent Lover. 

Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart, 

The merit of true passion. 
With thinking that he feels no smart 

Who sues for no compassion. 

Since if my plaints were not t' approve 
The conquest of thy beauty. 

It comes not from defect of love. 
But fear t' exceed my duty. 

For, knowing that I sue to serve 

A saint of .such perfection 
As all desire, but none deserve 

A place in her afiection, 

I rather choose to want relief 
Than venture the revealing :— 

Where glory recommends the grief, 
Despair disdains the healing. 

Thus those desires that boil so high 

In any mortal lover. 
When reason cannot make them die, 

Discretion them must cover. 

Yet when discretion doth bereave 
The plaints that I should utter. 

Then your discretion may perceive 
That silence is a suitor. 

Silence in love bewrays more woe 
Than words, though ne'er so witty : 

A beggar that is dumb, you know, 
May challenge double pity. 

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, 

My love, for secret passion : 
He smarteth most that hides his smart. 
And sues for no compassion. 

SiK Walter Raleigh. 



To Luc AST a, 

On Going to the Wars. 

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde. 

That from the nunnerie 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, 

To warre and amies I flee. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



125 



True, a new mistresse now I chase — 

The first foe in the fiehl ; 
And with a stronger faith imbrace 

A swoid, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you, too, should adore ; 
I could not love thee, deare, so much, 

Loved I not lionor more. 

Richard Lovelace. 



To Luc AST A. 

If to be absent were to be 
Away from thee : 
Or that, when I am gone. 
You or I were alone ; 
Then, my Lueasta, might I crave 
Pity from blustering wind or swallowing 
wave. 

But I'll not sigh one blast or gale 

To swell my sail. 

Or pay a tear to 'suage 

The foaming blue-god's rage ; 

For, whether he will let me pass 

Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.' 

Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both, 
Our fiiith and troth. 
Like separated souls, 
All time and space controls : 
Above the higiiest sphere we meet, 
Unseen, unknown ; and greet as angels 
greet. 

So, then, we do anticipate 
Our after-fate, 
.\nd are alive i' th' skies, 
If thus our lips and eyes 
Can speak like spirits unconfined 
In heaven — their earthly bodies left be- 
hind. 

Richard Lovelace. 



The Welcome. 

Welcome, welcome, do I sing, 
Far more welcome than the spring ; 
He that parteth from you never, 
Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 

Love that to the voice is near, 
Breaking from your ivory pale. 



Need not walk abroad to hear 
The delightful nightingale. 

Welcome, welcome, then I sing. 
Far more welcome than the spring ; 
He that parteth from you never. 
Shall enjoy a .spring for ever. 

Love, that still looks on your eyes. 

Though the winter have begun 
To benumb our arteries. 

Shall not want the summer's sun. 
AV'elcome, welcome, then I sing. 
Far more welcome than the spring ; 
He that parteth from you never, 
Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 

Love, that still may see your cheeks. 

Where all rareness still reposes, 
Is a fool if e'er he seeks 
Other lilies, other roses. 

Welcome, welcome, then I sing. 
Far more welcome than the spring ; 
He that parteth from you never, 
Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 

Love, to whom your soft lips yields, 

And perceives your breath in kissing. 
All the odors of the fields 
Never, never shall be missing. 
Welcome, welcome, then I sing, 
Far more welcome than the spring ; 
He that parteth from you never, 
Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 

Love, that question would anew 

What fair Eden was of old. 
Let him rightly study you. 
And a brief of that behold. 

Welcome, welcome, then I sing. 
Far more welcome than the spring ; 
He that parteth from you never. 
Shall enjoy a spring for ever. 

William Browne. 



'TWAS WIIEX TITE SEAS WERE 
ROARIXa. 

'TwAS when the seas were roaring 
With hollow blasts of wind ; 

A damsel lay deploring, 
All on a rock reclined, 

Wide o'er the roaring billows 
She cast a wistful look ; 



12G 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Her head was crown'd with willows, 
That tremble o'er the brook. 

Twelve months are gone and over, 

And nine long, tedious days, 
Why didst thou, vent'rous lover. 

Why didst thou trust the seas ? 
Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean. 

And let my lover rest : 
Ah ! what's thj' troubled motion 

To that within my breast? 

The merchant robb'd of pleasure. 

Sees tempests in despair ; 
But what's the loss of treasure 

To losing of my dear ? 
Should you some coast be laid on 

Where gold and diamonds grow. 
You'd find a richer maiden, 

But none that loves you so. 

How can they say that Nature 

Has nothing made in vain ; 
Why then beneath the water 

Should hideous rocks remain ? 
No eyes the rocks discover. 

That lurk beneath the deep, 
To wreck the wandering lover. 

And leave the maid to weep. 

All melancholy lying. 

Thus wail'd she for her dear ; 
Repaid each blast with sighing. 

Each billow with a tear ; 
When, o'er the white wave stooping. 

His floating corpse she spied ; 
Then like a lily drooping, 

She bow'd her head and died. 

John Gay. 

JEAX. 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 

I dearly like the West, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives. 

The lassie I lo'e best ; 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between, 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair, 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air ; 



There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green. 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings 

But 'minds me o' my Jean. 

Oh blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft 

Amang the leafy trees ; 
Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale. 

Bring hame the laden bees ; 
And bring the lassie back to me 

That's aye sae neat and clean ; 
Ae blink o' her wad banish care, 

Sae charming is my Jean. 

What sighs and vows amang the knowes 

Hae pass'd atween us twa ! 
How fain to meet, how wae to part 

That day she gaed awa ! 
The Powers aboon can only ken, 

To whom the heart is seen, 
That nane can be sae dear to me 

As my sweet lovely Jean ! 

EoBEET Burns. 



A SOJSfG. 

To thy lover. 

Dear, discover 
That sweet blush of thine, that shameth 

(When those roses 

It discloses) 
All the flowers that Nature nameth. 

In free air 

Flow thy hair. 
That no more summer's best dresses 

Be beholden 

For their golden 
Locks, to Phoebus' flaming tresses. 

Oh, deliver 

Love his quiver. 
From thy eyes he shoots his arrows, 

Where Apollo 

Cannot follow, 
Feather'd with his mother's sparrows. 

Oh, envy not 

(That we die not) 
Those dear lips, whose door encloses 

All the Graces 

In their places. 
Brother pearls, and sister roses. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



127 



From these treasures 

Of ripe pleasures 
One bright simile to clear the weather; 

Earth and heaven 

Thus made even, 
Both will be good friends together. 

The air does woo thee, 

Winds cling to thee ; 
Might a word once fly from out thee, 

Storm and thunder 

Would sit under, 
And keep silence round about thee. 

But if Nature's 

Common creatures 
So dear glories dare not borrow, 

Yet thy beauty 

Owes a duty 
To my loving, lingering sorrow. 

When, to end me. 

Death shall send me 
All his terrors to affright me. 

Thine eyes' graces 

Gild their faces, 
And those terrors shall delight me. 

When my dying 

Life is flying, 
Those sweet airs that often slew me, 

8hall revive me, 

Or reprieve me, 
And to many diaths renew me. 

Richard Cr.isiiaw. 



Tjie Night Piece. 

To Julia. 

Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee, 
The shooting-starres attend thee; 

And the elves also. 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will-o'-th'-wispe mislight thee, 
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee ; 

But on thy way, 

Not making stay. 
Since ghost t'jcre's none t' affright thee ! 

Let not the darke thee cumber ; 
^Vhat though the moon does slumber ? 



The stars of the night 
Will k-nd thee their light, 
Like tapers cleare, without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me ; 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
My soule I'le pour into thee ! 

Robert IIbrb:ck. 



A DITTY. 

My true-love hath mv heart, and T have 
his, 
By just exchange one to the other given : 
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss. 
There never was a better bargain driven : 
My true-love hath my heart, and I have 
his. 

His heart in me keeps him and me in one. 
My heart in him his thoughts and senses 
guides : 
He loves my heart, for once it w;ls his own, 

I cherish his because in me it bides : 
My true-love hath my heart, and I have 
his. 

Sib Philip Sidney. 

The Eve of St. Agnes. 



St. Agxes' Evf, — Ah, bitter chill it was ! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-eold ; 
The hare limp'd trembling through the 
frozen grass. 
Anil silent was tlie flock in woolly fold: 
Numb were the beadsman's fingers while 
he told 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
Like pious incense from a censer old, 
Seem'd taking flight for heaven without a 

death. 
Past the sweet virgin's picture, while his 
prayer he saith. 

II. 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; 

Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his 
knees, 
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan 

Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: 



128 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



The sculptured dead, on each side seem 
to freeze, 
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails : 
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb 
orat'ries, 
He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods 
and mails. 

III. 

Northward he turneth through a little door, 

And scarce three steps, ere Music's gold- 
en tongue 
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor ; 

But no — already had his death-bell rung ; 

The joys of all his life were said and sung : 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve ; 

Another way he went, and soon among 
Eough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, 
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake 
to grieve. 



That ancient beadsman heard the prelude 
soft; 
And so it chanced, for many a door was 
wide. 
From liurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft. 
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to 

chide; 
The level chambers, ready with their 
pride. 
Were glowing to receive a thousand 
guests ; 
The carv&d angels, ever eager-eyed. 
Stared, where upon their heads the cornice 

rests, 
With hair blown back, and wings put cross- 
wise on their breasts. 



At length burst in the argent revelry, 

With plume, tiara, and all rich array, 
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 
The brain, new-stuff'd, iu youth, with 

triumphs gay 
Of old romance. These let us wish away, 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there 
Whose heart had brooded, all that win- 
try day. 
On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care, 
As she had heard old dames full many 
times declare. 



VI. 

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of 
delight, 
And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honey'd middle of the night, 
If ceremonies due they did aright ; 
As, supperless to bed they nnist retire, 
And couch supine their beauties, lily 
white ; 
Xor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
Of heaven with upward eyes for all that 
they desire. 

VII. 

Full of this whim was thoughtful Made- 
line; 
The music, yearning like a god in pain. 
She scarcely heard ; her maiden eyes di- 
vine, 
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping 

train 
Pass by — she heeded not at all ; in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 
And back retired; not cool'd by high 
disdain, 
But she saw not; her heart was other- 
where ; 
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest 
of the year. 

VIII. 

She danced along with vague, regardless 
eyes. 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick 
and short ; 
The hallow'd hour was near at hand ; she 
sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd re- 
sort 
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate and scorn, 
Hoodwink'd with fairy fancy ; all amort. 
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn. 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow 

morn. 

IX. 

So, purposing each moment to retire. 
She linger'd still. Meantime, across the 
moors. 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on 
tire 
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



129 



Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, 
and implores 
All saints to g^ive him sight of Made- 
line, 
But for one moment in the tedious hours, 
That he might gaze and worship all un- 
seen; 
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in 
sooth such things have been. 

X. 

He ventures in : let no buzz'd whisper 

tell: 

All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 

Will storm his heart, Love's feverous 

citadel : 

For him, those chambers held barbarian 

hordes. 
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
Against his lineage: not one breast 
affords 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, 
Save one old beldame, weak in body and 
in soul. 



Ah, happy chance ! the agfed creature came, 
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. 
To where he stood, hid from the torch's 
flame, 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus 
bland : 
He startled her; but soon she knew his 
face, 
And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied 
hand. 
Saying, " Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from 

this place; 
They are all here to-night, the whole 
bloodthirsty race ! 



"Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish 
Hildebrand ; 
He had a fever late, and in the fit 
He cursed thee and thine, both house and 
land: 
Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not 

a whit 
More tame for his gray hairs — Alas mc ! 
flit! 



Flit like ag\jostaway!" — "Ah, gossip dear, 
We're safe enough; here in this arm- 
chair sit. 

And tell me how" — "Good saints, not here, 
not here ; 

Follow me, child, or else these stones will 
be thy bier." 

XIII. 

He follow'd through a lowly archfed way. 

Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty 

plume; 

And as shemutter'd" Well-a — well-a-day!' 

He found him in a little moonlight room, 

Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 

" Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 

"Oh toll me, Angela, by the holy loom 
Which none but secret sisterhood may see, 
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving 
piously." 

XIV. 

"St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve- 
Yet men will murder upon holy days : 

Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve. 
And be liege-lord of all the elves and fays. 
To venture so. It fills me with amaze 

To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! 
God's help! my lady fair the conjurer 
plays 

This very night: good angels her deceive! 

But let me laugh a while, Fve mickle time 
to grieve." 

XV. 

Feebly she laughcth in the languid moon. 
While Porphyro upon her face doth look, 
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
Who kcepeth closed a wondrous riddle- 
book. 
As spectacled she sits in chimney-nook. 
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she 
told 
His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could 
brook 
Tears, at the thought of those enchant- 
ments cold, 
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 

XVI. 

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown 
rose 
Flushing his brow, and in his pained 
heart 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Made purple riot: then doth he propose 
A stratagem, that makes the beldame 

start : 
"A cruel man and impious thou art ! 
Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and 
dream 
Alone with her good angels, far apart 
From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! I 

deem 
Thou canst not surely he the same that 
thou didst seem." 

XVII. 

" I will not harm her, by all saints I 
swear !" 
Quoth Porphyro. " Oh, may I ne'er find 
grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its last 
prayer, 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace. 
Or look with ruffian passion in her face: 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 

Or I will, even in a moment's space, 
Awake with horrid shout my foemen's ears, 
And beard them, though they be more 
fang'd than wolves and bears." 

XVIII. 

" Ah, why wilt thou affright a feeble 
soul ? 
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church- 
yard thing. 
Whoso passing-bell may ere the midnight 
toll; 
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and 

evening, 
Were never miss'd." Thus plaining doth 
she bring 
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; 
So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing, 
That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or 
woe. 

XIX. 

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there 
hide 
Him in a closet, of such privacy 
That he might see her beauty nnespied, 
And win perhaps that night a peerless 
bride, 



While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet. 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy- 
eyed. 
Never on such a night have lovers met, 
Since Merlin paid his demon all the mon- 
strous debt. 



" It shall be as thou wishest," said the 
dame ; 
" All cates and dainties .shall be stored 
there 
Quickly on this feast-night ; by the tam- 
bour-frarae 
Her own lute thou wilt see : no time to 

spare. 
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce 
dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience kneel 
in prayer 
The while : Ah! thou must needs the lady 

wed, 
Or may I never leave my grave among the 
dead." 

XXI. 

So saying she hobbled off with busy fear. 

The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd ; 
The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his car 
To follow her ; with agfed eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at 
last. 
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd 
and chaste ; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues 
in her brain. 

XXII. 

Her faltering hand upon the balustrade. 

Old Angela was feeling for the stair. 
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmfed 
maid. 
Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware : 
With silver taper's light, and pious 
care. 
She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led 
To a safe level matting. Now prepare. 
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ; 
She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove 
fray'd and fled. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



131 



XXIII. 

Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 
Its little smoke, in iialliii moonshine, 
(lii-d : 
She closed the door, she piiiited, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide: 
No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide ! 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 
Paininjr with eloquence her balmy 
side; 
As though a tongueless nightingale should 

swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in 
her dell. 

XXIV. 

A casement high and triplo-arch'd there 
was, 
All garlanded with carven imageries 
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot- 
grass, 
And diamonded with panes of quaint 

device, 
Innumerable of stains and splendid 
dyes, 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd 
wings; 
■ And in the midst, 'mong thousand her- 
aldries, 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazon- 

ings, 
A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood 
of queens and kings. 

XXV. 

Full on this casement shone the wintry 
moon, 
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair 
brea-st. 
As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and 
boon ; 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together 

prest, 
And on her silver cross .soft amethyst, 
And on her hair a glory, like a saint: 
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly 
drest. 
Save wings, for heaven. Porphyro grew 

faint- 
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from 
mortal taint. 



XXVI. 

Anon his heart revives : her vespers done. 
Of all its wreathfed pearls her hair she 
frees ; 
Unclasps her warnifcd jewels one by one; 
Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees 
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her 
knees : 
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed. 
Pensive a while she dreams awake, and 
sees, 
' In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. 
But dares not look behind, or all the charm 
is fled. 



Soon trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 

In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she 

lay. 

Until the poppied warmth of sleep op- 

press'd 

Her soothtd limbs, and soul fatigued 

away ; 
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow- 
day ; 
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain ; 
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Pay- 
nims |)ray ; 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from 

rain, 
As though a rose should shut, and be a 
bud again. 

XXVIII. 

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress. 
And liston'd to her breathing, if it chanced 
To wake into a slund)erous tenderness ; 
Which when he heard, that minute did 
he bless. 
And breathed himself: then from tho closet 
crept, 
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. 
And over the hush'd carpet, silent stept. 
And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo! 
— how fast she slept. 

XXIX. 

Then by the bed-side, where the faded 
moon 
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon 
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — 
Oh for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! 

The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 

Atfray his ears, though but in dying tone : — 

The hall-door shuts again, and all the 
noise is gone. 

XXX. 

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep. 
In blanchfed linen, smooth, and laven- 
der'd ; 
While he from forth the closet brought a 
heap 
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and 

gourd ; 
With jellies soother than the creamy 
curd, 
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
From Fez ; and spicfed dainties, every one. 
From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Leb- 
anon. 

XXXI. 

These delicates he heap'd with glowing 
hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreathfed silver. Sumptuous they stand 
In the retired quiet of the night. 
Filling the chilly room with perfume 
light.- 
" And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! 
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite; 
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul 
doth ache." 

XXXII. 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her 
dream 
By the dusk curtains : — 'twas a midnight 
charm 
Impossible to melt as icfed stream : 
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight 
gleam ; 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies ; 
It seem'd he never, never could redeem 
From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; 
So mused a while, entoil'd in wooffed 
phantasies. 



XXXIII. 

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 

Tumultuous, — and, in chords that ten- 

derest be, 

He play'd an ancient ditty, long since 

mute, 

In Provence called " La belle dame sans 

mercy :" 
Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft 
moan : 
He ceased — she panted quick — and sud- 
denly 
Her blue aflfirayfed eyes wide open shone : 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth- 
sculptured stone. 

XXXIV. 

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld. 

Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : 
There was a painful change, that nigh 
expell'd 
The blisses of her dream so pure and 

deep. 
At which fair Madeline began to weep. 
And moan forth witless words with many 
a sigh ; 
While still her gaze on Porphyro would 
keep ; 
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous 

eye, 
Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so 
dreamingly. 

XXXV. 

"Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine 
ear. 
Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; 
And those sad eyes were spiritual and 

clear : 
How changed thou art! how pallid, chill 
and drear ! 
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
Those looks immortal, those complain- 
ings dear ! 
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, 
For if thou diest, my love, I know not 
where to go." 

XXXVI. 

Beyond a mortal man impassion'd for 
At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



133 



Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star 
Seen 'mid the sappliire heaven's deep 

repose ; 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
Blendotli its odor with the violet, — 
Solution swoot: meantime the frost-wind 
blows 
Like love's alarum pattering the sharp 

sleet 
Against the window-jjanes ; St. Agnes' 
moon hath set. 

XXXVII. 

'Tis dark • quick pattereth the flaw-blown 
sleet : 
" This is no dream, my bride, my Mad- 
eline!" 
'Tis dark : the icfed gusts still rave and 
beat : 
"Nodrcam, ala-s! ala-s! and woe is mine! 
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and 
pine. — 
Cruel! what traitor could thee hither 
bring? 
I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. 
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing; — 
A dove forlorn and lost, with sick, un- 
prunfcd wing." 

XXXVIII. 

"My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely 
bride ! 
Say, may I be for aye thy va.ssal blest ? 
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and 
vermeil-dyed ? 
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my 

rest 
After so many hours of toil and quest, 
A famish'd pilgrim. — save<l by miracle. 
Though I have found, 1 will not rob thy 
nest, 
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st 

well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 

XXXIX. 

"Hark! 'tis an elfin storm from faery 
land. 
Of haggard seeming, but a boon in- 
deed : 
Arise — arise! the morning is at hand; — 
The bloated wassailcrs will never heed. 



Let us away, my love, with happy speed; 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy 
mead. 
Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be. 
For o'er the southern moors I have a home 
for thee." 

XL. 

She hurried at his words, beset with fears. 

For there were sleeping dragons all 

around, 

At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready 

spears — 

Down the wide .stairs a darkling way 

they found, 
In all the hou.se wa.s heard no human 
sound. 
A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by 
each door ; 
The arras, rich with hor.semaii. hawk, 
and licjund, 
Flutter'd in tlie besieging wind's uproar ; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty 
floor. 

XLI. 

Theyglide like phantoms into the wide hall! 
Like phantoms to the iron porch they 
glide. 
Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl. 
With a Inige empty flagon by his side : 
The wakeful bloodliound rose, and shook 
his hide. 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : 

By one and one the bolts full easy slide: 
The chains lie silent on the footworn 

stones ; 
The key turns, and the door ujion its 
hinges groans. 

XLII. 

And they are gone : ay, ages long ago 

These lovers fled away into the storm. 
That night the baron dreamt of many a 
woe. 
And all his warrior-guests, with sh.ide 

and form 
Of witch, and demon, and large cofrui- 
worm, 
Were long bonightniari'd. .\ngela the old 
Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face 
deform ; 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



The beadsman, after thousand aves told, 

For aye unsought-for slept among his 

ashes cold. 

John Keats. 



Jock of Hazeldean- 

" Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? 

Why weep ye by the tide? 
I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 

And ye sail be his bride ; 
And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 

Sae comely to be seen ;" — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

" Now let this wilful grief be done, 

And dry that cheek so pale; 
Young Frank is chief of Erriugton, 

And lord of Langley-dale ; 
His step is first in peaceful ha'. 

His sword in battle keen ;" — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

" A chain of gold ye shall not lack. 

Nor braid to bind your hair, 
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk. 

Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; 
And you, the foremost o' them a'. 

Shall ride our forest queen ;" — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

The kirk was deck'd at morning tide, 

The tapers glimmer'd fair. 
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 

And dame and knight are there. 
They sought her baith by bower and ha'. 

The lady was not seen ! — 
She's o'er the Border, and awa' 

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



Sonnets from the Portuguese. 

If thou must love me, let it be for naught 

Except for love's sake only. Do not say 

" I love ber for her smile, her look, her 

way 

Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought 

That falls in well with mine, and certes 

brought 



A sense of pleasant ease on such a 

day-" 
For these things in themselves, beloved, 
may 
Be changed, or change for thee, — and 

love, so wrought, 
May be unwronght .so. Neither love me 
for 
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks 
dry,- 
A creature might forget to weep, who 
bore 
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love 
thereby ! 
But love me for love's sake, that ever- 
more 
Thou mayst love on, through love's 
eternity. 



I NEVER gave a lock of hair away 

To a man, dearest, except this to thee, 
Which now upon my fingers thought- 
fully 
I ring out to the full brown length, and 

say, 
" Take it." My day of youth went yester- 
day : 
My hair no longer bounds .to my foot's 

glee. 
Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle tree. 
As girls do, any more : it only may 
Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark 
of tears. 
Taught drooping from the head that 
hangs aside 
Through sorrow's trick. I thought the 
funeral shears 
Would take this first, but love is justi- 
fied,— 
Take it thou, — finding pure, from all those 
years. 
The kiss my mother left here when she 
died. 



Say over again, and yet once over again, 
That thou dost love me. Though the 

word repeated 
Should seem " a cuckoo-song," as thou 
dost treat it. 
Eemember, never to the hill or plain. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 135 


Valley and wood, without her cuckoo- 


When I look up, to drop on a new range 


straiu, 


Of walls and floors — another home than 


Comes the fresh Spring iu all her green 


this? 


completed. 


Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me 


Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted 


which is 


By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's 


Fill'd by dead eyes too tender to know 


pain 


change ? 


Cry, "Siieak once more — thou lovest!" 


That's hardest. If to conquer love has tried, 


Who can fear 


To conquer grief tries more, as all things 


Too many stars, though each iu heaven 


prove ; 


shall roll- 


For grief indeed is love and grief beside. 


Too many flowers, though each shall crown 


Alas, I have grieved so, I am hard to 


the year? 


love. 


Say thou dost love me, love me, love 


Yet love me — wilt thou? Open thine 


me — toll 


heart wide. 


The silver iterance I — only minding, dear. 


And fold within the wet wings of thy dove. 


To love me also in silence with thy soul. 




First time he kiss'd mo, he but only kiss'd 




My letters I all dead paper, . . . mute and 


The fingers of this hand wherewith I 


white ! 


write; 


And yet they seem alive and quivering 


And ever since, it grew more clean and 


Against my tremulous hands which 


white. 


loose the string 


Slow to world-greetings, quick with its 


And let them drop down on my knee to- 


"Oh, list," 


night. 


AVhen the angels speak. A ring of ame- 


This said, ... he wish'd to have me in 


thyst 


his sight 


I could not wear here, plainer to my 


Once, as a friend : this fix'd a day in 


sight, 


spring 


Than that first kiss. The second pass'd 


To come and touch my hand ... a 


in height 


simple thing, 


The first, and sought the forehead, and 


Yet I wept for it ! this, . . . the paper's 


lialf iiiiss'd, 


liglit, . . . 


Half falling on the hair. Oh, beyond 


Said, Bear, I love thee; and I sank and 


meed ! 


quail'd 


That was the chrism of love, which love's 


As if (iod's future thunder'd on my past. 


own crown. 


This said, I nm thine, — and so its ink ha.s 


With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 


paled 


The tliirii upon my lips was folded down 


With lying at my heart that beat too 


In perfect, purple state; since when, in- 


fast. 


deed. 


And this ... Love, thy words have ill 


I have been proud, and said, " My love. 


avail'd. 


my own !" 


If what this said, I dared repeat at last! 




How do I love thee ? Let me count the 




If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange 


ways : 


And be all to me? Shall I never miss 


I love thee to the depth and breadth 


Ilomc-talk and blessing and the com- 


and height 


mon kiss 


My .soul can reach, when feeling out of 


That comes to each in turn, nor count it 


sight 


strange, 


For the ends of being and ideal grace. 



136 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPMDIA OF POETRY. 



I love thee to the level of every day's 
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 
I love thee freely, as men strive for right ; 
Hove thee purely, as they turn from praise. 
I love thee with the passion put to use 
In my old griefs, and with my child- 
hood's faith. 
I love thee with a love I seem'd to lo.se 
With my lost saints. I love thee with 
the breath, 
Smiles, tears, of all my life ; and, if God 
choose, 
I shall but love thee better after death. 
Elizabeth Babkett Browning. 



LOCHINVAR. 

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the 

West,— 
Througli all the wide Border his steed was 

the best, 
And save his good broadsword he weapons 

had none, — 
He rode all unarm'd and he rode all 

alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in 

war. 
There never was knight lilvc the young 

Lochinvar. 

He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd 
not for stone. 

He swam the Eske river where ford there 
was none, 

But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 

The bride had consented, the gallant came 
late ; 

For a laggard in love and a da.stard in 
war 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Loch- 
invar. 

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby hall, 

'Mong bridesmen and kinsmen and broth- 
ers and all. 

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on 
his sword 

(For the poor craven bridegroom said 
never a word), 

" Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye 
in war. 

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord 
Lochinvar?" 



" I long woo'd your daughter, — my suit 
you denied ; 

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like 
its tide ; 

And now am I come, with this lost love of 
mine 

To lead but one measure, drink one cup of 
wine. 

There are maidens in Scotland more love- 
ly, by far, 

That would gladly be bride to the young 
Lochinvar." 

The bride kiss'd the goblet, the knight 

took it up, 
He quaft''d off the wine and he threw 

down the cup. 
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd 

up to sigh. 
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her 

eye. 
He took her soft hand ere her mother 

could bar : 
" Now tread we a measure," said young 

Lochinvar. 



So stately his form, and so lovely her 

face, 
That never a hall such a galliard did 

grace, 
While her mother did fret, and her father 

did fume. 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his 

bonnet and plume. 
And the bridemaidens whispcr'd, " 'Twcre 

better by far 
To have match'd our fair cousin with 

young Lochinvar. " 

One touch to her hand, and one word in 

her ear. 
When they reach'd the hall-door, and the 

charger stood near ; 
So light to the croupe the fair lady he 

swung. 
So light to the saddle before her he 

sprung ! 
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, 

bu.sh, and scaur; 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," 

quoth young Lochinvar. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



137 



There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the 

Netherby clan ; 
Forstcrs, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they 

rode and they ran ; 
There was racing and chasing on Cannobic 

Lee, 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did 

they see. 
So daring in love, and so dauntless in 

war, 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young 

Loehinvar? 

SiK Walter Scott. 



AULD ROBIN Gray. 

When the sheep are in the fauld, when 

the kye's come hame. 
When a' the weary warld to rest are 

gane, 
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frac 

uiy ee, 
Unkenn'd by my gudenian, wha sleeps 

sound by me. 

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought 

me for his bride ; 
But saving ae crown-piece, he had naething 

beside ; 
To make the crown a pound, my Jamie 

gaed to sea ; 
And the crown and the pound, — they 

were baith for me ! 

He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and 

a day, 
When my father brake his arm, and the 

cow was stown away ; 
My mither she fell sick — my Jamie was at 

sea — 
And Auld Robin Gray came a-courting 

me. 

My father cou'dna wark, my mother 

cou'dna spin ; 
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I i That lov'st to greet the early morn, 

cou'dna win ; ] Again thou usber'st in the day 

Auld Robin maintain'd them baith, and, j My Mary from my soul was torn. 

wi' tears in his ce, 
Said, " Jeanie, oh ! for their sakes, will ye O Mary ! (bar departed shade ! 

no marry me?" Where is thy place 



My heart it said na, and I look'd for Jamie 

back ; 
But hard blew the winds, and bis ship was 

a wrack : 
His ship was a wrack — Why didna Jamie 

dee ? 
Or, why am I spared to cry, Wae is me ! 

My father urged me sair — my mother didna 

speak, 
But she lookfed in my face till my heart 

was like to break ; 
They gied him my hand — my heart was in 

the sea — 
And so Robin Gray he was gudenian to 

me. 

I hadna been his wife a week but only 

four. 
When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at 

my door, 
I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I cou'dna 

think it he, 
Till he said, " I'm come hame, love, to 

marry thee !" 

Oh sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say 

of a' ; 
I gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang 

awa' — 
I wish that I were dead, but I'm ua like to 

dee ; 
For, though my heart is broken, I'm but 

young, Wae is me ! 

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to 

spin ; 
I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be 

a sin ; 
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be. 
For, oh I Robin Gray, he is kind to me. 
Lady Anne Barnard. 



To Mary in Heaven. 

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, 



of blissful rest ? 



Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 
breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget, 
Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 

Where by the winding Ayr we met, 
To live one day of parting love? 

Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, 
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, 
green, 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar. 
Twined amorous round the raptured 
scene. 

The flowers sprang wanton to be press'd. 
The birds sang love on every spray, 

Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
Proclaim'd the speed of wingfed day. 

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes. 
And fondly broods with miser care ! 

Time but the impression deeper makes, 
As streams their channels deeper wear. 

My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 

breast ? 

Robert Burns. 



TBE LADY'S YES. 

" Yes," I answer'd you last night ; 
" No," this morning, .sir, I say : 
Colors seen by candle-light 
Will not look the same by day. 

When the viols play'd their best. 
Lamps above and laughs below. 

Love me sounded like a jest. 
Fit for yes or fit for no. 

Call me false or call me free. 

Vow, whatever light may shine,- 
No man on vour face shall see 



Yet the sin is on us both ; 

Time to dance is not to woo ; 
Wooing light makes fickle troth. 

Scorn of tnc recoils on you. 

Learn to win a lady's faith 
Nobly, as the thing is high. 

Bravely, as for life and death. 
With a loyal gravity. 

Lead her from the festive boards, 
Point her to the starry skies ; 

Guard her, by your truthful words 
Pure from courtship's flatteries. 

By your truth she shall be true, 
Ever true, as wives of yore ; 

And her yes, once said to you, 
Shall be Yes for evermore. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



Lady Clare. . 

It was the time when lilies blow, 
And clouds are highest up in air. 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn : 
Lovers long betroth'd were they : 

They two will wed the morrow morn : 
God's blessing on the day ! 

" He does not love me for my birth, 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; 

He loves me for my own true worth. 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse, 
Said, " Who was this that went from 
thee ?" 

" It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 
" To-morrow he weds with me." 

" Oh, God be thank'd!" said Alice the nurse, 
" That all comes round so just and fair : 

Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands. 
And you are not the Lady Clare." 

" Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my 
nurse ?" 
Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so 
wild?" 
" As God's above," said Alice the nurse, 
" I speak the truth : you are my cliild. 






POEMS OF LOVE. 



139 



" The old carl's daughter died at my breast; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread '. 
I buried her like my own sweet ehild, 

And put my ehild in her stead." 

" Falsely, falsely have ye done, 
mother," she said, " if this be true, 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
" But keep the secret for your life, 

And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 
When you are man and wife." 

" If I'm a beggar born," she said, 
" I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull otf, pull oir the brooeh of gold. 
And fling the diaiiujinl necklace by." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
" But keep the secret all ye can." 

She said, " Not so : but I will know 
If there be any faith in man." 

" Nay now, what faith ?" said Alice the 
nurse, 

" The man will cleave unto his right." 
" And he shall have it," the lady replied, 

" Tliough I should die to-night." 

" Yet give one kiss to your mother, dear! 

Alxs, my child, I sinn'd for thee." 
" O mother, mother, mother," she said, 

" So strange it seems to me ! 

" Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, 
My mother dear, if this be so, 

And lay your hand upon my head, 
And bless me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet gown, 
She was no longer Lady Clare : 

She went by dale, and she went by down, 
With a single rose in her hair. 

The lily-white doc Lord Ronald had 
brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropp'd her head in the maiden's hand. 

And follow'd her all the wav. 



" If I come dress'd like a village maid, 

I am but as my fortunes are : 
I am a beggar born," .she said, 

" And not the Lady Clare." 

" Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" For I am yours in word and in deed. 

Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" Your riddle is liard to read." 

Oh, and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail : 
She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laufrli'd .i laugh of merry scorn : 
He turn'd and kiss'd her wdiere she stood : 

" If you are not the heiress born. 
And I," said he, " the next in blood — 

" If you are not the heiress born, 
And I," said he, " the lawful heir, 

AVe two will wed to-morrow morn. 
And you shall still be Lady Clare." 

Alfred Tennyson. 



LOVS NOT ME FOR COMELY 
GRACE. 

Love not me for comely grace, 
For my pleasing eye or face. 
Nor for any outward part. 
No, nor for my constant heart, — 
For those may fail, or turn to ill. 
So thou and I shall sever : 
Keep therefore a true woman's eye, 
And love me still, but know not why — 
So hast thou the same reason still 
To doat upon me ever ! 

AuTiioK Unknown. 



THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE. 

It is not beauty I demand, 

A cry.stal brow, the moon's despair. 
Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand. 

Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair : 



Down stepp'd Lord Ronald from histower: Tell me not of your starry eyes, 

" O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! Your lips that seem on roses fed. 

Why come you dress'd like a village maid. Your breasts, where Cupid tundiling lies. 

That arc the flower of the earth ?" Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed : — 



140 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks 
Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, 

A breath that softer music speaks 
Than summer winds a-wooing flowers, 

These are but gauds : nay what are lips ? 

Coral beneath the ocean stream, 
Whose brink when your adventurer slips 

Full oft he perisheth on them. 

And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft 
That wave hot youth to fields of blood ? 

Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft. 
Do Greece or Ilium any good ? 

Eyes can with baleful ardor burn ; 

Poison can breath, that erst perfumed ; 
There's many a white hand holds an urn 

With lovers' hearts to dust consumed. 

For crystal brows there's naught within ; 

They are but empty cells for pride ; 
He who the siren's liair would win 

Is mostly strangled in the tide. 

Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, 

A tender heart, a loyal mind 
Which with temptation I would trust. 

Yet never liuk'd with eri'or find, — 

One in whose gentle bosom I 

Could pour my secret heart of woes, 

Like the care-burthen'd honey-fly 
That hides his murmurs in the rose, — 

My earthly Comforter ! whose love 

So indefeasible might be 
That, when my si)irit wonn'd above. 

Hers could not stay, for sympathy. 

Author Unknown. 



Milk-Maws Song. 

The Shepherd to his Love. 

Come live with me, and be my love. 
And we will all the pleasures prove 
That valleys, groves, or hills, or field, 
Or woods and stcepy mountains yield ; 

Where we will sit upon the rocks, 
And see the shepherds feed our flocks 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 



And I will make thee beds of roses. 
And then a thousand fragrant posies, 
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle ; 

A gown made of the finest wool 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 
Slippers lined choicely for the cold. 
With buckles of the purest gold ; 

A belt of straw and ivy buds, 
With coral clasps and amber studs ; 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me, and be my love. 

Thy silver dishes for my meat, 
As precious as the gods do eat. 
Shall, on an ivory table, be 
Prepared each day for thee and me. 

The .shepherd swains shall dance and sing. 
For thy delight, each Jlay morning. 
If these delights tliy mind may move. 
Then live with me and be my love. 

Christopher Marlowe. 



MILK-MAID'S MOTHER'S ANSWER. 
The Nymph's Reply. 

If all the world and love were young. 
And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 
These pretty pleasures might me move 
To live with thee and be thy love. 

But time drives flocks from field to fold, 
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; 
Then Philomel becometh dumb, 
And age complains of care to come. 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wayward winter reckoning yields. 
A houey tongue, a heart of gall, 
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fiill. 

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies. 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten ; 
In folly ripe, in season rotten. 

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, 
Thy coral clasps and amber studs. 
All these in me no means can move 
To come to thee, and be thy love. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



141 



What should we talk of dainties, then, 
Of better meat than's fit for men ? 
These arc but vain : that's only good 
Which God hath bless'd, and sent for 
food. 

But could youth last and love still breed, 
Had joys no date, or age no need, 
Tlicn those delights my mind might move 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 



Oi\ A Day, Alack the Day: 

On a day, alack the day ! 
Love, whose month is ever May, 
Spied a blossom passing fair 
Playing in tlie wanton air: 
Through the velvet leaves the wind 
All unseen 'gan passage find ; 
That the lover, sick to death, 
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath. 
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow ; 
Air, would I might triumph so ! 
But, alack, my hand is sworn 
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn : 
Vow, alack, lor youth unmeet; 
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet. 
Do not call it sin in me 
That I am forsworn for thee : 
Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear 
Juno but an Ethiope were, 
And deny himself for Jove, 
Turning mortal for thy love. 

William Shakespeare. 



WOMAN'S Inconstancy. 

I LOVED thee once, I'll love no more, 
Thine be the grief as is the blame ; 
Thou art not what thou wast before. 
What reason I should he the same? 
He that can love unloved again. 
Hath better store of love than brain : 
God send me love my dcbti to pay, 
While unthrifts fool their love away. 

Nothing could have my love o'crthrown. 
If tliou hadst still continued mine; 

Yea, if thou hadst rcmain'd thy own, 
I might perchance have yet been thine. 



But thou thy freedom did recall. 
That if thou might elsewhere inthrall ; 
And then how could I but disdain 
A captive's captive to remain? 

When new desires had conquer'd thee. 
And changed the object of thy will, 
It had been lethargy in me, 

Not constancy, to love thee still. 

Yea, it had been a sin to go 

And prostitute affection so, 

Since we are taught no jtrayers to say 

To such as must to others pray. 

Yet do thou glory in thy choice. 

Thy choice of his good fortune boa.st; 
I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice. 
To see him gain what I have lost ; 
The height of my disdain shall be. 
To laugh at him, to blush for thee; 
To love thee still, but go no more 
A begging to a beggar's door. 

Sir Uorert Ayton. 



The MAID'S La. VENT. 

I LOVED him not ; and yet now he is 
gone, 

I feel I am alone. 
I checkt him while he spoke; yet could 
he speak, 

Alas ! I would not check. 
For reasons not to love him once I 
sought. 

And wearied all my thought 
To vex myself and him : I now would give 

My love, could he but live 
Who lately lived for me, and when lie 
found 

'Twas vain, in holy ground 
He hid his face amid the shades of death ! 

I witste for him my breath 
Who wasted his for me; but mine returns. 

And this lone bosom burns 
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, 

And waking me to weep 
Tears that had melted his .soft heart: for 
years 

Wept he a-s bitter tears ! 
" Merciful ( iod !" such was his latest prayer, 

"These may she never share!" 
Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold 

Than daisies in the mould, 



142 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Where children spell athwart the church- 
yard gate 
His name and life's brief date. 
Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be, 
And oh, pray, too, for me! 

Walter Savage Landor. 



The SHEPHERD'S WIFE'S SONG. 

Ah ! what is love? It is a pretty thing, 
As sweet unto a shepherd as a king, 

And sweeter too; 
For kings have cares that wait upon a 

crown, 
And cares can make the sweetest face to 

frown : 

Ah then, ah then. 
If country loves such sweet desires gain. 
What lady would not love a shepherd 

swain ? 

His flocks are folded ; he comes home at 
night 

As merry as a king in his delight, 
And merrier too; 

For kings bethink them what the state re- 
quire. 

Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire : 
Ah then, ah then. 

If country love such sweet desires gain, 

What lady would not love a shepherd 



He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat 
His cream and curd as doth the king his 

meat". 

And blither too ; 
For kings have often fears when they sup. 
Where shepherds dread no poison in their 

cup : 

Ah then, ah then. 
If country loves such sweet desires gain, 
What lady would not love a shepherd 

swain? 

Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound 
As doth the king upon his beds of down, 

More sounder too ; 
For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to 

spill. 
Where weary shepherds lie and snort their 
fill: 

Ah then, ah then. 



If country loves such sweet desires gain. 
What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 

Thus with his wife he spends the year as 

blithe 
As doth the king at every tide or syth, 

And blither too; 
For kings have wars and broils to take in 

hand. 
When shepherds laugh, and love upon the 

land: 

Ah then, ah then. 

If country loves such sweet desires gain. 

What lady would not love a shepherd 

swain ? 

Robert Greene. 



Love in the Valley. 

Under yonder beech-tree standing on the 

green sward, 
Couch'd with her arms behind her little 

head. 
Her knees folded up, and her tresses on her 

bosom. 
Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. 
Had I the heart to slide one arm beneath 

her. 
Press her dreaming lips as her waist I 

folded slow, 
Waking on the instant she could not but 

embrace me — 
Ah ! would she hold me, and never let me go ? 

Shy as the squirrel, and wayward as the 

swallow ; 
Swift as the swallow when, athwart the 

western flood, 
Circleting the surface, he meets his mir- 

ror'd winglets — 
Is that dear one in her maiden bud. 
Shy as the squirrel whose nest is in the 

pine tops ; 
Gentle— ah ! that she were jealous— as the 

dove! 
Full of all the wildness of the woodland 

creatures, 
Happy in herself is the maiden that I love ! 

What can have taught her distrust of all I 

tell her? 
Can she truly doubt me when looking on 

my brows? 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



143 



Nature never teaches distrust of tender 
love-tales — 

What can have taught her distrust of all 
my vows? 

No, she docs not doubt nie ! on a dewy eve- 
tide, 

Whispering together beneath the listening 
moon, 

I jiray'd till her cheek flusli'd, implored 
till she falter'd— 

Flutter'd to my bosom — ah! to fly away so 
soon ! 

\VTien her mother tends her before the 

laughing mirror, 
Tying up her laces, looping up her hair. 
Often she thinks — Were this wild thing 

wedded, 
I should have more love, and much less 

care. 
When her mother tends her before the 

bashful mirror, 
Loosening her lacea, combing down her 

curls. 
Often she thinks — Were this wild thing 

wedded, 
I should lose but one for so many boys and 

girls. 

Clambering roses peep into her chamber ; 

Jasmine and woodbine breathe sweet, 
sweet ; 

White-neck'd swallows, twittering of sum- 
mer, 

Fill her with balm and nested peace from 
head to feet. 

Ah I will the rose-bough see her lying 
lonely, 

AVhen the petals fall and fierce bloom is on 
the leaves? 



Sometimes the huntsmen, prancing down 

the valley, 
Eye the village lasses, full of sprightly 

mirth ; 
They see, as I see, mine is the fairest ! 
Would she were older and could read my 

worth ! 

Are there not sweet maidens, if she still 

deny me? 
Show the bridal heavens but one bright 

star? 
Wherefore thus then do I chase a shadow. 
Clattering one nr)te like a brown eve-jar? 
So I rhyme and rc;ison till she darts before 

me — 
Through the milky meadows from flower to 

flower she flies. 
Sunning her sweet palms to shade her 

dazzled eyelids 
From the golden love that looks too eager 

in her eyes. 

When at dawn she wakens, and her fair 
face gazes 

Out on the weather through the window- 
panes. 

Beauteous she looks ! like a white water- 

lily 

Bursting out of l)ud on the rippled river 

plains. 
When from bed she rises, clothed from 

neck to ankle 
In her long night-gown, sweet as boughs of 

May, 
Beauteous she looks ! like a tall garden lily, 
Pure from the night and perfect for the day ! 



Happy, happy time, when the gray star 

twinkles 
Over the fields all fresh with bloomv dew ; 
Will the autumn garners see her still un- \vhen the cold-clieek'd dawn grows" ruddy 



gather'd, 



up the twilight. 



When the fickle swallows forsake the weep- And the gold sun wakes and weds her in 
"ig eaves? I the blue. 

Then when my darling tempta the early 

breezes, 
She the only star that dies not with the 

dark! 
Powerless to speak all tlie ardor of my 

passion, 
I catch her little hand as \w listiii to the 

lark. 



Comes a sudden question — should a strange 

hand pluck her ! 
Oh, what an anguish smites me at the 

thought I 
Should some idle lordling bribe her mind 

with jewels ! — 
Can such beauty ever thus be bought? 



144 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 


Shall the birds in vain then valentine their 


Slighted love is sair to bide. 


sweethearts? 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 


Season after season tell a fruitless tale? 


Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 


Will not the virgin listen to their voices? 


For a haughty hizzie dee? 


Take the honey'd meaning, wear the bridal 


She may gae to — France for me ! 


veil? 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 


Fears she frosts of winter, fears she the 




bare branches ? 


How it comes let doctors tell, 


Waits she the garlands of spring for her 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 


dower ? 


Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, 


Is she a nightingale that will not be nested 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 


Till the April woodland has built her bridal 


Something in her bosom wrings, 


bower? 


For relief a sigh she brings; 




And oh, her een, they spak sic things I 


Then come, merry April, with all thy birds 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 


and beauties ! 




With thy crescent brows and thy flowery, 


Duncan was a lad o' grace, 


showery glee ; 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 


With thy budding leafage and fresh green 


Maggie's was a piteous case, 


pastures ; 
And may thy lustrous crescent grow a hon- 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 


Duncan eouldna be her death. 


eymoon for me ! 


Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 


Come, merry month of the cuckoo and the 


Now they're crouse and canty baith. 


violet ! 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 


Come, weeping loveliness in all thy blue 


Robert Burns. 


delight ! 


•<>• ■ 


Lo ! the nest is ready, let me not languish 




longer ! 


RUTH. 


Bring her to my arms on the first May night. 


She stood breast-high amid the corn. 


Geokge Meeedith. 


Clasp'd by the golden light of morn. 


•o* 


Like the sweetheart of the sun. 


DUNCAN Gray. 


Wlio many a glowing kiss had won. 


Duncan Gray cam here to woo, 


On her cheek an autumn flush 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 


Deeply ripen'd ; — such a blush 


On blythe Yule night when we were fou, 


In the midst of brown was born, 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't : 


Like red poppies grown with corn. 


Maggie coost her head fu' high. 




Look'd asklent and unco' skeigh. 


Round her eyes her tresses fell. 


Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 


Which were blackest none could tell. 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't! 


But long lashes veil'd a light. 




That had else been all too bright. 


Duncan flcech'd, and Duncan pray'd, 




Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 


And her hat, with shady brim, 


Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig ; 


Made her tressy forehead dim ; 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 


Thus she stood amid the stooks, 


Duncan sigh'd baith out and in. 


Praising God with sweetest looks : — 


Grat his een baith bleert and blin', 




Spak o' lowpin ower a linn ; 


Sure, I said, hcav'n did not mean. 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 


Wliere I reaji thou shouldst but glean. 




Lay thy sheaf adown and come, 


Time and chance are but a tide, 


Share my harvest and my home. 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 


Thomas Hood. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



145 



Phillida and Corydon. 

In the merrie moiieth of Maye, 
In a niornc by break of daye, 
With a troope of damselles playing 
Forthe " I yode" forsooth a-maying : 

When anon by a wood side, 
Where as JIaye was in his pride, 
I cspil-d all alone 
Phillida and Corydon. 

Much adoe there was, god wot ; 
He wold love, and she wold not. 
She sayde, never man was trewe ; 
He sayes, none was false to you. 

He sayde, hee had lovdc her longe : 
She sayes, love should have no wronge. 
Corydon wold kisse her then : 
She sayes, maydes must kisse no men, 

Tyll they doe for good and all. 
When she made the shepperde call 
All the heavens to wytnes truthe, 
Never loved a truer youthe. 

Then with manie a prettie othe, 
Yea and nay, and faith and trothe ; 
Suche as seelie shei)i)erdes use 
When they will not love abuse ; 

Love, that had bene long deluded. 
Was with kisses sweete concluded ; 
And Phillida with garlands gave 
Was made the lady of the Maye. 

Nicholas Breton. 



Maid of Athens. 

Maid of .\thens, ere we part. 
Give, oh, give me back my heart ! 
Or, since that has left my breast, 
Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go, 
ZwTj tiiiu, aii^ ayaT-ii), 

By those tresses unconfined, 
Woo'd by each ^Egean wind ; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Ki.s8 thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge, 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
Zuiti iioH, ad^ fl/aTTai. 

By that lip I long to taste ; 
By that zone-encircled waist ; 

10 



By all the token-flowers that tell 
^Vhat words can never speak so well ; 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 
Zairj /lot), ad^ dyaTzib. 

Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 
Think of me, sweet ! when alone. — 
Though I fly to Istambol, 
Athens holds my heart and soul : 
Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
Zoiij iiou, ad^ dya-u). 

Loud Bvros. 



ADELGITHA. 

The Ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded. 
And sad, pale Adelgilha came. 

When forth a valiant champion bounded, 
And slew the slanderer of her fame. 

She wept, deliver'd from her danger ; 

But when he knelt to claim her glove — 
"Seek not," she cried, "O gallant 
stranger, 

For hapless Adelgitha's love. 

" For he is in a foreign far land 

Whose arm should now have set me 
free ; 
And I must wear the willow garland 

For him that's dead, or false to me." 

" Nay ! say not that his faith is tainted !" — 
He raised his visor, — at the sight 

She fell into his arms and fainted ; 
It was indeed her own true knight. 

Thomas Ca-mpbell. 



Bonnie Lesley. 

Oh saw ye bonnie Lesley 
As she gaed o'er the border? 

She's gane, like Alexander, 
To spread her conquests further. 

To see her is to love her. 
And love but her for ever; 

For Nature made her what she is. 
And ne'er made sic anither. 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley — 
Thy subjects we, before thee ; 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley — 
The hearts o' men adore the«. 



14G FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


The deil he could na scaith thee, 


The Spanish girl that meets your love 


Or aught that wad belang thee ; 


Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial, 


He'd look into thy bonnie face, 


For every thought is bent to prove 


And say, "I canna wrang thee." 


Her passion in the hour of trial. 




When thronging foemen menace Spain, 


The powers aboon will tent thee ; 


She dares the deed and shares the 


Misfortune sha'na steer thee ; 


danger ; 


Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 


And should her lover press the plain, 


That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 


She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 


Return again, fair Lesley I 


And when, beneath the evening star, 


Return to Caledonie ! 


She mingles in the gay Bolero, 


That we may brag we hae a lass 


Or sings to her attuned guitar 


There's nane again sae bonnie. 


Of Christian knight or Moorish hero. 


Robert Burns. 


Or counts her beads with fairy hand 


^ 


Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper, 


THE Girl of Cadiz. 


Or joins devotion's choral band, 




To chaunt the sweet and hallow'd vesper, 


Oh never talk again to me 




Of northern climes and British ladies ; 


In each her charms the heart must move 


It has not been your lot to see, 


Of all who venture to behold her ; 


Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. 


Then let not maids less fair reprove 


Although her eye be not of blue. 


Because her bosom is not colder : 


Nor fair her locks, like English lasses, 


Through many a clime 'tis mine to roam. 


How far its own expressive hue 


Where many a soft and melting maid is. 


The languid azure eye surpasses! 


But none abroad, and few at home. 




May match the dark-eyed girl of Cadiz. 


Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole 


Lord Byron. 


The fire that through those silken lashes 


*o* 


In darkest glances seems to roll. 


/ Love jiv Love. 


From eyes that cannot hide their flashes ; 




And as along her bosom steal 


What is the meaning of the song 


In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses. 


That rings so clear and loud, 


You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, 


Thou nightingale amid the copse. 


And curl'd to give her neck caresses. 


Thou lark above the cloud? 




What says thy song, thou joyous thrush, 


Our English maids are long to woo, 


Up in the walnut tree? 


And frigid even in possession ; 


" I love my Love, because I know 


And if their charms be fair to view. 


My Love loves me." 


Their lips are slow at Love's confession : 




But born beneath a brighter sun, 


What is the meaning of thy thought, 


For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is. 


O maiden fair and young? 


And who— when fondly, fturly won,— 


There is such pleasure in thine eyes, 


Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz? 


Such music on thy tongue ; 




There is such glory on thy face, 


The Spanish maid is no coquette. 


What can the meaning be? 


Nor joys to see a lover tremble, 


" I love my Love, because I know 


And if she love, or if she hate. 


My Love loves me." 


Alike she knows not to dissemble. 




Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold— 


Oh happy words ! at Beauty's feet 


Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely ; 


We sing them ere our prime. 


And, though it will not bend to gold, 


And when the early summers pass, 


'Twill love you long and love you dearly. 


And Care comes on with Time, 




T y 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



147 



Still be it ours, in Care's despite, 

To join the chorus free : 
" I love my Love, because 1 kmnv 

My Love loves me." 

Charles Mackay. 

Come, rest av this Bosom. 

Come, re* in this bosom, my own stricken 

deer, 
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy 

home is still here ; 
Here still is the smile that no cloud can 

o'ercast. 
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the 

last. 

Oh, what was love made for, if 'tis not the 

same 
Through joy and through torment, through 

glory and shame? 
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that 

heart, 
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou 

art. 

Thou hast call'd me thy angel in momenta 
of bliss. 

And thy angel I'll be 'mid the horrors of 
this, 

Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy 
steps to pursue, 

And shield thee, and save thee, — or per- 
ish there too ! 

Thomas Moore. 



The Siller Croun. 

" AxD ye sail walk in silk attire, 
And siller hae to spare. 
Gin ye'll consent to be his bride, 
Nor think o' Donald mair." 

Oh wha wad buy a silken goun 

Wi' a pair broken heart? 
Or what's to me a siller croun 

Gin frae my love I part? 

The mind, whose meanest wish is pure, 

Far dearest is to me. 
And ere I'm forced to break my faith, 

I'll lay me doun an' dee. 

For I hae vow'd a virgin's vow 
Jly lover's fate to share, 



An' he has gi'en to me his heart. 
And what can man do mair? 

His mind and manners won my heart: 

He gratcfu' took the gift ; 
And did I wish to seek it back, 

It wad be wanr than theft. 

The langcst life can ne'er repay 

The love he bears to me. 
And ere I'm forced to break my faith, 

I'll lay me doun an' dee. 

Susanna Blamire. 



Mary MoRisox. 

Mary, at thy window be ! 

It is the wish'd, the try.sted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see 

That make the mi.ser's treasure poor : 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun, 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison ! 

Yestreen' when to the trembling string 
The dance gaed through the lighted ha', 

To thee my fancy took its wing, — 
I sat, but neither heard nor saw : 

Though this was fair, and that was braw, 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 

1 sigh'd, and said amang them a', 
" Ye arc na Mary Morison." 

O Marj-, canst thou wreck his peace 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie, 

At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 

Robert Bcrns. 



The MINSTREL'S SONO. 

Oh, sing unto my roundelay ! 

Oh, drop the briny tear with me ! 
Dance no more at holid.iy ; 
Like a running river be. 
My love is dead, 
fione to his death bed, 
.Ml under the willow tree. 



148 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Black his hair as the winter night, 

White his neck as the summer snow, 
Buddy his fiice as the morning light ; 
Cold he lies in the grave helow. 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death bed, 
All under the willow tree. 

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note ; 

Quick in dance as thought can be ; 
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout ; 
Oh, he lies by the willow tree I 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death bed, 
All under the willow tree. 

Hark ! the raven flaps his wing 

In the brier'd dell below ; 
Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing 
To the nightmares as they go. 
My love is dead. 
Gone to his death bed, 
All under the willow tree. 

See ! the white moon shines on high ; 

Whiter is my true-love's shroud, 
Whiter than the morning sky, 
Whiter than the evening cloud. 
My love is dead. 
Gone to his deathbed, 
All under the willow tree. 

Here, upon my true-love's grave 
Shall the baren flowers be laid, 
Nor one holy saint to save 
All the coldness of a maid. 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death bed. 
All under the willow tree. 

With my hands I'll bind the briers 

Round his holy corse to gre ; 
Ouphante fairy, light your fires ; 
Here my body still shall be. 
My love is dead. 
Gone to his death bed, 
All under the willow tree. 

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, 

Drain my heart's blood all away ; 
Life and all its good I scorn; 
Dance by night, or feast by day. 
My love is dead. 
Gone to his death bed, 
All under the willow tree. 



Water-witches, crown'd with reytes. 
Bear me to your lethal tide. 

I die ! I come ! my true love waits. 
Thus the damsel spake, and died. 

Thomas Chatterton. 



One Word is too often 
Profaned. 

One word is too often profaned 

For me to profane it, 
One feeling too falsely disdain'd 

For thee to disdain it. 
One hope is too like despair 

For prudence to smother, 
And pity from thee more dear 

Thau that from another. 

I can give not what men call love ; 

But wilt thou accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above 

And the heavens reject not ; 
The desire of the moth for the star, 

Of the night for the morrow, 
The devotion to something afar 

From the sphere of our sorrow ? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

To his FORS.iKEN MISTRESS. 

I DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair. 
And I might have gone near to love thee, 

Had I not found the lightest prayer 
That lips could speak, had power to 
move thee ; 

But I can let thee now alone. 

As worthy to be loved by none. 

I do confess thou'rt sweet ; yet find 
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, 

Thy favors are but like the wind, 
"That kisses everything it meets ; 

And since thou canst with more than one, 

Thou'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none. 

The morning rose that untouch'd stands 
Arm'd with her briers, how sweetly 
smells ! 
But pluck'd and strain'd through ruder 
hands. 
No more her sweetness with her dwells, 
But scent aud beauty both are gone. 
And leaves fall from her, one by one. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 149 


Such fate, erelong, will thee betide, 


In the Spring a livelier iris changes on 


When thou hast liiindled been ii while, — 


the buniish'd dove; 


Like sere flowers to be thrown aside : 


In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly 


And I will sigh, wiiile some will smile, 


turns to thoughts of love. 


To see thy love for more than one 




Hath brought thee to be loved by none. 


Then her cheek was pale and thinner than 


SiK UOBEBT AYTON. 


should be for one so young. 


,,. 


And her eyes on all my motions with a 


LOCKSLEY llALL. 


mute observance hung. 


Comrades, leave me here a little, while as 


And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and 


yet 'tis early morn : 


.speak the truth to me. 


Leave me here, and when yon want me. 


Trust me, cousin, all the current of my 


sound upon the bugle horn. 


being sets to thee." 


'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, 


On her pallid check and forehead came a 


the curlews call. 


color and a light. 


Dreary gleams about the moorland flying 


As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the 


over Lock.sley Hall ; 


northern night. 


Locksley Hall that in the distance over- 


Andshe turn'd — her bosom shaken with a 


' looks the sandy tracts, 


sudden storm of sighs — 


And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into 


All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark 


cataracts. 


of hazel eyes- 


Many a night from yonder ivied casement, 


Saying, " I have hid my feelings, fearing 


ere I went to rest. 


they should do nie wrong :" 


Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly 


Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin ?" 


to the West. 


weeping, " I have loved thee long." 


Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising 


Love took up tlie gla.s3 of Time, and turn'd 


thro' the mellow shade. 


it in his glowing hands ; 


Glitter like a swarm of fire-flics tangled in 


Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself 


a silver braid. 


in golden sands. 


Here about the beach I waader'd, nourish- 


Love took up the harp of Life, and smote 


ing a youth sublime 


on all the cliords with might ; 


With the fairy tales of science, and the 


Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, 


long result of Time ; 


pass'd in music out of sight. 


When the centuries behind me like a 


Many a morning on the moorland did we 


fruitful land rejwsed ; 


hear the copses ring. 


When I clung to all the present for the 


And her whisper throng'd my pulses with 


promise that it 'closed : 


the fullness of the Spring. 


When I dipt into the future far as human 


Many an evening by the waters did we 


eye could see ; 


watch the .stately ships. 


Saw the Vision of the world, and all the 


And our spirits rush'd together at the 


wonder that wouUl be. 


touching of the lips. 


la the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon 


my cousin, shallow-hwirted ! my 


the rfibin's brea.st ; 


Amy, mine no more ! 


In the Sj)ring the wanton lapwing gets 


the dreary, dreary moorland ! the 


himself another crest : 


barren, barren shore ! 



150 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than 

all songs have sung, 
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to 

a shrewish tongue ! 

Is it well to wish thee happy? — having 
known me — to decline 

On a range of lower feelings and a nar- 
rower heart than mine ! 

Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his 

level day by day. 
What is fine within thee growing coarse to 

sympathize with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is : thou art 

mated with a clown, 
And the grossness of his nature will have 

weight to drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion Bhall 
have spent its novel force. 

Something better than his dog, a little 
dearer than his horse. 

What is this ? his eyes are heavy : think 
not they are glazed with wine. 

Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take 
his hand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain 

is overwrought ; 
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch 

him with thy lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things 

to understand — 
Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I 

slew thee with my hand ! 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from 

the heart's disgrace, 
RoU'd in one another's arms, and silent in 

a last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against 

the strength of youth ! 
Curs6d be the social lies that warp us from 

the living truth ! 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from 

honest Nature's rule ! 
Curs6d be the gold that gilds the straiten'd 

forehead of the fool ! 



Well— 'tis well that I should bluster!— 
Hadst thou less unworthy proved — 

Would to God— for I had loved thee more 
than ever wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that 
which bears but bitter fruit ? 

I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my 
heart be at the root. 

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such 
length of years should come 

As the many winter'd crow that leads the 
clanging rookery home. 

Where is comfort? in division of the rec- 
ords of the mind? 

Can I part her from herself, and love her, 
as I knew her, kind ? 

I remember one that perish'd : sweetly did 

she speak and move : 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look 

at was to love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her 

for the love she bore ? 
No — she never loved me truly : love is love 

for evermore. 

Comfort ? comfort scorn'd of devils ! this 
is truth the poet sings. 

That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remem- 
bering happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest 
thy heart be put to jiroof, 

In the dead unhappy night, and when the 
rain is on the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou 

art staring at the wall. 
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and 

the shadows rise and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, point- 
ing to his drunken sleep. 

To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the 
tears that thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the " Never, never," whis- 
per'd by the phantom years. 

And a song from out the distance in the 
ringing of thine ears; 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



151 



And an eye shall vex tlicc, looking ancient 

kindness on tliy pain. 
Turn tlieo, turn thee on thy jiillow : get thee 

to thy rest again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a 

tender voice will ery. 
'Tis a i)urcr life than thine ; a lip to drain 

thv trouble dry. 



Can I but re-live in sadness? I will turn 

that earlier page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, thou 

wondrous Mother- Age! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt 

before the strife, 
When 1 heard my days before me, and the 

tumult of my life; 



Baby lips will laugh nie down: my latest Yearning for the large excitement that the 

coming years would yield, 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves 
his father's field. 

And at night along the dusky highway 
near and nearer drawn. 

Sees in heaven the liglit of London flaring 
like a dreary dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone 
before him then, 

Underneath the light he looks at, in among 
the throngs of men : 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever 
reaping something new ; 

That which they have done but earnest of 
the things that they shall do ; 

For I dipt into the future, far as human 

eye could see, 
Saw the vision of the world, and all the 

wonder that would be ; 

Saw the heavens fill with c<ininicrce, argo- 
sies of magic sails, 

Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping 
down with costly bales; 



rival brings thee rest. 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me 
from the mother's breast. 

Oh, tlie chilli too clothes the father with a 

dcarness not his due. 
Half is thine and half is his: it will be 

worthy of the two. 

Oh, I sec thee old and formal, fitted to thy 

petty part. 
With a little hoard of maxims preaching 

down a daughter's heart. 

" They were dangerous guides the feelings 
— she herself was not exempt — 

Truly, she herself had sud'er'd " — Perish in 
thy .self-contemi)t ! 

Overlive it — lower yct^ — be hapjiy I where- 
fore should I care? 

I myself must mix with action, lest I 
wither by despair. 

What is that which I slmulcl turn to, light- 
ing U])on days like these? 

Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens 
but to golden keys. 



Every gate is tbrong'd with suitors, all the Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and 

markets overflow. there rain'd a gha.stly dew 

I have but an angry fancy : what is that From the nations' airy navies grapjding in 



which I should do? 



the central blue ; 



I had been content to perish, falling on the Far along the world-wide whisper of the 
foeman's grounil, I south wind rushing warm. 

When the ranks are roll'd in vajtour, and With the standards of the peoples plung- 
the winds are laid with sound. ' ing thro" the thunderstorm ; 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and 
hurt tliat Honor feels, [ the battle-flags were furl'd 

And the nations do but murmur, snarling > In the Parliament of man, the Federation 
at cacli other's heels. | of the world. 



152 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. 



There the common sense of most shall 
hold a fretful realm in awe, 

And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt 
in universal law. 

So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping 

thro' me left me dry, 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left 

me with the jaundiced eye ; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things 
here are out of joint ; 

Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creep- 
ing on from point to point ; 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion 

creeping niglier. 
Glares at one that nods and winks behind 

a slowly dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increas- 
ing purpose runs, 

And the thoughts of men are wideu'd with 
the process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest 

of his youthful joys, 
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for 

ever like a boy's? 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and 

I linger on the shore, 
And the individual withers, and the world 

is more and more. 

Knowledge comes but wisdom lingers, and 

he bears a laden breast. 
Full of sad experience, moving toward the 

stillness of his rest. 

Hark ! my merry comrades call me, sound- 
ing on the bugle-horn, 

They to whom my foolish passion were a 
target for their scorn ; 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such 

a nioulder'd string? 
I am shamed thro' all my nature to have 

loved so slight a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness! 
woman's pleasure, woman's pain, — 

Nature made them blinder motions bound- 
ed in a shallower brain ; 



Woman is the lesser man, and all thy pas- 
sions, match'd with mine. 

Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as 
water unto wine — 

Here at least, where Nature sickens, noth- 
ing. Ah, for some retreat 

Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my 
life began to beat ; 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my 

father evil-starr'd ; — 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish 

uncle's ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to 

wander far away. 
On from island unto island at the gateways 

of the day. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow 

moons and happy skies. 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in 

cluster, knots of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an 

European flag. 
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, 

swings the trailer from the crag ; 

Droops the hea vy -blossom 'd bower, hangs 

the heavy-fruited tree — 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple 

spheres of sea. 

There methinks would be enjoyment more 
than in this march of mind, 

In the steamship, in the railway, in the 
thoughts that shake mankind. 

There the passions cramp'd-no longer shall 
have scope and breathing-space, 

I will take some savage woman, she shall 
rear my dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall 
dive, and they shall run. 

Catch the wild-goat by the hair, and hurl 
their lances in the sun ; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the 

rainbows of the brooks. 
Not with blinded eyesight poring over 

miserable books — 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



153 



Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I 
know my words are wild, 

But I count the gray barbarian lower than 
the Christian child. 

I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant 

of our glorious gains, 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a 

beast with lower pains! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me 

were sun or clime? 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost 

files of time — 

I that rather held it better men should 

perish one by one, 
Than tliat earth should stand at gaze like 

Joshua's moon in Ajalon ! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. For- 
ward, forward let us range. 

Let the great world spin for ever down the 
ringing grooves of change. 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep 

into the younger day : 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle 

of Cathay. 

Mother-Age (for mine I knew not), help 

me as when life begun : 
Rift the Iiills, and roll the waters, flash the 

lightnings, weigh the Sun. 

Oh, I see the crescent promise of my spirit 

hath not set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all 

my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell 

to Locksley Hall ! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now 

for me the roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, blacken- 
ing over heath and holt. 

Cramming all the bla.st before it, in its 
brea-st a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or 
hail, or fire or snow ; 

For the mighty wind arises, roaring sea- 
ward, and I go. 

.■\I,FHK1» Tknnvson. 



The Steadfast Shepherd. 

Hence away, thou Syren ; leave me. 
Pish ! unclasp these wanton arms ; 
Sugar'd words can ne'er deceive me — 
Though thou prove a thousand charms. 
Fie, fie, forbear; 
No common snare 
Can ever my afieetion chain : 
Thy painted baits. 
And poor deceits. 
Are all bestow'd on me in vain. 

I'm no slave to such as you be ; 

Neither shall that snowy breast, 
Rolling eye, and lip of ruby. 
Ever rob me of my rest ; 
Go, go, display 
Tliy beauty's ray 
To some more soon enanior'd swain: 
Those coninion wiles, 
Of sighs and smiles, 
Are all bestow'd on me in vain. 

I have elsewhere vow'd a duty ; 
Turn away thy tempting eye ; 
Show not me a painted beauty ; 
These impostures I defy : 
My spirit loathes 
Where gaudy clothes 
And feigned oaths may love obtain : 
I love her so 
Wliose look swears no, 
That all your labors will be vain 

Can he prize the tainted posies, 

Which on every breast are worn ; 
That may pluck the virgin roses 
From their never-touched thorn ? 

I can go rest 

On her sweet breast 
That is the pride of Cyntliia's train ; 

Tlien stay thy tongue; 

Thy mermaid song 
Is all bestow'd on me in vain. 

He's a fool that basely dallies 

Where each peasant mates with him: 
Shall I haunt the thronged valleys, 
Whilst there's noble hills to climb? 
No, no, though clowns 
Are scared with frowns, 



154 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



I know the best can but disdain : 

And those I'll prove, 

So will thy love 
Be all bestow'd on me in vain. 

I do scorn to vow a duty, 

Where each lustful lad may woo; 
Give me her whose sunlike beauty 
Buzzards dare not soar unto : 

She, she it is 

Affords that bliss, 
For which I would refuse no pain ; 

But such as you, 

Fond fools, adieu. 
You seek to captive me in vain. 

Leave me, then, thou Syren, leave me ; 

Seek no more to work my harms; 
Crafty wiles cannot deceive me. 

Who am proof against your charms : 
You labor may 
To lead astray 
The heart, that constant shall remain ; 
And I the while 
Will sit and smile 
To see you spend your time in vain. 

George Wither. 



Farewell to Nancy. 

Ae fond kiss and then we sever ! 
Ae fareweel, alas ! for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee ; 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy — 
Naething could resist my Nancy: 
But to see her was to love her, 
Love but her and love for ever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly. 
Never met — or never parted. 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 



Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! 
Ae fareweel, alas ! for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee; 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Robert Burns. 

In Praise of his Love. 

Give place, ye lovers, here before 

That spent your boasts and brags in 
vain ; 

My laxly's beauty passeth more 
The best of yours, I dare well sayen. 

Than doth the sun the candlelight. 

Or brightest day the darkest night ; 

And thereto hath a troth as just 

As had Penelope the fair ; 
For what she saith ye may it trust, 

As it by writing sealfed were ; — 
And virtues hath she many mo' 
Than I with pen have skill to show. 

I could rehearse, if that I would. 
The whole effect of Nature's plaint, 

When she had lost the perfect mould. 
The like to whom she could not paint. 

With wringing hands, how did she cry I 

And what she said, I know it aye. 

I know she swore, with raging mind, 

Her kingdom oidy set apart. 
There was no loss by law of kind 

That could have gone so near her heart ; 
And this was chiefly all her pain — 
" She could not make the like again." 

Sith Nature thus gave her the praise 
To be the chiefest work she wrought, 

In faith, methink, some better ways 
On your behalf might well be sought. 

Than to compare, as ye have done, 

To match the candle with the sun. 

Henry How.iRD (Earl of Surrey). 

Sweet are the Charms. 

Sweet are the charms of her I love : 
More fragrant than the damask rose. 

Soft as the down of turtle dove. 
Gentle as air when Zephyr blows. 

Refreshing as descending rains 

To sunburnt climes and thirsty plains. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



1m 



True as the needle to the pole, 

Or lis the dial to the sun ; 
Constant as jrlidin;; waters roll, 

Whose swelling tides obey the moon — 
From every other charmer free, 
My life and love shall follow thee. 

The lamb the (lowery thyme devours, 
The dam the tender kid pursues ; 

Sweet Philomel in shady bowers 
Of verdant spring her note renews : 

All follow what they most admire, 

As I pursue my soul's desire. 

Nature must change her beauteous face, 

And vary a.s the seasons rise, 
As winter to the spring gives place, 

Summer th' approach of autumn flies : 
Xo change on love the seasons bring, — 
Love only knows perpetual spring. 

Devouring Time with stealing pace, 
JIakes lofty oaks and cedars bow ; 

And marble towers and gates of brass 
In his rude march he levels low ; 

But Time, destroying far and wide, 

Love from the soul can ne'er divide. 

Death only, with his cruel dart. 
The gentle godhead can remove. 

And drive him from the bleeding heart. 
To mingle with the blest above, 

Where, known to all his kindred train, 

He finds a lasting rest from pain. 

Love and his sister fair, the Soul, 
Twin born, from heaven together came; 

Love will the universe control 

When dying sea-sons lose their name ; 

Divine abodes .shall own his power, 

When Time and Death shall be no more. 
Baktun Buuth. 



Genevieve. 

Maid of my love, sweet Genevieve; 

In beauty's light you glide along; 
Your eye is like the star of eve. 

And sweet your voice as seraph's song. 
Yet not your heavenly beauty gives 

This heart with passion soft to glow ; 
Within your soul a voice there lives, 

It bids you hear the tale of woe. 



When sinking low the sufferer wan 
Beholds no hand outstretch'd to save ; 

Fair as the bosom of the swan 
That rises graceful o'er the wave, 

I've seen your breast with pity heave. 

And (here/ore love I you, sweet CJenevieve. 
Samuel Taylor CuI/ERIDge. 



The MILLER'S Daughter. 

It is the miller's daughter. 

And she is grown so dear, so dear, 

That I would be the jewel 
That trembles in her ear; 

For hid in ringlets day and night, 

I'd touch her neck so warm and white. 

And 1 would be the girdle 

About her dainty dainty waist, 

And her heart would beat against me. 
In sorrow and in rest ; 

And I should know if it beat right, 

I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace, 
And all day long to fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom, 

With her laughter or her sighs. 

And I would lie .so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclxsp'd at night. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



The Lass of Patie'S Mill. 

The lass of Patie's mill, 

Sae bonnie, blithe, and gay. 
In s]iite of all my skill 

yhc stole my heart away. 
When tedding of the hay, 

Bareheaded on the green, 
Love 'midst her locks did play. 

And wanton'd in her een. 

Her arms white, round, and smooth ; 

Bretists rising in their dawn ; 
To age it would give youtli 

To press them with his hand. 
Through all my spirits ran 

An ecsta.sy of bliss. 
When I such sweetness fand 

Wrapt in a balmy kiss. 

Without the help of art, 

Like llow'rs which grace the wild, 



15G 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



She did her sweets impart, 
Whene'er she spoke or smiled ; 

Her looks they were so mild, 
Free from affected pride, 

She me to love beguiled ; — 
I wish'd her for my bride. 

Oh, had I a' the wealth 

Hopetoun's high mountains fill. 
Insured lang life and health. 

And pleasure at my will, 
I'd promise and fulfil 

That none but bonnie she, 
The lass of Patie's mill. 

Should share the same with me. 

Allan Ramsay. 



Rosa DEE'S Sonetto. 

Turn I my looks unto the skies, 

Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes; 

If so I look upon the ground, 

Love then in every flower is found ; 

Search I the shade to flee my pain, 

Love meets me in the shades again ; 

Want I to walk in secret grove. 

E'en there I meet with sacred love; 

If so I bathe me in the spring. 

E'en on the brink I hear him sing; 

If so I meditate alone, 

He will be partner of my moan ; 

If so I mourn, he weeps with me. 

And where I am there will he be; 

When as I talk of Rosalind, 

The god from coyness waxeth kind, 

And seems in self-same frame to fly, 

Because he loves as well as I. 

Sweet Rosalind, for pity rue, 

For why, than love I am more true : 

He, if he speed, will quickly fly, 

But in thy love I live and die. 

Thomas Lodge. 



Kisses. 

My love and I for kisses play'd : 

She would keep stakes — I was content ; 
But when I won, she would be paid ; 

This made me ask her what she meant. 
" Pray, since I see," quoth she, " your 

wrangling vein. 
Take your own kisses; give me mine again." 
William Stkuue. 



A Stolen Kiss. 

Now gentle sleep hath closfed up those 
eyes 
Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts 
in awe ; 
And free access unto that sweet lip lies, 
From whence I long the rosy breath to 
draw. 
Methinks no wrong it were, if I should 
steal 
From those melting rubies, one poor 
kiss ; 
None sees the theft that would the theft 
reveal. 
Nor rob I her of aught what she can 
miss : 
Nay, should I twenty kisses take away. 
There would be little sign I would do 
so ; 
Why, then, should I this robbery delay ? 
Oh, she may wake, and therewith angry 
grow ! 
Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one, 
And twenty hundred thousand more for 

loan. 

George Wither. 



Cupid Carrying Provisions. 

There was once a gentle time 
Whenne the world was in its prime ; 
And everie day was holydaye. 
And everie monthe was lovelie Maye. — 
Cdpide thenne hadde but to goe 
With his purple winges and bowe ; 
And in blossomcde vale and grove 
Everie shepherde knelte to Love. 

Then a rosie, dimplede cheeke. 
And a blue eye fonde and meeke ; 
And a ringlette-wreathenne browe. 
Like hyacynthes on a bed of snowe ; 
And a lowe voice silverre sweete 
From a lippe without deceite : 
Onlie those the heartcs could move 
Of the simple swaines to love. 

But thatte time is gone and paste ; 
Canne the summerre alwayes laste ! 
And the swaines are wiser growne, 
And the hearte is turnede to stone. 
And the maidenne's rose may witherre ! 
Cupiue's fled, no maune knowes whitherre I 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



15' 



But anotherre Cupide's come, 
With a browe of care aiul ploome ; 
Fi.vede upon the earthlie moulde, 
Thinkinge of the suUenne golde : 
In his handc the bowe no more, 
At his baeke the liouseholde store. 
That the bridalle eoUh^ muste biiyc ; 
Uselesse nowe the smile ande sighe : 
But he weares the pinion stille, 
Flyinge at the sighte of ille. 
Oh, for the olde true-love time, 
Whenne the worlde was in its prime ! 

Georoe Cboly. 



Oh, my Luve's like a Red, Red 
Rose. 

On, my Luve's like a red, red rose 

That's newly sprung in June; 
Oh, my Luve's like the mclodie 

That's sweetly play'd in tune. 
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I, 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry ; 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 

And the rocks melt wi' the sun; 
I will luve thee still, my dear, 

While the sands o' life shall run. 
And fare thee weel, my only Luve! 

And fare thee weel a while. 
And I will come again, my Luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 

Robert Burns. 



Stanzas. 

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in 

story ; 
The days of our youth are the days of our 

glory, 
And the myrtle and i\-j' of sweet two-and 

twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so 

plenty. 

What are garlands and crowns to the 
brow that is wrinkled? 

'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew be- 
sprinkled ; 



Then away with all such from the head 

that is hoary, — 
What care I for the wreaths that can only 

give glory? 

Fame! if I e'er took delight in thy 

praises, 

'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sound- 
ing phrases 

Than to sec the bright eyes of the dear one 
discover 

She thought that I was not unworthy to 
love her. 

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I 

found thee; 
Her glance w.ns the best of the rays that 

surround thee ; 
When it sparkled o'er aught that was 

bright in my story, 

1 knew it was love, and I felt it was 

glory. 

Lord Byron. 



STAJfZAS FOR MUSIC. 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic like thee. 
And like music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me; 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmfed ocean's pausing. 
The waves lie still and gleaming. 
And the luU'd winds seem dreaming. 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep. 

Whose breast is gently heaving 
As an infant's asleep ; 

So the spirit bows before thee 

To listen and adore thee, 

With a full but soft emotion. 

Like the swell of Suimncr's ocean. 

Lord liVRON. 



TnOU HAST SnORy RY THY GOD. 

Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie, 
By that pretty white hand o' thine, 

And by a' the lowing stars in heaven. 
That thou wad aye he mine; 

And I hue sworn by my (Sod, my Jeanie, 
And by that kind heart o' thine. 



158 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


By a' the stars sown thick o'er heaven, 


The green of the trees looks far greener 


That thou shalt aye be mine. 


than ever. 




And the linnets are singing, "True 


Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic 


lovers don't sever !" 


bands, 




An' the heart that wad part sic love ; 


II. 


But there's nae hand can loose the band, 


I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you 


Save the finger o' God above. 


choose them ! 


Though the wee wee cot maun be my 


Or, after you've kiss'd them, they'll lie on 


bield, 


my bosom ; 


And my claithing e'er so mean. 


I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to 


I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve, 


inspire you; 


Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean. 


I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't 




tire you. 


Her white arm wad be a pillow for me 


Oh, your step's like the rain to the 


Fu' safter than the down ; 


summer-vex'd farmer. 


And Love wad winnow ower us his kind 


Or sabre and shield to a knight without 


kind wings. 






armor ; 


And sweetly I'd sleep, an' soun'. 


I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars 


Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve. 


rise above me. 


Come here, and kneel wi' me. 


Then, wandering, I'll wish you in silence 


The morning is fu' o' the presence o' 


to love me. 


God, 




And I canna pray but thee. 


III. 




We'll look through the trees at the cliff" 


The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' 


and the eyrie; 


new flowers, 


We'll tread round the rath on the track of 


The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie, 


the fairy ; 


Our gudeman leans ower his kale-yard 


We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to 


dyke. 


the river. 


And a blythe auld bodie is he. 


Till you ask of your darling what gift you 


The Beuk maun be ta'cn when the carle 


can give her. 


comes hame. 


Oh, she'll whisper you, — " Love, as un- 


Wi' the holie psalmodie. 


changeably beaming. 


And thou maun speak o' me to thy God, 


And trust, when in secret, most tunefully • 


And I will speak o' thee. 


streaming; 


Allan Cunningham. 


Till the starlight of heaven above us 


_ K>^ 


shall quiver. 


THE WELCOME. 


As our souls flow in one down eternity's 




river." 


I. 


IV. 


Come in the evening, or come in the 


So come in the evening, or come in the 


morning ; 


morning ; 


Come when you're looked for, or come 


Come when you're look'd for, or come 


without warning ; 


without warning; 


Kisses and welcome you'll find here before 


Kisses and welcome you'll find here before 


you. 


you, 


And the oftener you come here the more 


And the oftener you come here the more 


I'll adore you ! 


I'll adore you ! 


Light is my heart since the day we were 


Light is my heart since the day we were 


plighted ; 


plighted ; 


Red is my cheek that they told me was 


Red is my cheek that they told me was 


blighted ; 


blighted ; 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



159 



The frroeii of the trees looks far greener 

tliiiii ever, 
And the linnets are singing, "True 

lovers don't sever !" 

Thomas Osborne Davis. 



The Hermit. 

" TrRX, gentle hermit of the dale, 

And guide my lonely way 
To where yon tii])er cheers the vale 

With hospitable ray. 

'■ For here forlorn and lost I tread, 
With fainting steps and slow; 

Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 
Seem lengthening as I go." 

" Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, 
"To tempt the dangerous gloom; 

For yonder faithless i)hantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 

" Here to the houseless child of want 

My door is open still; 
And though my portion is but scant, 

I give it with good will. 

"Then turn to-night, and freely share 

Wliate'cr my cell bestows; 
My rushy couch and frugal fare. 

My blessing and repose. 

" No flocks that range the valley free 

To slaughter I condemn; 
Taught by that power that pities me, 

I learn to pity them ; 

" But from the mountain's grassy side 

A guiltless feast I bring; 
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied. 

And water from the spring. 

"Then, pilgrim, turn ; thy cares forego; 

All earth-born cares are wrong; 
Man wants but little here below, 

Nor wants that little long." 

.Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 

His gentle accents fell ; 
The modest stranger lowly bends, 

And follows to the cell. 

Far in a wildernes.s obscure 
The lonely mansion lay ; 



A refuge to the neighboring poor, 
And strangers led astray. 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 

Required a master's care : 
The wicket, opening with a latch. 

Received the harmless pair. 

And now, when busy crowds retire 

To take their evening rest, 
The hermit trimm'd his little fire. 

And cheer'd his pensive guest; 

And spread his vegetable store. 

And gaily prest and smiled ; 
And, skill'd in legendary lore. 

The lingering hours beguiled. 

Around, in sympathetic mirth. 

Its tricks the kitten tries ; 
The cricket chirrups on the hearth ; 

The crackling fagot flies. 

But nothing could a charm impart 
To soothe the .stranger's woe ; 

For grief was heavy at his heart. 
And tears began to flow. 

His rising cares the hermit spied, 
With answering care opprest : 

" And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, 
" The sorrows of thy breast ? 

" From better habitations spurn'd. 

Reluctant dost thou rove ? 
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd. 

Or unregarded love ? 

" Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 

Are trifling, and decay ; 
And those who prize the paltry things, 

More trifling still than they. 

" And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm that lulls to sleep ; 
A shade that follows wealth or fame, 

And leaves the wretch to weep ? 

" And love is still an emptier sound, 

The modern fair one's jest ; 
On earth unseen, or only found 

To warm the turtle's nest. 

" For shame, fond youth I thy sorrows hush, 

And spurn the .se.\." he said ; 
But, while he spoke, a rising blush 

His lovelorn guest betray'd. 



IGO 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, 
Swift mantling to the view ; 

LiliC colors o'er the morning skies, 
As bright, as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast. 

Alternate spread alarms : 
The lovely stranger stands confest, 

A maid in all her charms. 

"And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 
A wretch forlorn," she cried ; 

" Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 
Where heaven and you reside. 

" But let a maid thy pity share, 
AV'hom love has taught to stray ; 

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
Companion of her way. 

" My father lived beside the Tyne, 

A wealthy lord was he ; 
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine. 

He had but only me. 

" To win me from his tender arms, 

Unnumber'd suitors came ; 
Who praised me for imputed charms, 

And felt, or feign'd, a flame. 

" Each hour a mercenary crowd 
With richest proffers strove : 

Among the rest young Edwin bow'd, 
But never talk'd of love. 

" In humble, simplest habit clad, 
No wealth nor power had he ; 

Wisdom and worth were all he had. 
But these were all to me. 

" And when beside me in the dale 

He caroll'd lays of love, 
His breath lent fragrance to the gale, 

And music to the grove. 

" The blossom opening to the day. 
The dews of heaven refined, 

Could naught of purity display 
To emulate his mind. 

" The dew, the blossom on the tree. 
With charms inconstant shine ; 

Their charms were his, but, woe to me ! 
Their constancy was mine. 



" For still I tried each fickle art, 

Importunate and vain ; 
And while his passion touch'd my heart, 

I triumph'd in his pain : 

" Till, quite dejected with my scorn. 

He left me to my pride ; 
And sought a solitude forlorn. 

In secret, where he died. 

" But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 

And well my life shall pay ; 
I'll seek the solitude he sought. 

And stretch me where he lay. 

" And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 

I'll lay me down and die ; 
'Twas so for me that Edwin did. 

And so for him will I." 

" Forbid it, Heaven !" the hermit cried. 
And clasp'd her to his breast ; 

The wondering fair one turn'd to chide, — 
'Twas Edwin's self that prest. 

" Turn, Angelina, ever dear. 

My charmer, turn to see 
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here. 

Restored to love and thee. 

" Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 

And every care resign ; 
And shall we never, never part. 

My life — my all that's mine ? 

" No, never from this hour to part. 

We'll live and love so true ; 
The sigh that rends thy constant heart 

Shall break thy Edwin's too." 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



TiTE TRiuiiPK OF Charts. 

See the chariot at hand here of Love ! 

Wherein my lady rideth ! 
Each that draws is a swan, or a dove — 

And well the car Love guideth. 
As she goes, all hearts do duty 
Unto her beauty ; 

And, enamor'd, do wish, so they might 
But eiijoy such a sight. 
That they still were to run by her side 
Through swords, through seas, whither 
she would ride. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



101 



Do but look on her eyes ! they do light 
All that Love's world compriseth ; 

Do but look on her hair ! it is bright 
As Love's star when it riseth ! 

Do but mark — her forehead's smoother 

Than words that soothe her ! 

And from lur arch'd brows such a grace 

.Sheds itself through the face, 

As alone there triumphs to the life, 

All the gain, all the good, of the elements' 
strife. 

Have you seen but a bright lily grow, 
Before rude hands have touch'd it? 

Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow, 
Before the soil hath smutch'd it ? 

Have you felt the wool of the beaver? 

Or swan's down ever? 

Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier? 

Or the nard i' the fire ? 

Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? 

Oh, so white ! oh, so soft ! oh, so sweet is she ! 

Ben Jossos. 

Tell ste How to Woo Thee. 

If doughty deeds my lady please, 
Right soon I'll mount my steed ; 
And strong his arm, and fast his seat 

That bears frae me the meed. 
I'll wear thy colors in my cap, 

Thy picture at my heart ; 
And he that bends not to thine eye 
Shall rue it to his smart ! 

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love ; 

Oh tell me how to woo thee ! 
For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, 
Tho' ne'er another trow me. 

If gay attire delight thine eye 

I'll dight me in array ; 
I'll tend thy chamber door all night, 

And squire thee all the day. 
If sweetest sounds can win thine ear, 

These sounds I'll strive to catch ; 
Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell, 

That voice that nane can match. 

But if fond love thy heart can gain, 

I never broke a vow ; 
Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, 

I never loved but you. 
For you alone I ride the ring. 

For you I wiar the blue ; 
11 



For you alone I strive to sing, 
Oh tell me how to woo ! 

Then tell me how to woo thee. Love ; 

Oh tell me how to woo thee. 
For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, 
Tho' ne'er another trow me. 

Graham of Gartmoke. 



Miyyr, wilt Thou go with 

ME. 

O Xaxxy, wilt thou go with me. 

Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town ? 
Can silent glens have charms for thee, — 

The lowly cot and russet gown ? 
No longer drest in .silken sheen. 

No longer deck'd with jewels rare, — 
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 

O Nanny, when thou'rt far away. 

Wilt thou not cast a wish behind ? 
Say, canst thou face the parching ray. 

Nor shrink before the wintry wind ? 
Oh, can that soft and gentle mien 

Extremes of hardship learn to bear, 
Nor sad regret each courtly scene, 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 

O Nanny, canst thou love so true, 

Through perils keen with me to go ; 
Or when thy swain mishap shall rue. 

To share with him the pang of woe? 
Say, .should disea.se or pain befall, 

Wilt thou a.ssume the nurse's care. 
Nor wistful those gay scenes recall, 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 

And when at last thy love shall die, 

Wilt thou receive his parting breath, 
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, 

And cheer with smiles the bed of death ? 
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay 

Strew flowers and drop the tender tear, 
Nor then regret those scenes so gay. 

Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 

Thomas Percy. 

WHEy Maggy GAxas .litvir. 

Oh, what will a' the lads do 
When Maggy gangs away ? 

Oh, what will a' the lads do 
When Maggy gangs away? 



162 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJiniA OF POETRY. 



There's no a heart in a' the glen 

That (lisna dread the day : 
Oh, what will a' the lads do 

When Maggy gangs away ? 

Young Jock has ta'en the hill for't, 

A waefu' wight is he ; 
Poor Harry's ta'en the bed for't, 

An' laid him down to dee; 
An' Sandy's gane unto the kirk, 

An' learn in' fast to pray : 
And oh, what will the lads do 

AVhen Maggy gangs away? 

The young laird o' the Lang-Sbaw 

Has drunk her health in wine; 
The priest has said — in confidence — 

The lassie was divine. 
And that is mair in maiden's praise 

Than ony priest should say : 
But oh, what will the lads do 

When Maggy gangs away ? 

The wailing in our green glen 

That day will quaver high ; 
'Twill draw the redbreast frae the wood. 

The laverock frae the sky ; 
The fairies frae their beds o' dew 

Will rise an' join the lay : 
An' hey ! w'hat a day 'twill be 

When Maggy gangs away ! 

James Hogg. 



Believe ite, if All those Ex- 
DEAEiNG Young Charms. 

Believe me, if all those endearing young 
charms, 
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, 
AVere to change by to-morrow, and fleet in 
my arms. 
Like fairy-gifts fading away. 
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this mo- 
ment thou art. 
Let thy loveliness fade as it will, 
And around the dear ruin each wish of 
my heart 
Would entwine itself verdantly still. 

It is not while beauty and youth are thine 
own. 
And thy cheeks luiprofaned by a tear. 



That the fervor and faith of a soul can be 
known. 
To which time will but make thee more 
dear ; 
No, the heart that has truly loved never 
forgets, 
But as truly loves on to the close. 
As the sun-flower turns on her god, when 
he sets, 
The same look which she turn'd when 
he rose. 

Thomas Mooee. 



The Young May Moon. 

The young May moon is beaming, love, 
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love. 

How sweet to rove 

Through Morna's grove 
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love ! 
Then awake ! the heavens look bright, my 

dear, 
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear. 

And the best of all ways 

To lengthen our days 
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my 
dear. 

Now all the world is sleeping, love. 
But the sage, his star-watch keeping, love, 
And I, whose star, 
More glorious far, 
Is the eye from that casement peeping, 

love. 
Then awake ! till rise of sun, my dear, 
The sage's glass we'll shun, my dear, 
Or, in watching the flight 
Of bodies of light, 
He might happen to take thee for one, my 
dear. 

Thomas BIoore. 



My EYES! HOW I LOVE YOU! 

My eyes ! how I love you, 
You sweet little dove, you ! 
There's no one above you, 
. Most beautiful Kitty. 

So glossy your hair is. 
Like a sylph's or a fairy's ; 
And your neck, I declare, is 
Exquisitely pretty ! 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



1C3 



Quite Grecian your nose is, 
AnJ your diccks are like roses, 
So delicious — O Mose.s ! 

Surpassingly sweet ! 

Not the beauty of tulips, 
Nor the taste of mint-juleps, 
Can compare with your two lips, 
Most beautiful Kate ! 

Xot the black eyes of Juno, 
Xor Minerva's of blue, no, 
Nor Venus's, you know, 

Can equal your own ! 

Oh, how^ my heart prances, 
And frolics and dances, 
AV'hen their radiant glances 
Upon me are thrown! 

And now, dearest Kitty, 
It's not very pretty. 
Indeed it's a pity. 

To keep me in sorrow ; 

So, if you'll but chime in, 

We'll liave done with our rhymin'. 

Swap Cupid for Hymen, 

And be married to-morrow. 

AUTUOR UXKXOWS. 

Love me little, Love me Loxg. 

Love me little, love me long, 
Is the burden of my song. 
Love that is too hot and strong 

liurnpth soon to waste. 
Still I would not have thee cold, 
Not too backward or too bold ; 
Love that lasteth till 'tis old 

Fadeth not in haste. 

If thou lovest me too much. 

It will not prove as true as touch ; 

Love me little, more than such, 

For I fear the end. 
I am with little well content. 
And a little from thee sent 
Is enough, with true intent, 

To be steadfiu^t friend. 

Say thou lov'st me while thou live, 
I to thee my love will give. 
Never dreaming to deceive 

While that life endures: 



Nay, and after death, in sooth, 
I to thee will keep my truth. 
As now, when in my May of youth, 
This my love assures. 

Constant love is moderate ever, 
And it will through life pers^ver; 
Give me that, witli true endeavor 

I will it restore. 
A suit of durance let it be, 
For all weathers ; that for me, 
For the land or for the sea. 

Lasting evermore. 

Winter's cold or summer's heat, 
Autumn's tempests on it beat. 
It can never know defeat. 

Never can rebel. 
Such the love that I would gain, 
Such the love, I tell thee plain, 
Thou must give, or woo in vain ; 

So to thee farewell. 

Author Unknow.v. 



Jessie, the Flower c Bumblaxe. 

The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben- 
lomond, 
And left the red clouds to preside o'er 
the scene, 
While lanely I stray in the calm simmer 
gloamin'. 
To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flow'r o' 
Dumblaue. 

How sweet is the brier, wL' its saft fouldin' 
blossom. 
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' 
green ; 
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this 
bosom, 
Is lovely young Jessie, the Flow'r o' 
Dumblane. 

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's 
bonnie, — 
For guileless simplicity marks her its 
ain ; 
And far be the villain, divested of feel- 
ing, 
Wha'd blight in its Idoom the sweet 
Flow'r o' Dumblane. 



164 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to 


Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it 


the e'ening! — 


was milk-white. 


Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calcler- 


Dark was the blue of her saft-rolling ee ; 


wood glen : 


Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than 


Sae dear to this hosom, sae artless and 


roses — 


winning. 


Sweet were the kisses that she gave to 


Is charming young Jessie, the Flow'r o' 


me." 


Dumblane. 






" It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my 


How lost were my days till I met wi' my 


ain thing. 


Jessie ! 


It was nae my true love ye met by the 


The sports o' the city seem'd foolish 


tree; 


and vain : 


Proud is her leal heart, and modest her 


I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear 


nature ; 


lassie 


She never loved ony till ance she lo'ed 


Till charm'd wi' sweet Jessie, the Flow'r 


me. 


o' Dumblane. 


Her name it is Mary ; she's frae Castle 


Though mine were the station o' loftiest 


Cary; 
Aft has she sat when a bairn on my 


grandeur, 


knee : 


Amidst its prolusion I'd languish in 


Fair as your face is, were't fifty times 


pain. 


fairer, 


And reckon as naething the height o' its 


Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses 


splendor. 


to thee." 


If wanting sweet Jessie, the Flow'r o' 




Dumblane. 

Robert Tasnahill. 


" It was then your Mary ; she's frae Castle 




Cary; 




It was then your true love I met by the 


3IARY OF Castle Cary. 


tree ; 


"Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain 


Proud as her heart is, and modest her 


thing, 


nature. 


Saw ye my true love down on yon lea? 


Sweet were the kisses that she gave to 


Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the 


me." 


gloaming. 


Sair gloom'd his dark brow, blood-red his 


Sought she the burnie where flowers 


cheek grew, 


the haw tree ? 


Wild flash'd the fire frae his red-rolling 


Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is 


ee; 


milk-white, 


" Ye'se rue sair this morning your boasts 


Dark is the blue of her saft-rolling ee; 


and your scorning, 


Red, red are her ripe lips, and sweeter 


Defend ye, fause traitor ; fu' loudly ye 


than roses — 


lie." 


Where could my wee thing wander frae 




me?" 


"Away wi' beguiling!" cried the youth, 




smiling — 


" I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your 


Off" went the bonnet, the lint-white 


ain thing. 


locks flee. 


Nor saw I your true love down by yon 


The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom 


lea; 


shawing. 


But I met my bonny thing lute in the 


Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark- 


gloaming. 


rolling ee. 


Down by the buruie where flowers the 


" Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing, 


haw tree : 


Is it my true love here that I see?" 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



165 



"0 Jamie, forgie me; your heart's con- 
stant to me ; 
I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, 

frae thee." 

Hector Macneill. 



RORY OWORE. 

YorxR Rory O'More courted Kathleen 

bawn ; 
He was bold as the hawk, and she soft as 

the dawn ; 
He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to 

please. 
And he thought the best way to do that 

was to tease. 
" Now, Rnry, be aisy," sweet Kathleen 

would cry. 
Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye — 
" With your tricks, I don't know, in troth, 

what I'm about ; 
Faith, you've teased till I've put on my 

cloak inside out." 
"Och! jewel," says Rory, "that same is 

the way 
You've thrated my heart for this many a 

day ; 
And 'tis plased that I am, and why not, to 

be sure ? 
For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory 

O'More. 

" Indeed, then," says Kathleen, " don't 

think of the like. 
For I half gave a promise to soothering 

Jliko; 
The ground that I walk on Ae loves, I'll be 

bound." 
" Faith I" says Rory, " I'd rather love you 

than the ground." 
" Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me 

go; 

Sure I dhrame every uight that I'm hating 
you so." 

" Och !" says Rorj', " that same I'm de- 
lighted to hear. 

For dhramcs always go by conthraries, my 
dear. 

Bo, jewel, keep dhramin' that .same till 
you die, 

And bright niornin' will give dirty night 
the black lie ; 



And 'tis plased that I am, and why not, to 

be sure ? 
Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory 
O'More. 

" Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've 

teased me enough ; 
Sure I've thra^^li'd, for your sake, Dinny 

Grimes and Jim Duff; 
And I've made myself, dhrinkin' your 

health, quite a basle, 
So I think, after that, / may talk to the 

priest." 
Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round 

her neck. 
So soft and so white, without freckle or 

speck ; 
And he look'd in her eyes, that were 

beaming with light, 
And he kiss'd her sweet lips — don't you 

think he was right ? 
" Now, Rory, leave off, sir, you'll hug nie 

no more. 
That's eight times to-day that you've kiss'd 

me before." 
" Then here goes another," says he, " to 

make sure, 
For there's luck in odd numbers," says 

Rory O'More. 

Samuel Lover. 

The Low-backed Car. 

When first I saw sweet Peggy, 

'Twas on a market-day ; 
A low-back'd car she drove, and sat 

Upon a truss of hay ; 
But when that hay was blooming grass, 

And deek'd with floAvers of spring, 
No flower was there that could compare 

Witli the blooming girl I sing. 
As she sat in the low-back'd car, 
The man at the turnpike bar 
Never ask'd for the toll, 
Rut just rubb'd his owld poll. 
And look'd after the low-back'd car. 

In battle's wild commotion. 

The proud and mighty Mars 
With hostile scythes demands his tithes 

Of death — in warlike cars ; 
While I'eggy, peaceful goddess, 

Has darts in her bright eye 



166 



FIRESTDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



That knock men down in the market-town, 

As right and left they fly ; 
While she sits in her low-back'd car, 
Than battle more dangerous far, — 

For the doctor's art 

Cannot cure the heart 
That is hit from that low-back'd car. 

Sweet Peggy round her car, sir, 

Has strings of ducks and geese. 
But the scores of hearts she slaughters 

By far outnumber these ; 
While she among her poultry sits. 

Just like a turtle-dove. 
Well worth the cage, I do engage, 

Of the blooming god of love ; 
While she sits in her low-back'd car, 
The lovers come near and far. 
And envy the chicken 
That Peggy is pickin'. 
As she sits in her low-back'd car. 

Oh, rd rather own that car, sir, 

With Peggy by my side. 
Than a coach and four, and gold galore, 

And a lady for my bride ; 
For the lady would sit forninst me, 

On a cushion made with taste. 
While Peggy would sit beside me, 
AVith my arm around her waist. 
While we drove in the low-back'd car 
To be married by Father Maher; 
Oh, my heart would beat high 
At her glance and her sigh, 
Though it beat in a low-back'd car. 

Samuel Lover. 



Jessy. 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, 
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond 

lovers meet, 
And soft as the parting tear, Jessy ! 

Altho' thou maun never be mine, 

Altho' even hope is denied, 
'Tis sweeter for thee de.-:pairing 

Than aught in the world beside, Jessy. 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, 
As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms. 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber. 
For then I am lock'd in thy arms, Jessy. 



I guess by the dear angel smile, 
I guess by thy love-rolling ee ; 

But why urge the tender confession 
'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree, Jessy?- 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, 
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond 

lovers meet, 
And soft as their parting tear, Jessy. 

Robert Burns. 

TheDule'S r THIS Bonnet O' Mine. 

The dule's i' this bonnet o' mine: 

My ribbins'U never be reet ; 
Here, Mally, aw'm like to be fine, 

For Jamie'll be comin' to-neet ; 
He met me i' th' lone t' other day 

(Aw wur gooin' for wayter to th' well). 
An' he begg'd that aw'd wed him i' May, 

Bi th' mass, if he'll let me, aw will ! 

When he took my two bonds into his, 

Good Lord, heaw they trembled be- 
tween ! 
An' aw durstn't look up in his face, 

Becose on him seein' my e'en. 
My cheek went as red as a rose ; 

There's never a mortal con tell 
Heaw hap]iy aw felt, — for, thae knows, 

One couldn't ha' ax'd him theirsel'. 

But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung : 

To let it eawt wouldn't be reet. 
For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrung, 

So aw towd him aw'd tell him to-neet. 
But, Mally, thae knows very weel. 

Though it isn't a thing one should own, 
Iv aw'd th' pikein' o' th' world to mysel', 

Aw'd oather ha' Jamie or noan. 

Neaw, Mally, aw've towd thae my mind ; 

What would to do iv it wur thee ? 
" Aw'd tak him just while he'se inclined. 

An' a farrantly bargain he'll be; 
For Jamie's as greadly a lad 

As ever stept eawt into th' sun. 
Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed ; 

An' mak th' best o' th' job when it's 
done !" 

Eh, dear! but it's time to be gwon: 
. Aw shouldn't like Jamie to wait ; 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



167 



Aw connut for shame be too soon, 
An' aw wouldn't for th' wuld be too 
late. 

Aw'm o' ov a tremble to th' heel ; 
Dost think 'at my bonnet '11 do? 

" Be off, lass, — thae looks very weel ; 
He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo!" 

Edwin Wauuh. 



WffEX THE KYE comes IIAME. 

Come, all ye jolly shepherds. 

That whistle through the glen, 
I'll tell ye of a secret 

That courtiers dinna ken ; 
What is the greatest bliss 

That the tongue o' man can name? 
'Tis to woo a bonny lassie 
When the kye comes hame, 
When the kye comes hame. 
When the kye comes hame, 
'Tween the gloaming and the mirk, 
When the kye comes hame. 

'Tis not beneath the coronet. 

Nor canopy of state, 
'Tis not on couch of velvet, 

Nor arbor of the great — 
'Tis beneath the spre.iding birk. 

In tlie glen withuut the name, 
Wi' a bonny bonny lassie, 

When the kye comes hame. 

There the blackbird bigs his nest, 

For the mate he lo'es to see. 
And on the topmost bough 

Oh, a happy bird is he ! 
AVhere he pours his melting ditty. 

And h)ve is a' the theme, 
And he'll woo his bonny lassie, 

When the kye comes hame. 

When the blewart bears a pearl. 

And the daisy turns a pea. 
And the bonny lucken gowan 

Ha.s fauldit uj) her ee. 
Then the laverock, frae the blue lift. 

Drops down and thinks nae shame 
To woo his bonny lassie 

When the kye comes hame. 

See yonder pawkie shepherd, 
That lingers on the hill. 



His ewes are in the fauld. 
An' his lambs are lying still, 

Yet he downa gang to bed. 
For his heart is in a flame. 

To meet his bonny la.ssic 
When the kye comes hame. 

When the little wee bit heart 

Rises high in the breast. 
An' the little wee bit starn 

Rises red in the east, 
Oh, there's a joy sae dear 

That the lieart can hardly frame, 
Wi' a bonny bonny lassie. 

When the kye comes hame. 

Then since all Nature joins 

In this love without alloy, 
Oh, wha wad prove a traitor 

To Nature's dearest joy? 
Or wha wad choose a crown, 

Wi' its jierils and its fame, 
And miss his bonny lassie. 

When the kye comes hame ? 

JA31ES Hooe. 

Maud Muller. 

Maud Muller, on a summer's day. 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glow'd the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mockbird echo'd from his tree. 

But, when she glanced to the far-off town, 
White from its liillslope looking down, 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing fiU'd her breast, — 

A wish, that she hardly dared to own, 
For something better than she had known. 

The judge rode slowly down the lane, 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple trees to greet the maid, 

And' ask a draught from the spring that 

flow'd 
Through the meadow across the road. 



168 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



She stoop'd where tlie cool spring bubbled 

up, 
And fiU'd for him her small tin cup, 

And blush'd as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tatter'd gown. 

"Thanks!" said the judge; "a sweeter 

draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaff'd." 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees. 
Of the singing birds and the humming 
bees; 

Then talk'd of the haying, and wonder'd 

whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul 

weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, 
And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; 

And listen'd, while a pleased surprise 
Look'd from her long-lash'd hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Muller look'd and sigh'd: "Ah me! 
That I the judge's bride might be ! 

" He would dress me up in silks so fine, 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

" My father should wear a broadcloth coat. 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

" I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, 
And the baby should have a new toy each 
day. 

"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the 

poor. 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

The judge look'd back as he climb'd the 

hill, 
And saw ]Maud Muller standing still. 

"A form more fair, a face more sweet 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

"And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, and I to-day. 
Like her a harvester of hay : 



" No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

" But low of cattle and song of birds, 
And health and quiet and loving words." 

But he thought of his sisters proud and 

cold, 
And his mother vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the judge rode on. 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon. 
When he humm'd in court an old love- 
tune; 

And the young girl mused beside the well. 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow. 
He watch'd a picture come and go ; 

And sweet Jlaud Muller's hazel eyes 
Look'd out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, 
He long'd for the wayside well instead ; 

And closed his eyes on his garnish'd rooms. 
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 

And the proud man sigh'd, with a secret 

pain, 
" Ah, that I were free again ! — 

" Free as when I rode that day. 
Where the barefoot maiden raked her 
hay." 

She wedded a man unlearn'd and poor. 
And many children play'd round her 
door. 

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain. 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, 

And she heai-d the little spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall, 

In the shade of the apple tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



1G9 



And, gazing down with timid grace, 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretch'd away into stately halls ; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turn'd. 
The tallow candle an astral burn'd. 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw, 
And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again, 
Saying only, " It might have been." 

Alas for maiden, alas forjudge. 

For rich repiner and household drudge ! 

God pity them both ! and pity us all, 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 
The saddest are these : " It might have 
been !" 

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deci)ly buried from human eyes ; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
KoU the stone from its grave away ! 

John Grf.ksi.kaf Wuittier. 



The Power of Love. 

He.\R ye, ladies that despise 

What the mighty Love has done ; 
Fear examples and be wise : 

Fair Calisto was a nun : 
Leda, sailing on a stream, 

To deceive the hopes of man, 
Love accounting but a dream, 

Doted on a silver swan ; 
Danae in a brazen tower, 
^\'here no love was, loved a shower. 

Hear ye, ladies that are coy. 

What the mighty Love can do ; 
Fear the fierceness of the boy ; 

The chaste moon he makes to woo ; 
Vesta, kindling holy fires, 

Circled rounil about with spies, 
Never dreaming loose desires, 

Doting at the altar dies ; 



Ilion, in a short hour, higher 
lie can build, and once more fire. 

Beaumont and Flktcueb. 

The Brookside. 

I wander'd by the brookside, 

I wander'd by the mill ; 
I could not hear the brook flow. 

The noisy wheel was still : 
There was no burr of gra.sshopper, 

No chirp of any bird ; 
But the beating of my own heart 

^Vas all the sound I heard. 

I sat beneath the elm tree, 

I watch'd the long, long shade, 
And as it grew still longer 

I did not feel afraid ; 
For I listen'd for a footfall, 

I listen'd for a word : 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

He came not^ — no, he came not, — 

The night came on alone, — 
The little stars sat one by one. 

Each on his golden throne ; 
The evening air pass'd by my cheek. 

The leaves above were stirr'd ; 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

Fast, silent tears were flowing, 

When something stood behind ; 
A hand was on my shoulder, 

I knew its touch was kind ; 
It drew me nearer, nearer — 

We did not speak one word ; 
But the beating of our own hearts 

Was all the sound we heard. 

RiCllAKI) MOSCKTON MiLNES 

(Lord IIoviiiiTON). 

The SHEPHERD'S Resolution. 

Sham, I, wasting in despair. 
Die because a woman's fair? 
Or my cheeks make pale with care 
'Cause another's rosy are ? 
Be she fairer than tlie day 
Or the flowery meads in May, 
If she be not so to me 
What care I how fair she be? 



170 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



Shall my foolish heart be pined 

'Cause I see a woman kind ; 

Or a well-disposed nature 

Joinfed with a lovely feature ? 

Be she meeker, kinder than 

Turtle-dove or pelican, 
If she be not so to me 
What care I how kind she be? 

Shall a woman's virtues move 
Ble to perish for her love ? 
Or her merit's value known 
Make me quite forget mine own ? 
Be she with that goodness blest. 
Which may gain her name of Best ; 
If she seem not such to me. 
What care I how good she be ? 

'Cause her fortune seems too high. 
Shall I play the fool and die ? 
Those that bear a noble mind 
Where they want of riches find. 
Think what with them they would do 
Who without them dare to woo ; 
And unless that mind I see, 
What care I tliough great she be ? 

Great or good, or kind or fair, 
I will ne'er the more despair ; 
If she love me, this believe, 
I will die ere she shall grieve ; 
If she slight me when I woo, 
I can scorn and let her go ; 
For if she be not for me, 
What care I for whom she be ? 
George Withkr. 

Sonnet. 

Since there's no help, come, let us kiss 
and part, — 
Nay, I have done, you get no more of 
me, 
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my 
heart, 
That thus so clearly I myself can free ; 
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows. 

And, when we meet at any time again. 
Be it not seen in either of our brows. 

That we one jot of former love retain. 
Now, at the last gasp of Love's latest 
breath, 
When, his pulse failing. Passion speech- 
less lies, 



When Faith is kneeling by his bed of 

death, 
And Innocence is closing up his eyes, 
Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given 

him over. 
From death to life thou mightst him yet 

recover. 

MiCUAEL DeAYTON. 



Song. 

Day, in melting purple dying. 
Blossoms all around me sighing. 
Fragrance, from the lilies straying, 
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing. 
Ye but waken my distress : 
I am sick of loneliness. 

Thou to whom I love to hearken, 
Come, ere night around me darken ; 
Though thy softness but deceive me. 
Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee ; 
Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent I 
Let me think it innocent ! 

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure : 
All I ask is friendship's pleasure : 
Let the shining ore lie darkling. 
Bring no gem in lustre sparkling ; 

• Gifts and gold are naught to me : 
I would only look on thee! 

Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, 

Ecstasy but in revealing ; 

Paint to thee the deep sensation. 

Rapture in participation. 

Yet but torture, if comprest 
In a lone unfriended breast. 

Absent still? 'Ah! come and bless me ! 

Let these eyes again caress thee ; 

Once, in caution, I could fly thee : 

Now, I nothing could deny thee : 
In a look if death there be, 
Come and I will gaze on thee ! 
Makia Brooics. 



The BANA'.'i 0' Boon. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? 

How can ye chant, ye little birds. 
And I sae weary fu' o' care ! 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



171 



Thou'll break my heart, thou warb- 
ling bird, 
That wantons thro' the flowering 
thorn : 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 
Departed never to return. 

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine 
twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its hive. 

And fondly sae did I o' mine; 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ! 
And my fiiuse luvcr staw my rose, 

But all : he left the thorn w.' 
me. 

Robert Burns. 



Florexce Vane. 

I LOVED thee long and dearly, 

Florence Vane ; 
My life's bright dream and early 

Hath come again ; 
I renew in my fond vision 

My heart's dear pain, 
My hopes and thy derision, 

Florence Vane ! 

The ruin, lone and hoary. 

The ruin old. 
Where thou didst hark my story. 

At even told, 
That spot, the hues elysian 

Of sky and plain 
I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Vane ! 

Thou wast lovelier than the rosea 

/In their prime; 
Thy voice excell'd the closes 

Of sweetest rhyme ; 
Thy heart was as a river 

Without a main. 
Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane. 

But fairest, coldest wonder ! 

Thy glorious clay 
Lieth the green sod under; 

Alas the day ! 



And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain, 
To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane! 

The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep. 
The daisies love to dally 

Where maidens sleep. 
May their bloom, in beauty vying. 

Never wane 
Where thine earthly part is lying, 

Florence Vane. 

Philip Pendleton Cooke. 



/ PEirnEE SEXD ME BACK MY 
HEART. 

I pniTHF.E send me back my heart, 

Since I cannot have thine, 
For if from yours you will not part, 

Why, then, shouldst thou have mine? 

Yet now I think on't, let it lie; 

To find it were in vain ; 
For thou'st a thief in either eye 

Would steal it back again. 

Why should two hearts in one breast lie, 

And yet not lodge together? 
O Love ! where is thy sympathy. 

If tluis our breasts thou sever? 

But love is such a mystery, 

I cannot find it out; 
For when I think I'm best resolved, 

I then am in most doubt. 

Then farewell care, and farewell woe, 

I will no longer pine; 
For I'll believe I have her heart. 

As much as she has mine. 

Sir John Suckuko 



The Nun. 

If you become a nun, dear, 

A friar I will be; 
In any cell you run, dear. 

Pray look behind for me. 
The roses all turn pale, too; 
The doves all take the veil, too; 

The bliii<l will see the show : 



172 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



What ! you become a nun, my dear ? 
I'll not believe it, no ! 

If you become a nun, dear, 

The bishop Love will be ; 
The Cupids every one, dear, 

Will chant, " We trust in thee !" 
The incense will go sighing. 
The candles fall a-dying, 

The water turn to wine : 
What! you go take the vows, my dear? 

You may — but they'll be mine. 

Leiuh Hunt. 

She is not Fair to Outward 
View. 

She is not foir to outward view 

As many maidens be ; 

Her loveliness I never knew 

Until she smiled on me. 

Oh then I saw her eye was bright, 

A well of love, a spring of light. 

But now her looks are coy and cold, 

To mine they ne'er reply. 

And yet I cease not to behold 

The love-light in her eye : 

Her very frowns are fairer i'ar 

Than smiles of other maidens are. 

Hartley Coleridge. 



Sonnet. 

Time wasteth years, and months, and 
hours ; 
Time doth consume fame, honor, wit, 
and strength ; 
Time kills the greenest herbs and sweetest 
flowers ; 
Time wears out Youth and Beauty's 
looks at length ; 
Time doth convey to ground both foe 

and friend, 
And each thing else but Love, which 
hath no end. 
Time maketh every tree to die and rot; 
Time tnrneth oft our pleasure into 
pain ; 
Time causeth wars and wrongs to be for- 
got ; 
Time clears the sky which first hung full 
of rain ; 



Time makes an end of all humane 

desire. 
But only this which sets my heart on 
fire. 
Time turneth into naught each princely 
state ; 
Time brings a flood from new-resolvfed 
snow ; 
Time calms the sea where tempest was of 
late; 
Time eats whate'er the moon can see 
below : 
And yet no time prevails in my be- 
hoof. 
Nor any time can make me cease to 

love! 

Thomas Watson. 



The Awakening of Endymion. 

Lone upon a mountain, the pine trees 
wailing round him, 
Lone ujion a mountain the Grecian youth 
is laid ; 
Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has 
bound him. 
Yet his beauty, like a statue's, pale and 
fair, is undecay'd. 

When will he awaken? 



When will he awaken ? a loud voice hath 
been crying, 
Night after night, and the cry has been 
in vain ; 
Winds, woods, and waves found echoes for 
replying. 
But the tones of the beloved one were 
never heard again. 

AVhen will he awaken ? 
Asked the midnight's silver queen. 

Never mortal eye has look'd upon his 
slce]>ing ; 
Parents, kindred, comrades, have mourn'd 
for him as dead ; 
By day the gather'd clouds have had him 
in their keeping, 
And at night the solemn shadows round 
his rest are shed. 

When will he awaken? 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



173 



Long lias been the cry of faithful love's ' Lovely is the green earth, — she knows the 



imploring ; 



hour is holy ; 



Long has hojio been watching with soft j Starry arc the heavens, lit with eternal 



eyes fix'd above; 
When will the fates, the life of life restor- 
ing, 
Own themselves vanquish'J by niuch- 
enJuring love? 

When will he awaken? 
Asks the midnight's weary queen. 

Beautiful the sleep that she has watch'd 
untiring. 
Lighted up with visions from yonder ra- 
diant sky. 
Full of an immortal's glorious inspiring, 
Soften'd by the woman's meek and lov- 
ing sigh. 

When will he awaken? 

He has been dreaming of old heroic 
stories. 
And the poet's pa.ssionatc world has 
enter'd in his soul ; 
He has grown conscious of life's ancestral 
glories, 
When sages and when kings first ujAeld 
the mind's control. 

When will he awaken? 
Asks the midnight's stately queen. 

Lo, the appointed midnight! the present 
hour is fated I 
It is Endymion's ))lanctthat rises on the 
air. 
How long, how tenderly his goddess-love 
has waited, 
Waited with a love too migiity for 
despair I 

Soon he will awaken. 

Soft amid the pines is asound as if of sing- 
ing. 
Tones that seem the lute's from the 
breathing flowers depart ; 

Not a wind that wanderso'er Mount Latmos When Phoebe went with me wherever I 



j".v ; 

Light like their own is dawning sweet and 
slowly 
O'er the fair and sculi)turcd forehead of 
that yet dreaming boy. 

Soon he will awaken ! 

Red as the red rose toward the morning 
turning. 
Warms the youth's lip to the watcher's 
near his own ; 
While the dark eyes open, bright, intense, 
and burning 
With a life more glorious than, ere they 
closed, was known. 

Yes, he has awaken'd 
For the midnight's happy queen ! 

What is this old history, but a lesson 
given. 
How true love still conquers by the 
deep strength of truth — 
How all the impulses, whose native home 
is heaven. 
Sanctify the visions of hope, and faith, 
and youth ? 

'Tis for such they waken ! 

When every worldly thought is utterly for- 
saken. 
Comes the starry midnight, felt by life's 
gifted few ; 
Then will the spirit from its earthly sleep 
awaken 
To a l>eing more intense, more spiritual, 
and true. 

So doth the soul awaken. 
Like that youth to night's fair queen ! 
LrriTiA Elizabetm Lanuon Maclean. 



A Pastoral. 

My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, 



but is briuging 



went ; 



Music that is murmur'd from nature's Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my 



inmost heart. 

Soon he will awaken 
To his and midnight's queen ! 



breast ; 

Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was 
blest. 



174 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



But now she is gone, aud 'has left me be- ' My dog I was ever well pleasfed to see 



hind, 
What a marvellous change on a sudden I 

find ! 
When things were as fine as could possibly 

be, 
I thought 'twas the spring ; but, alas! it was 

she. 

With such a companion, to tend a few 

sheej), 
To rise up and play, or to lie down and 

sleep, 
I was so good-humor'd, so cheerful and gay. 
My heart was as light as a feather all day. 
But now I so cross and so peevish am 

grown. 
So strangely uneasy as never was known. 
My fair one is gone, and my joys are all 

drown'd, 
And my heart — I am sure it weighs more 

than a pound. 

The fountain that wont to run sweetly 

along. 
And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles 

among ; 
Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe were 

there, 
'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to 

hear , 
But now she is absent, I walk by its side. 
And still as it murmurs do nothing but 

chide. 
Must you be so cheerful while I go in 

pain? 
Peace there with your bubbling, and hear 

me complain. 

When my lambkins around me would 

oftentimes play. 
And when Phcebe and I were as joyful as 

tiiey. 
How pleasant their sporting, how happy 

the time, 
When spring, love, and beauty were all in 

their prime? 
But now in their frolics when by me they 

pass, 
I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass : 
Be still, then I cry ; for it makes me quite 

mad. 
To see you so merry while I am so sad. 



Come wagging his tail at my fair one and 

me: 
And Phcebe was pleased too, and to my dog 

said, 
"Come hither, poor fellow;" and patted his 

head. 
But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour 

look 
Cry, Sirrah! and give him a blow with my 

crook. 
And I'll give him another; for why should 

not Tray 
Be as dull as his master, when Phtebe's 

away ? 

When walking with Phoebe, what sights 
have I seen ! 

How fair was the flower, how fresh was the 
green ! 

What a lovely appearance the trees and 
the shade. 

The corn-fields and hedges, and every- 
thing made ! 

But now she has left me, though all are 
still there, 

They noneof them nowsodelightful appear : 

'Twas naught but the magic, I find, of her 
eyes. 

Made so many beautiful prospects arise. 

Sweet music went with us both all the wood 

tlirough, 
The lark, linnet, throstle and nightingale 

too; 
Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did 

bleat, 
And chirp! went the grasshopper under our 

feet. 
But now she is absent, though still they 

sing on, 
The woods are but lonely, the melody's 

gone : 
Her voice in the concert, as now I liave 

found, 
Gave everything else its agreeable sound. 

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue ? 
And where is the violet's beautiful blue? 
Does aught of its sweetness the blossom 

beguile? 
That meadow, those daisies, why do they 

not snnle? 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



175 



Ah ! rivals, I see what it \v;is that you 

dress'd 
And made yourselves fine for — a place in 

her breast; 
You put on your colors to pleasure her 

eye, 
To be pluck'd by her hand, on her bosom 

to die. 

How slowly Time creeps, till my Phcebc 

return ! 
While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes 

I burn ! 
Methinks if I knew whereabouts he would 

tread, 
I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould 

melt down the lead. 
Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my 

dear. 
And rest so much longer for't when she is 

here. 
Ah, Colin ! old Time is full of delay, 
Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou 

canst say. 

Will no pitying power that hears me com- 
plain. 

Or cure my disquiet or soften my pain ? 

To be cured thou must, Colin, thy passion 
remove; 

But what swain is so silly to live without 
love? 

No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return. 

For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly for- 
lorn. 

Ah ! what shall I do? I shall die with 
despair! 

Take liccd, all ye swains, how ye part with 

your fair. 

John Byrom. 



William axd Margaret. 

'TwAS at the silent, solemn hour. 
When nipht and morning meet ; 

In glided Margaret's grimly ghost. 
And stood at William's feet. 

Hor face was like an April morn. 

Clad in a wintrj- cloud ; 
And clay-Cold was her lily hand. 

That held her sable shroud. 



So shall the fairest face appear, 
When youth and years are flown : 

Such is the robe that kings must wear. 
When death has reft their crown. 

Her bloom was like the springing flower. 

That sips the silver dew ; 
The rose was budded in her cheek, 

Just opening to the view. 

But love had, like the canker-worm. 

Consumed her early prime ; 
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek — 

She died before her time. 

" Awake," she cried, " thy true love calls. 
Come from her midnight grave; 

Now let thy pity hear the maid. 
Thy love refused to save. 

"This is the dark and dreary hour. 
When injured ghosts complain ; 

When yawning graves give up their dead. 
To haunt the faithless swain. 

" Bethink thee, AVilliam, of thy fault. 
Thy pledge and broken oath ! 

And give me back my maiden vow, 
And give me back my troth. 

" Why did you promise love to me, 

And not that promise keep? 
Why did you swear my eyes were bright, 

Yet leave those eyes to weep? 

" How could you say my face was fair. 

And yet that face forsake? 
How could you win my virgin heart. 

Yet leave that heart to break? 

" Why did you say my lip was sweet, 

And made the scarlet pale? 
And why did I, young witless maid! 

Believe the flatt'ring tale? 

"That face, alas! no more is fair. 

Those lips no longer red ; 
Dark are my eyes now closed in death. 

And every charm is fled. 

" The hungry worm my sister is ; 

This winding-shoet I wear: 
And cold and weary lasts our night. 

Till that last morn appear. 



" But hark! tliecock has warn'd me hence; 

A long and last adieu ! 
Come see, false man, how low she lies, 

Who died for love of you." 

The lark sung loud ; the morning smiled 

With beams of rosy red ; 
Pale William quaked in every limb, 
And raving left his bed. 

He hied him to the fatal place, 

Where Margaret's body lay ; 
And stretch'd him on the green grass turf, 

That wrapt her breathless clay. 

And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name. 

And thrice he wept full sore ; 
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, 

And word spake never more. 

David Mallet. 



Where shall the lover rest? 

Where shall the lover rest 

Whom the Fates sever 
From his true maiden's breast 

Parted for ever? 
Where, through groves deep and high 

Sounds the far billow. 
Where early violets die 

Under the willow. 
Eleu loro 

Soft shall be his pillow. 

There, through the summer day 

Cool streams are laving, 
There, while the tempests sway. 

Scarce are boughs waving ; 
There thy rest shalt thou take. 

Parted for ever, 
Never again to wake 

Never, oh never! 
Eleu loro 

Never, oh never ! 

Where shall the traitor rest. 

He, the deceiver, 
Who could win maiden's breast, 

Ruin, and leave her? 
In the lost battle, 

Borne down by the flying, 



Where mingles war's rattle 
With groans of the dying ; 

Eleu loro 
There shall he be lying. 

Her wing shall the eagle flap 

O'er the false-hearted ; 
His warm blood the wolf shall lap 

Ere life be parted : 
Shame and dishonor sit 

By his grave ever; 
Blessing shall hallow it 

Never, oh never ! 
Eleu loro 

Never, oh never ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



The Outlaw. 

Oh, Brignall banks are wild and fair. 

And Greta woods are green. 
And you may gather garlands there 

Would grace a summer queen. 
And as I rode by Dalton Hall 

Beneath the turrets high, 
A Maiden on the castle-wall 

Was singing merrily : 
" Oh Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 

And Greta woods are green ; 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there 

Than reign our English queen." 

" If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me. 

To leave both tower and town. 
Thou first must guess what life lead we 

That dwell by dale and down. 
And if thou canst that riddle read. 

As read full well you may, 
Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed 

As blithe as Queen of May." 
Yet sung she " Brignall banks are fair, 

And Greta woods are green ; 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there 

Than reign our English queen. 

" I read you by your bugle-horn 

And by your palfrey good, 
I read you for a Ranger sworn 

To keep the king's greenwood." 
" A Ranger, lady, winds his horn, 

And 'tis at peep of light ; 



POEMS OF LOVE. 177 


His blast is heard at merry morn, 


Let the night-winds touch thy brow 


And mine at dead of ni^ht." 


With the heat of my burning sigh. 


Yet sung she " I'.rignall banks are fair, 


And melt thee to hear the vow 


And Greta woods are gay ; 


Of a love that shall not die 


I would I were with Edmund there 


Till the sun grows cold. 


To reign his Queen of May ! 


And the stars are old, 




And the leaves of the Judgment 


" With burnish'd brand and musketoon 


Book unfold ! 


So gallantly yon come, 




I read you for a bold Dragoon, 


My steps are nightly driven. 


That lists the tuck of drum." 


By the fever in my Iireast, 


'■ I list no more the tuck of drum, 


To hear from thy lattice breathed 


No more the trumpet hear ; 


The word that shall give me rest. 


But when the beetle sounds his hum 


Open the door of thy heart, 


My comrades take the spear. 


And open thy chamber door. 


And oh ; though P.rignall banks be fair 


And my kisses shall teach thy lips 


And Greta woods l>e gay. 


The love that shall fade no more 


Yet mickle must the maiden dare 


Till the sun grows cold. 


Would reign my Queen of May. 


And the stars are old. 




And the leaves of the Judgment 


" Maiden I a nameles-s life I lead. 


Book unfold ! 


A nameless death I'll die! 


Bayard Taylor. 


The fiend whose lantern lights the mead 




Were better mate than I .' 




And wlien I'm with my comrades met 


COJIE INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. 


Beneath the greenwood bough, 


Come into the garden, Maud, 


What once we were we all forget, 


For the black bat, night, has flown 1 


Nor think what we are now." 


Come into the garden, Maud, 


Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair. 


I am here at the gate alone ; 


And Greta woods are green, 


And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 


And you may gather garlands there 


And the musk of the rose is blown. 


Would grace a summer queen. 




Sir Walter Scott. 


For a breeze of morning moves. 




And the planet of Love is on high. 


Bedouin Love- Song. 


Beginning to faint in the light that she 




loves. 


From the desert I come to thee, 


On a bet! of daffodil sky, — 


On a stallion shod with fire ; 


To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 


And the winds are left behind 


To faint in his light, and to die. 


In the speed of my desire. 




Under thy window I stand. 


All night have the roses heard 


And the midnight hears my cr\' : 


The flute, violin, bassoon ; 


I love thee, I love l)ut thee. 


All night has the easement jessamine stirr'd 


With a love that sliall not die 


To the dancers dancing in tune, — 


Till the sun grows cold, 


Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 


And the stars are old. 


.Vnd a hush with the setting moon. 


And the leaves of the Judgment 




Book unfold ! 


I said to the lily, " There is but one 




With whom she has heart to be gay. 


Look from thy window, and see 


When will the dancers leave her alone? 


My piLssion and my jjain ; 


She is weary of dance and ])lay." 


I lie on the sands below. 


Now half to the setting moon are gone, 


And I faint In thv disdain. 
12 


And half to tlie rising day ; 



178 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 




Low on the sand and loud on the stone 
The last wheel echoes away. 

I said to the rose, " The brief night goes 
In babble and revel and wine. 

young lord-lover, what sighs are those 
For one that will never be thine ? 

But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, 
" For ever and ever mine !" 

And the soul of the rose went into my 
blood, 
As the music clash'd in the hall ; 
And long by the garden lake I stood. 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on to 
the wood. 
Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 

From the meadow your walks have left s^ 
sweet 

That whenever a March 
He sets the jewel-print i 

In violets blue 
To the woo^^JBpiW!r which we meet, 

And the valleys of Paradise. 

The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, 

As the pinijiernel dozed on the lea ; 
But the rose was awake all night for your 
sake, 

Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake. 

They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls. 
Come hither, the dances are done, 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
Queen lily and rose in one ; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with 
curls, 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 

There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 

She is coming, my life, my fate ! 
The red rose cries, " She is near, she is 
near;" 

And the white rose weeps, "She is late;" 
The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear ;" 

And the lily whispers, " I wait." 



j She is coming, my own, my sweet ! 
Were it ever so airy a tread, 
My heart would hear her and beat. 
Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat. 
Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would startle and tremble under her feet. 
And blossom in purple and red. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

The Call. 

Awake thee, my lady-love. 

Wake thee and rise ; 
The sun through the bower peeps 

Into thine eyes. 



Behold how the early lark 

Springs from the corn ; 
Hark, hark ! how the flower-bird 

Winds her wee horn. 

The swallow's glad shriek is heard 

All through the air. 
The stock -dove is murmuring 

Loud as she dare. 

Apollo's wing'd bugleman 

Cannot contain. 
But peals his loud trumpet-call 

Once and again. 

Then wake thee, my lady-love, 

Bird of my bower. 

The sweetest and sleepiest 

Bird at this hour. 

Geokge Darley. 



A IlE.iLTIJ. 

I fIIjIj this cup to one made up 

OPfoveliness alone, 
A woiitBn, of her gentle sex 

The selling paragon ; 
To whom Ibe better elements 

And kincfly stars have given 
A form so fair, that, like the air, 

'Tis le.ss of earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own. 
Like those of morning birds. 

And something more than melody 
Dwells ever in her words ; 



POEMS OF LOVE. 170 


The coinage of her heart are they, 


Of herself survey she takes. 


And from licr lips each (lows, 


But 'tween men no diflference makes. 


As one may see the burden'd bee 




Forth issue from the rose. 


She obeys with speedy will 




Her grave parents' wise commands ; 


Affections are as thouglits to her, 


And .so innocent, that ill • 


The measures of her hours, 


She nor acts, nor understands. 


Her feelings have the fragrancy, 


Women's feet run still astray 


The freshness of young Howers ; 


If to ill they know the way. 


And lovely passions, changing oft. 


She sails by that rock, the court. 


So fill her, she appears 
The image of themselves by turns, — 
The idol of past years ! 


Where oft virtue splits her mast ; 
And retiredness thinks the port. 
Where her fame may anchor cast. 


Of her bright face one glance will trace 


Virtue safely cannot sit 


A picture on the brain, 


Where vice is enthroned for wit. 


And of her voice in echoing hearts 






She holds that day's jileasurc best 
Where sin waits not on delight ; 


A sound must long remain ; 


But memory, such as mine of her. 






Without mask, or ball, or feast. 


80 very much endears, 




AVhen death is nigh my latest sigh 
Will not be life's, but hers. 


Sweetly spends a winter's night. 


O'er that darkness whence is thrust 




Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust. 


I fill this cup to one made up 


She her throne makes rea.son climb. 


Of loveliness alone. 


While wild pa.ssions captive lie ; 


A woman, of her gentle sex 


-Vnd each article of time, 


The seeming paragon ; — 


Her pure thoughts to heaven fly ; 


Her health I and would on earth there stood 


All her vows religious be. 


Some more of such a frame. 


And she vows her love to me. 


That life might all be poetry, 


William Habinbtom. 


And weariness a name. 


i >— 


Edward Coate Pinkney. 


J 


• o< 


1 AxxABEL Lee. 


Castajra. 


ijfwas many and many a year ago. 




In a kingdom by the sea. 


Like the violet, which alone 


That a maiden there lived, whom you may 


Prospers in some happy shade, 


know 


My Castara lives unknown. 


By the name of Annabel Lee ; 


To no ruder eye betray'd ; 


And this maiden she lived with no other 


For she's to herself untrue 


thought 


Who delights i' the public view. 


Than to love, and be loved by me. 


Such is her beauty as no arts 


I was a child and she was a child. 


Have enrieh'd with borrow'd grace. 


In this kingdom by the sea ; 


Her high birth no pride imparts, 


But we loved with a love that was more 


For she blushes in her place. 


than love. 


Folly boasts a glorious blood, — 


I and my Annabel Lee — 


She is noblest being good. 


With a love that the wingfed seraphs of 




heaven 


Cautious, she knew never yet 


Coveted her and me. 


What a wanton courtship meant ; 




Nor speaks loud to boast lier wit, 


And this was the reason that, long ago. 


In her silence eloquent. 


In this kingdom by the sea. 



180 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
So that her high-born kinsman came 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven. 

Went envying her and me, 
Yes ! that was the reason (as all men 
know, 
In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of the cloud by 
night, 
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than 
tlie love 

Of those who were older than we. 

Of many far wiser tlian we ; 
And neither the angels in heaven above. 

Nor tlie demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 

For the moon never beams without bring- 
ing me dreams 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, 
And the stars never rise, but I feel the 
bright eyes 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by 
the side 
Of my darling — my darling — my life and 
my bride. 
In the sepulchre there by the sea. 
In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

Edgar Allan Poe. 

Disdain Returned. 

He that loves a rosy cheek, 

Or a coral lip admires. 
Or from star-like eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain his fires, — 
As old Time makes these decay. 
So his flames must waste away. 

But a smooth and steadfast mind, 
Gentle thoughts and calm desires. 

Hearts with equal love combined. 
Kindle never-dying fires. 

Where these are not, I despise 

Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. 



No tears, Celia, now shall win 
My resolved heart to return ; 

I have search'd thy soul within, 

And find naught but pride and .scorn ; 

I have learn'd thy arts, and now 

Can disdain as much as thou. 

Some power, in my revenge, convey 

That love to her I cast away. 

Thomas Carew. 

AUX It. ill ENS. 

At Paris it was, at the opera there ; — 
And she look'd like a queen in a book 
that night. 
With the wreath of pearl in her raven 
hair. 
And the brooch on her breast so bright. 

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote. 
The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore ; 

And Mario can -soothe, with a tenor note, 
The souls in purgatory. 

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow ; 
And who was not thrill'd in the stran- 
gest way, 
As we heard him sing, while the gas 
burn'd low, 
" Non (i scnrdar di me " f 

The emperor there, in his box of state, 
Look'd grave, as if he had just then 
.seen 

The red flag wave from the city gate. 
Where his eagles in bronze had been. 

The empress, too, had a tear in her eye : 
You'd have said that her fancy had gone 
back again. 

For one moment, under the old blue sky. 
To the old glad life in Spain. 

Well, there in our front-row box we sat 
Together, my bride betroth'd and I ; 

Sly gaze was fixed on my opera-hat, 
And hers on the stage hard by. 

And both were silent, and both were sad ; 

Like a queen she lean'd on her full 
white arm. 
With that regal, indolent air she had. 

So confident of her charm ! 



POEMS OF LOVE. 181 


I have not a doubt she was thinking then 


And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in 


Of her former lord, good soul that he 


that hour. 


was, 


And of how, after all, old tilings were 


Who died the richest and roundest of 


best. 


men, 


That I smelt the smell of that jasmine 


The Marquis of Carabas. 


flower 


I hope that, to get to the kingdom of 


Which she used to wear in her breast. 


heaven, 


It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, 


Through a needle's eye he had not to 


It made me creep, and it made mo 


pass; 


cold; 


I wish him well, for the jointure given 


Like the scent that steals from the crum- 


To my lady of Carabas. 


bling sheet 


Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first 


Where a mummy is half unroll'd. 


love, 


And I turn'd and look'd: she was sitting 


As I had not been thinking of aught for 


there, 


years, 


In a dim bo.\ over the stage, and drest 


Till over my eyes there began to move 


In that muslin dress, with that full, soft 


Something that felt like tears. 


hair. 


I tliought of the dress that she wore last 


And that jasmine in her breast. 


time. 


I was here : and she wa.s there : 


When we stood 'neath the cjTJress trees to- 


And the glittering horee-shoe curved be- 


gether. 


tween. 


In that lost land, in that soft clime. 


From my bride betroth'd, with her raven 


In the crimson evening weather ; 


hair. 


Of that muslin dress (for the eve was 


And her sumptuous, scornful mien, 


hot). 


To my early love, with her eyes downcast, 


And her warm white neck in its golden 


And over her primrose face the shade. 


chain, 


(In short, from the future back to the 


And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot. 


past 


And falling loose again ; 


There wsis but a step to be made.) 


And the jasmine flower in her fair young 


To my early love from my ftiture bride 


breast, 


One moment I look'd. Then I stole to 


(Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine 


the door, 


flower!) 


I traversed the passage, and down at her 


And the one bird singing alone to his nest, 


side 


And the one star over the tower. 


I was sitting, a moment more. 


I thought of our little quarrels and strife. 


My thinking of her, or the music's strain. 


And the letter that brought me back my 


Or something which never will be e.\- 


ring; 


prest. 


And it all secm'd then, in the waste of 


Had brought her back from the grave 


life, 


again. 


8uch a very little thing ! 


With the ja-smine in her brea.st. 


For I thought of her grave below the hill. 


She is not dead, and she is not wed. 


Whifh the sentinel cypress tree stands 


IJut she loves me now, and .she loved me 


over. 


then ! 


And I thought, " Were she oniv living 


.\nd the very first word tliat her sweet 


still, 


lips said. 


How I could forgive her, and love her 1"' 


My heart grew youthful again. 



182 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



The Marchioness there, of Carabas, 
She is wealthy, and young, and hand- 
some still, 
And but for her, — well, we'll let that 
j)ass — 
She may marry whomever she will. 

But I will marry my own first love. 

With her primrose face, for old things 
are best. 
And the flower in her bosom, I prize it 
above 
The brooch in my lady's breast. 

The world is flU'd with folly and sin, 
And love mu.st cling where it can, I 
say. 

For beauty is easy enough to win. 
But one isn't loved every day. 

And I think, in the lives of most women 
and men. 
There's a moment when all would go 
smooth and even. 
If only the dead could find out when 
To come back and be forgiven. 

But oh, the smell of that jasmine flower ! 

And oh, that music ! and oh, the way 
That voice rang out from the donjon 
tower : 
Non ti scordar di me, 

Non ti scordar di me I 

Robert Bulwke Lytton. 



To Sigh, yet Feel no Fain. 

To sigh, yet feel no pain. 

To weep, yet scarce know why ; 
To sport an hour with beauty's chain, 

Then throw it idlj- by ; 
To kneel at many a shrine. 

Yet lay the heart on none ; 
To think all other charms divine, 

But those we just have won ; 
This is love, faithless love. 
Such as kindletli hearts that rove. 

To keep one sacred flame. 

Through life unchill'd, unmoved. 
To love in wintry age the same 

As first in youth we loved ; 
To feel that we adore, 

Ev'n to such fond excess. 



That, though the heart would break with 
more. 
It could not live with less ; 
This is love, faithful love. 
Such as saints might feel above. 

T110.MAS Moore. 

A Pastoral. 

On a hill there grows a flower, 
Fair befall the dainty sweet ! 

By that flower there is a bower, 
Where the heavenly Muses meet. 

In that bower there is a chair. 
Fringed all about with gold, 

Where doth sit the fairest fair 
That ever eye did yet behold. 

It is Phillis, fair and bright. 
She that is the shephcrils' joy, 

She that Venus did despite. 
And did blind her little boy. 

Who would not this face admire ? 

Who would not this saint adore? 
Who would not this sight desire. 

Though he thought to see no more ? 

O fair eyes, yet let me see 
One good look, and I am gone: 

Look on me, for I am he. 
The poor silly Corydon. 

Thou that art the shepherds' queen, 
Look upon thy silly swain ; 

By thy comfort have been seen 
Dead men brought to life again. 

Nicholas Breton. 



The Whistle. 

'' Yotr have heard," said a youth to his 
sweetheart, who stood. 
While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at day- 
light's decline, — 
" You have heard of the Danish boy's 
whistle of wood ? 
I wish that that Danish boy's whistle 
were mine." 

"And what would you do with it? — tell 
me," she said. 
While an arch smile play'd over her 
beautiful face. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



183 



Tj/e Groomsman to his Mis- 
tress. 

EvF.RY weililiiig, says the proverb, 
Makes aiiotlier, soon or late; 

Never yet was any inarriafre 
Enter'd in tlie book of fate, 

But the names were also written 
Of the patient pair that wait. 

Blessings, then, upon the morning 
When my friend, with fondest look, 



'■ I would blow it," he answered ; " and 
then my fair maid 
Would fly to my side, and would here 
take her place." 

"Is that all you wish it for? — That may 
be yours 
Without any magic," the fair maiden 
cried : 
■■ .V favor so slight one's good nature se- 
cures ;" 
.Vnd she playfully seated herself by his 
side. 

" I w(]ulil blow it again," said the youth, 
" and the charm 
Would work so, that not even Modesty's 
check 
Would be able to keep from my neck your 
fine arm :" 
She smiled, — and she laid her fine arm 
round his neck. 

" Yet once more would I blow, and the 
music divine 
Would bring me the third time an ex- 
quisite bliss: 
You would lay your fair cheek to this 
brown one of mine, 
And your lips, stealing past it, would 
give me a kiss." 

The maiden laugh'd out in her innocent 
glee,— 
" What a fool of yourself with your 
whistle you'd make I 
For only consider, how silly 'twould 
be," 
To sit there and whistle for — what you 
might take." 

ROBEIIT .'^TORV. 



By the solemn rites' permission, 
To himself his mistress took, 

And the destinies recorded 
Other two within their book. 

While the priest fiilliU'd his office. 
Still the ground the lovers eyed, 

And the parents and the kinsmen 
Aim'd their glances at the bride ; 

But the groomsmen eyed the virgins 
Who were waiting at her side. 

Three there were tliat stood beside her; 

One was dark, and one was fair ; 
But nor fair nor dark the other, 

Save her Arab eyes and hair ; 
Xeithcr dark nor fair I call her, 

Yet she was the fairest there. 

While the groomsman — shall I own it? 

Yes to thee, and only thee — 
Gazed upon this dark-eyed maiden 

Who was fairest of the three, 
Thus he thought : " How blest the bridal 

Where the bride were such as she!" 

Then I mused upon the adage. 
Till my wisdom was perple.x'd. 

And I wonder'd, ius the churchman 
Dwelt upon his holy te.xt, 

Which of all who heard his lesson 
Should require the service next. 

Whose will be the next occasion 
For the flowers, the feast, the wine? 

Thine, perchance, my dearest lady; 
Or, who knows? — it may be mine, 

What if 'twere — forgive the fancy — 
What if 'twere — both mine and thine? 
TiioM.\s William Paksons. 



ZARA'S Ear-Rixgs. 

My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they've 
drop])'d into the well. 

And what to say to Mu<;a, I cannot, cannot 
tell— 

'Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke 
-Mbuharez' daughter: — 

The well is deep — far down they lie, be- 
neath the cold blue water ; 



184 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPyEDIA OF POETRY. 



To me did Miifa give them when he spake 

his sad farewell, 
And what to say when he comes back, 

alas ! I cannot tell. 

My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! — they were 
pearls in silver set, 

That, when my Moor was far away, I ne'er 
should him forget ; 

That I ne'er to other tongues should list, 
nor smile on other's tale, 

But remember he my lips had kiss'd, pure 
as those ear-rings pale. 

When he comes back, and hears that I 
have dropp'd them in the well. 

Oh, what will Muja think of me? — I can- 
not, cannot tell ! 

My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! — he'll say 

they should have been, 
Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold 

and glittering sheen, 
Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond 

shining clear. 
Changing to the changing light, with 

radiance insincere ; 
That changeful mind unchanging gems are 

not befitting well. 
Thus will he think — and what to say, alas! 

I cannot tell. 

He'll think when I to market went I 

loiter'd by the way ; 
He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the 

lads might say ; 
He'll think some other lover's hand, among 

my tresses noosed. 
From the ears where he had placed them 

my rings of pearl unloosed ; 
He'll think when I was sporting so beside 

this marble well 
My pearls fell in — and what to say, alas ! 

I cannot tell. 

He'll say I am a woman, and we are all 

the same ; 
He'll say I loved when he was here to 

whisper of his flame — 
But when he went to Tunis, my virgin 

troth had broken. 
And thought no more of Muja, and cared 

not for his token. 



My ear-rings! my ear-rings! O luckless, 

luckless well, — 
For what to say to Muya — alas ! I cannot 

tell. 

I'll tell the truth to Mufa — and I hope he 

will believe — 
That I thought of him at morning and 

thought of him at eve ; 
That, musing on my lover, when down the 

sun was gone. 
His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the 

fountain all alone ; 
And that my mind was o'er the sea, when 

from my hand they fell, 
And that deep his love lies in my heart, as 

they lie in the well. 

(From the Spanish.) 
John Gibson Lockhakt. 



Look Our, bright Eyes. 

Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air! 
Even in shadows you are fair. 
Shut-up beauty is like fire, 
That breaks out clearer still and higher. 
Though your beauty be confined, 

And soft Love a prisoner bound, 
Yet the beauty of your mind 

Neither check nor chain hath found. 
Look out nobly, then, and dare 
Even the fetters that you wear. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 



Take, oh Take those Lips 

A WA Y. 

Take, oh take those lips away 
That so sweetly were forsworn. 

And those eyes, the break of day, 
Lights that do mislead the morn ! 

But my kisses bring again. 

Seals of love, though seal'd in vain. 

Hide, oh hide those hills of snow 
Which thy frozen bosom bears. 

On whose tops the pinks that grow 
Are yet of those that April wears. 

But first set my poor heart free. 

Bound in those icy chains by thee. 

Beausiont and Fletcuee. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



185 



Go, LOVELY Rose. 

" Go, lovely rose ! 
Tell lior that wastes her time and me, 

That now she knows 

When I resemble her to thee, 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

" Tell her that's young, 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 

That hadst thou sprung 

In deserts, where no men abide. 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

" Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired : 

Bid her come forth, 
Suffer herself to be desired, 
Aiul not blush so to be admired. 

'■ Then die ! that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee, 
How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair." 

EUMUSI) Wallek. 



Music, wbex Soft Voices Die. 

Mcsic, when soft voices die, 
Vibrates in the memorj' — 
Odors, when sweet violets sicken, 
Live within the sense they quicken. 

Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead. 

Are heap'd for the beloved's bed ; 

And 80 thy thoughts, when thou art 

gone. 
Love itaelf shall slumber on. 

I'EIICY BYSSUE SUELLEY. 



To his Mistress, the Queen of 
Bohemia. 

Yor meaner beauties of the night, 
That poorly satisfy our eyes 

More by your number than your light — 
You common people of the skies — 
What are you when the moon shall rise? 

You curious chanters of the wood. 

That warble forth dame Nature's lays, 
Thinking your passions understood 



By your weak accents — what's your 

praise 
When Philomel her voice shall raise? 

Y'ou violets that first appear. 

By your pure purple mantles known. 

Like the proud virgins of the year. 
As if the spring were all your own — 
What are you when the rose is blown? 

So when my mistress shall be seen 
In form and beauty of her mind; 

By virtue first, then choice, a queen — 
Tell me, if she were not design'd 
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind ? 

SiK Hfnry Wotton. 



Oy A Girdle. 

That which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind ; 
No monarch but would give his crown, 
His arms might do what this hath done. 

It was mt heaven's extremcst sphere. 
The pale which held that lovely deer: 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, 
Did all within this circle move. 

A narrow compa.ss ! and yet there 

Dwelt all that's good, and all that's 

fair. 
Give me but what this ribbon bound. 
Take all the rest the sun goes round ! 

EiiMi'ND Waller. 



There is a Garden in her Face. 

There is a garden in her face. 
Where roses and white lilies lilow; 

A heavenly paradise is that place. 
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow ; 

There cherries grow that none may buy, 

Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Those cherries fairly do enclose 

Of orient jiearl a double row. 
Which when her lovely laughter shows, 

They look like rosebuds filled with 
snow ; 
Yet them no pe<'r nor prince may buy. 
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Her eyes like angels watch them still, 
Her brows like bended bows do stand. 



186 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJiDIA OF POETRY. 



Threatening with piercing frowns to kill 

All that approach with ej'e or hand 
These sacred cherries to come nigh, 
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Richard Auson. 



Jenny Kissed Me. 

Jenxy kiss'd me when we met, 

Jumping from the chair she sat in ; 
Time, you thief! who love to get 

Sweets into your list, put that in. 
Say I'm weary, .say I'm sad ; 

Say that health and wealth have miss'd 
me; 
Say I'm growing old, but add — 

Jenny kiss'd me ! 

Leigh Hunt. 



Allen-a-Dale. 

Allex-a-Dale has no fagot for burning, 
Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, 
Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning. 
Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the win- 
ning. 
Come, read me my riddle ! come, hearken 

my tale ! 
And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale. 

The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride. 

And he views his domains upon Arkiudale 
side, 

The mere for his net, and the land for his 
game. 

The chase for the wild, and the park for 
the tame ; 

Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the 
vale. 

Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a- 
Dale! 

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight. 
Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade 

be as bright ; 
Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, 
Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his 

word ; 
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will 

veil. 
Who at Rere-cross on Staumore meets 

Allen-a-Dale. 



Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come ; 

The mother, she ask'd of his household 

and home : 
" Though the castle of Richmond stand 

fair on the hill. 
My hall," quoth bold Allen, " shows gal- 

lanter still ; 
'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its 

crescent so pale, 
And with all its bright spangles!" said 

Alleu-a-Dale. 

The father was steel, and the mother was 
stone ; 

They lifted the latch, and they bade him 
be gone ; 

But loud, on the morrow, their wail and 
their cry ; 

He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonny 
black eye. 

And she fled to the forest to hear a love- 
tale. 

And the youth it was told by was Allen-a- 
Dale! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



The Heath this Night 3iust be 
MY Bed. 

The heath this night must be my bed, 
The bracken curtain for my head, 
My lullaby the warder's tread. 

Far, far from love and thee, Mary ; 
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, 
My couch may be my bloody plaid. 
My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid ! 

It will not waken me, Mary ! 

I may not, dare not, fancy now 

The grief that clouds thy lovely brow ; 

I dare not think upon thy vow, 

And all it promised me, Mary. 
No fond regret must Norman know ; 
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe. 
His heart must be like bended bow, 

His foot like arrow free, Mary. 

A time will come with feeling fraught ! 
For, if I fall in battle fought. 
Thy hapless lover's dying thought 
Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



187 



And if return'd from conquer'd foes, 
IIow blithely will the evening close, 
How sweet the linnet sing repose 
To my young bride and nie, Mary ! 
Siu Walter Scott. 



Sigh no Moke, Ladies. 

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more ; 

Men were deceivers ever ; 
One foot in sea, and one on shore. 
To one thing constant never : 
Then sigh not so. 
But let them go, 
And be you blythe and bonny ; 
Converting all your sounds of woe 
Into, Hey nonny, nonny. 

Sing no more ditties, sing no mo 
Of dumps so dull and heavy ; 
The fraud of men was ever so, 
isiuce summer first was leavy : 
Then sigh not so, 
But let them go, 
And be you blythe and bonny ; 
Converting all your sounds of woe 
Into, Hey nonny, nonny. 

William Shakespeare. 



Love Not. 

Love not, love not ! ye hapless sons of 
clay ! 
Hope's gayest wreaths are made of 
earthly flowers — 
Things that are made to fade and fall away 
Ere they have blossom'd for a few short 
hours. 

Love not ! 

Love not ! the thing ye love may change ! 
The rosy lip may cea.se to smile on you, 
The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and 
strange. 
The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. 
Love not ! 

Love not ! the thing you love may die — 
May perish from the gay and gladsome 
eartli ; 
The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, 
Beam o'er its grave, as once upon ita birth. 
Love not I 



Love not ! oh, warning vainly said 

In present hours a.s in years gone by ; 
Love flings a halo round the dear one's 
head. 
Faultless, immortal, till they change or 
die. 

Love not ! 
Caroline Norton. 



A ]Y OMAN'S Question. 

Before I trust my Fate to thee, 

Or place my hand in thine. 
Before I let thy Future give 
Color and form to mine, 
Before I peril all for thee, question thy 
soul to-night for me. 

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 

A shadow of regret : 
Is there one link within the Past 
That holds thy spirit yet? 
Or is thy Faith as clear and free as that 
which I can pledge to thee ? 

Does there within thy dimmest dreams 

A possible future shine. 
Wherein thy life could henceforth 
breathe, 
Untoueh'd, unshared by mine? 
If so, at any pain or cost, oh tell me before 
all is lost. 

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel 

Within thy inmost soul, 
That thou hast kept a portion back. 
While I have staked the whole ; 
Let no false pity spare the blow, but iu 
true mercy tell me so. 

Is there within thy heart a need 

That mine cannot fulfil ? 
One chord that any other hand 
Could better wake or still? 
Speak now — lest at some future day my 
whole life wither and decay. 

Lives there within thy nature hid 

The demon-spirit Change, 
Shedding a pa.ssing glory still 
On all things new and strange? 
It may not be thy fault alone — but shield 
my heart against thy own. 



188 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day 

And answer to my claim, 
That Fate, and that to-day's mistake — 
Not thou — had been to blame ? 
Some soothe their conscience thus; but 
thou wilt surely warn and save me 
now. 

Nay, answer not, — I dare not hear, 
The words would come too late ; 
Yet I would spare thee all remorse, 
So comfort thee, my Fate — 
Whatever on my heart may fall — remem- 
ber, I iDOuld risk it all ! 

Adelaide Anne Pbootek. 



A WOMAN'S Answer. 

I WILL not let you say a woman's part 
Must be to give exclusive love alone ; 

Dearest, although I love you so, my heart 
Answers a thousand claims besides your 
own. 

I love — what do I not love? Earth and 
air 
Find space within my heart, and myriad 
things 
You would not deign to heed are cherish'd 
there. 
And vibrate on its very inmost strings. 

I love the Summer, with her ebb and flow 
Of light, and warmth, and music, that 
have nursed 
Her tender buds to blossoms . . . and you 
know 
It was in summer that I saw you first. 

I love the Winter dearly too, . . . but then 

I owe it so much ; on a winter's day. 
Bleak, cold, and stormy, you return'd 
again. 
When you had been those weary months 
away. 

I love the Stars like friends; so many 
nights 
I gazed at them, when you were far from 
me. 
Till I grew blind with tears ; . . . those far- 
off lights 
Could watch you, whom I long'd in vain 
to see. 



I love the flowers ; happy hours lie 
Shut up within their petals close and 
fast : 

You have forgotten, dear ; but they and I 
Keep every fragment of the golden past. 

I love, too, to be loved ; all loving praise 
Seems like a crown upon mj' life, — to 
make 
It better worth the giving, and to raise 
Still nearer to your own the heart you 
take. 

I love all good and noble souls ; — I heard 
One speak of you but lately, and for 
days. 
Only to think of it, my soul was stirr'd 
In tender memory of such generous 
praise. 

I love all those who love you : all who owe 

Comfort to you; and I can find regret 
Even for those poorer hearts who once 
could know, 
And once could love you, and can now 
forget. 

Well, is my heart so narrow, — I, who spare 
Love for all these ? Do I not even hold 

My favorite books in special tender care, 
And prize them as a miser does his gold'? — 

The poets that you used to read to me 
While summer twilights faded in the 
sky; 
But most of all I think Aurora Leigh, 
Because — because — do you remember 
why? 

Will you he jealous? Did you guess be- 
fore 
I loved so many things? — Still you the 
best : — 
Dearest, remember that I love you more. 
Oh more a thousand times, than all the 

rest! 

Adelaide Anne Procter. 



Maude Clare. 

Out of the church she follow'd them 
With a lofty steep and mien : 

His bride was like a village maid, 
Maude Clare was like a queen. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



189 



" Son Thomas," his lady mother said, 
Witli smiles, iilmnst with tears : 

■■ May Nell and you but live as true 
As we have done for years ; 

■• Your father thirty years ago 

Had just your tale to tell ; 
But he was not so pale as you. 

Nor I so pale as Xell." 

lly lord was pale with inward strife, 
And Nell was pale with pride ; 

My lord gazed long on pale Maude Clare 
Or ever he kiss'd the bride. 

" Lo, I have brought my gift, my lord, 
Have brought my gift," she said : 

" To bless the hearth, to bless the board. 
To bless the marriage-bed. 

"Here's my half of the golden chain 

You wore about your neek. 
That day we waded ankle-deep 

For lilies in the beck : 

" Here's my half of the faded leaves 
We pluck'd from budding bough. 

With feet amongst the lily-leaves, — 
The lilies are budding now." 

He strove to match her scorn with scorn, 

He falter'd in his place: 
"Lady," he said, — "Maude Clare," he 
said, — 

" Maude Clare :" — and hid his face. 

She turn'd to Nell : " My Lady Xell, 

I have a gift f<)r you ; 
Though were it fruit, the bloom were gone. 

Or, were it flowers, the dew. 

"Take my share of a fickle heart, 

Mine of a paltry love: 
Take it or leave it as you will, 

I wash my hands thereof" 

" And what you leave," said Nell, " I'll take. 
And wliat you sjpurn, I'll wear; 

For he's my lord for better and wonse. 
And him I love, Maude Clare. 

" Yea, though you're taller by the head, 
More wise, and much more fair ; 

I'll love him till he loves me best, 
Me best of all, Maude Clare." 

CURISTIK.\ (JEOROINA ROSSETTI 



A Serexade. 

Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh. 

The sun has left the lea, 
The orange-flower perfumes the bower. 

The breeze is on the .sea. 
The lark, his lay who trill'd all day. 

Sits liush'd his partner nigh ; 
Breeze, bird, and llower confess the hour, 

But where is County Guy? 

The village maid steals through the shade 

Her shepherd's suit to hear ; 
To beauty shy, by lattice high. 

Sings high-born cavalier. 
The star of Love, all stars above. 

Now reigns o'er earth and sky, 
And high and low the iuHuence know. 

But where is County Ciuy '? 

Sir Walter .Scott. 



Cbild and Maweht. 

Ah, Chloris ! could I now but sit 

As unconcern'd as when 
Your infant beauty could beget 

No happiness or pain ! 
When I the dawn used to admire. 

And praised the coming day, 
I little thought the rising fire 

Would take my rest away. 

Y'our charms in harmless childhood 1; 

Like metals in a mine; 
Age from no face takes more away 

Than youth conceal'd in thine. 
But as your charms insensibly 

To their jierfection prest. 
So love as unpcrceived did fiy. 

And centred in my breast. 

My passion with your beauty grew. 

While Cupid at my heart 
Still as his mother favor'd you 

Threw a now flaming dart ; 
Each gloried in their wanton i>art; 

To make a lover he 
Employ'd the utmost of his art — 

To make a beauty, she. 

Though now I slowly bend to love 

Uncertain of my fate. 
If your fair self my chains approve, 

I shall my freedom hate. 



s. 



190 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Lovers, like dying men, may well 

At first disorder'd be, 
Since none alive can truly tell 

What fortune they must see. 

Sir Charles Sedley. 



Sonnet. 

Like as the culver, on the bared bough, 
Sits mourning for the absence of her 
mate, 
And in her songs sends many a wishful 
vow 
For his return that seems to linger late ; 
So I alone, now left disconsolate, 

Mourn to myself the absence of my 
love. 
And, wand'ring here and there, all deso- 
late, 
Seek with my plaints to match that 
mournful dove ; 
Ne joy of aught that under heaven doth 
hove 
Can comfort me but her own joyous 
sight. 
Whose sweet aspect both God and men 
can move, 
In her unspotted pleasures to delight. 
Dai'k is my day, whiles her fair light I 

miss, 
And dead my life, that wants such lively 
bliss. 

Edmdnd Spenser. 



Sonnet. 

Since I did leave the presence of my 
love, 
Many long, weary days I have outworn, 
And many nights that slowly seem'd to 
move 
Their sad protract from evening until 
morn. 
For, when as day the heaven doth adorn, 
I wish that night the noyous day would 
end, 
And when as night hath us of light for- 
lorn, 
I wish that day would shortly reascend. 
Thus I the time with expectation spend, 
And fain my grief with changes to be- 
guile, 



That further seems his term still to ex- 
tend. 
And maketh every minute seem a mile. 
So sorrow still doth seem too long to last, 
But joyous hours do fly away too fast. 

Edmund Spenser. 



A Renunciation. 

If women could be fair, and yet not fond, 
Or that their love were firm, not fickle 
still, 

I would not marvel that they make men 
bond 
By service long to purchase their good- 
will, 

But when I see how frail those creatures 
are, 

I muse that men forget themselves so far. 

To mark the choice they make, and how 

they change. 
How oft from Phcebus they do flee to 

Pan, 
Unsettled still, like haggards wild they 

range, 
These gentle birds that fly from man to 

man; 
Who would not scorn and shake them 

from the fist, 
And let them fly, fair fools, which way 

they list. 

Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both, 
To pass the time when nothing else can 
please, 
And train them to our lure with subtle 
oath, 
Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we 
ease; 
And then we say when we their fancy 

try. 
To play with fools, oh, what a fool was 1 1 
Kdward Vere, Earl of Oxford. 



BLAME NOT 3IY LUTE. 

Blame not my Lute ! for he must sound 
Of this or that as liketh me ; 

For lack of wit the Lute is bound 
To give such tunes as pleaseth me ; 



POEMS OF LOVE. 191 


Tliough my songs be somewhat strange, 


The boat for joy could not to dance for- 


And s2)oak such words as touch my change, 


bear ; 


Bhime not my Lute 1 


While wanton winds, with beauties so 




divine 


My Lute, alas ! doth not ofi'cnd, 


Ravish'd, staid not till in her golden hair 


Though that perforce he must agree 


They did themselves, sweetest prison ! 


To sound such tunes as I intend 


twine; 


To sing to them that hcareth me ; 


And fain those Eol's youth tliere would 


Tlien though my songs he somewhat plain, 


their stay 


And toucheth some that use to Ceign, 


Have made, but forced bv Nature still to 


Bhime not my Lute ! 


fiy. 




First did with pulling kiss those locks dis- 


My Lute and strings may not deny, 


play. 


But lus I strilce tliey must obey ; 


She so dishevell'd, blush'd : — from win- 


Break not them so wrongfully. 


dow I, 


But wreak thyself some other way ; 


With sight thereof, cried out, O fair dis- 


And though the songs which I indite 


grace ! 


Do quit thy change with rightful spite, 


Let honor's self to thee grant highest place. 


Blame not my Lute ! 


Siu Philip Sid.nev. 


ypite asketh spite, and changing change, 


-o— 


And falskl faith must needs be known ; 


The Re-cured Lover Exulteth 


The faults so great, the case so strange ; 


IN HIS Freedom. 


Of right it nuist abroad be blown : 




Then since that by thine own desert 


I AM as I am, and so will I be : 


My songs do tell how true thou art. 


But how that I am none knoweth truly. 


Blame not my Lute ! 


Be it ill, be it well, be I bond, be I free. 




I am as I am, and so will I be. 


Blame but thyself that hast misdone. 




And well deserved to have blame ; 


I lead my life indifferently ; 


Change thou thy way, so evil begone, 


I mean nothing but honesty ; 


And then my Lute shall sound tliat same! 


And though folks judge full diversely. 


But if till then my fingers play. 


I am as I am, and so will I die. 


By thy desert their wonted way. 




Blame not my Lute ! 


I do not rejoice nor yet complain. 




Both mirth and .sadness I do refrain. 


Farewell, unknown; for though thou break 


And u.se the means since folks will feign ; 


My strings in spite with great disdain, 


Yet I am as I am, be it pleasant or pain. 


Vet have I found out, for thy sake. 




Strings for to string my Lute again : 


Divers do judge as they do trow. 


And if perchance this silly rhyme 


Some of pleasure and some of woe. 


Uo make thee blush at any time, 


Yet for all that, nothing they know ; 


Blame not my Lute ! 


But I am as I am, wheresoever I go. 


Sir TiiDMAs Wvatt. 




.0. 


But since judgcrs do thus decay, 


SOX.VET. 


Let every man his juilgment say; 




I will it take in sport and jilay. 


HAPPY Thames that didst my Stella 


Tor I am as I am, whosoever say nay. 


bear! 




I saw myself with many a smiling line 


Who judgeth well, well God them send ; 


Upon thy cheerful face, joy's liverj- wear. 


Who judgeth evil, God them amend ; 


While those fair planets on thy streams 


To judge the best therefore intend, 


did shine; 


For I am as I am, and so will I end. 



192 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Yet some there be that take delight, 
To judge folks' thought for envy and spite ; 
But whether they judge me wrong or right, 
I am as I am, and so do I write. 

Praying you all that this do read, 
To trust it as you do your creed ; 
And not to think I change my weed. 
For I am as I am, however I speed. 

But how that is I leave to you ; 
Judge as ye list, false or true. 
Ye know no more than afore ye knew. 
Yet I am as I am, whatever ensue. 

And from this mind I will not flee, 
But to you all that misjudge me, 
I do jirotest, as ye may see, 
That I am as I am, and so will be. 

Sir Thomas Wyatt. 



SONJ^i-UT. 

Havino this day my horse, my hand, my 

lance 

Guided so well, that I obtain'd the prize. 

Both by the judgment of tiie English eyes. 

And of some sent from that sweet enemy 

France ; 
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship ad- 
vance; 
Townfolks my strength; a daintier judge 

applies 
His praise to sleight which from good use 
doth rise; 
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance ; 
Others, because of both sides I do take 
My blood from them who did excel in this. 
Think Nature me a man of arms did 
make. 
How far they shot awry ! the true cause is 
Stella look'd on, and from her heavenly 

face 
Sent forth the beams which made so fair 

my race. 

Sir Philip Sidney. 



A Fragment from Sappko. 

Blest as the immortal gods is he. 
The youth who fondly sits by thee. 
And hoars and sees thee all the while 
Softly speak and sweetly smile. 



'Twas this deprived my soul of rest. 
And raised such tumults in my breast : 
For while I gazed, in transport tost. 
My breath was gone, my voice was lost. 

My bosom glow'd ; the subtle flame 
Ran quick through all my vital frame : 
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung ; 
My ears with hollow murmurs rung. 

In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd ; 
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd • 
My feeble pulse forgot to play— 
I fainted, sunk, and died away. 

Ambrose Philips. 



Ask Me no More. 

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the 
sea ; 
The cloud may stoop from heaven and 

take the shape, 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; 
But, oh too fond, when have I answer'd 
thee? 

Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : what answer should I 
give ? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye ; 
Yet, my friend, I will not have thee 
die ! ' 
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee 
live ; 

Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are 
seal'd. 
I strove against the stream, and all in 

vain. 
Let the great river take me to the main. 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 
Ask me no more ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 



Ask me no More where Jove 
Bestows. 

Ask me no more, where Jove bestows. 
When June is past, the fading rose ; 
For in your beauties, orient deep. 
These flow'rs, as in their causes, sleep. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



193 



Ask me no more, whither do stray 
The goklcti atoms of the day ; 
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your hair. 

Ask me no more, whither doth ha.stc 
The nightingale, when May is past; 
For in your sweet dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 

Ask me no more, where those stars light, 
Tliat downward fall in dead of night ; 
For in your eyes they sit, and there 
Fixi;d become, as in their sphere. 

Ask me no more if east or west 
The Phoenix builds her spicy nest ; 
For unto you at htst she flies. 
And in your fragrant bosom dies. 

TuoM.ts Carew. 



3IY Bear axd Oxly Love. 
Part Fir.st. 

My dear and only love, I pray, 

This noble world of thee 
Be govern'd by no other sway 

But purest monarchie. 
For if confusion have a part. 

Which virtuous souls abhore, 
And hold a synod in thy heart, 

I'll never love thee more. 

Like Alexander I will reign, 

And I will reign alone, 
My thoughts shall evermore disdain 

A rival on my throne. 
He either fears his fate too much, 

Or his deserts are small. 
That puts it not unto the touch, 

To win or lose it all. 

But I must rule and govern still, 

And always give the law. 
And have each subject at my will, 

And all to stand in awe. 
But 'gainst my battery if I find 

Thou shun'st the prize so sore 
As that thou set'st me up a blind. 

I'll never love thee more. 

If in the empire of thy heart, 
Where I should solely be, 

13 



Another do pretend a part, 

And dares to vie with me; 
Or if committees thou erect. 

And go on such a score, 
I'll sing and laugh at thy neglect, 

And never love thee more. 

But if thou wilt be constant then, 

And faitiiful of thy word, 
I'll make thee glorious by my pen. 

And famous by my sword. 
I'll serve thee in such noble ways 

Was never heard before ; 
I'll crown and deck thee all with bays, 

And love thee evermore. 

Part Second. 
My dear and only love, take heed, 

Lest thou thyself expose, 
And let all longing lovers feed 

U]K)n such looks as those. 
A marble wall then build about, 

Beset without a door; 
But if thou let thy heart fly out, 

I'll never love thee more. 

Let not their oaths, like volleys shot, 

Blake any breach at all ; 
Nor smoothnes.s of their language plot 

Which way to scale the wall ; 
Nor balls of wild-fire love consume 

The shrine which I adore; 
For if such smoke about thee fume, 

I'll never love thee more. 

I think thy virtues be too strong 

To suflcr by surprise ; 
Those victuall'd by my love so long. 

The siege at length must rise, 
And leave thee ruled in that health 

And state thou wast before ; 
But if thou turn a commonwealth, 

I'll never love thee more. 

Or if by fraud, or by consent, 

Thy heart to mine come, 
I'll sound no trumpet as I wont. 

Nor march by tuck of drum; 
But hold my arms, like ensigns, up, 

Thy falsehood to deplore. 
And bitterly will sigh and weep. 

And never love thee more. 



194 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 


I'll do with thee as Nero did, 


As doth the turtle, chaste and true, 


When Rome was set on fire, 


Her fellow's death regrete. 


Not only all relief forbid, 


And daily mourns for his adieu. 


But to a hill retire. 


And ne'er renews her mate ; 


And scorn to shed a tear to see 


So, though thy faith was never fast, 


Thy spirit grown so poor ; 


Which grieves me wondrous sore. 


But smiling sing, until I die, 


Yet I shall live in love so chast, 


I'll never love thee more. 


That I shall love no more. 


Yet, for the love I hare thee once. 


And when all gallants ride about 


Lest that thy name should die, 


These monuments to view. 


A monument of marble-stone 


Whereon is written, in and out. 


The truth shall testitie : 


Thou traitorous and untrue ; 


That every pilgrim passing by 


Then in a passion they shall pause, 


May pity and deplore 


And thus say, sighing sore. 


My case, and read the reason why 


"Alas! he had too just a cause. 


I can love thee no more. 


Never to love thee more." 


The golden laws of love shall be 
Upon this pillar hung, — 


And when that tracing goddess Fame 


From east to west sliall flee. 


A simple heart, a single eye, 


She shall record it to thy shame, 


A true and constant tongue ; 


How thou hast lovfed me ; 


Let no man for more love pretend 


And how in odds our love was such 


Than he has hearts in store; 


As few have been before: 


True love begun shall never end ; 


Thou loved too many, and I too much, 


Love one and love no more. 


So I can love no more. 






James Graham, Marquis of Montrose. 


Then shall thy heart be set by mine. 




But in far different case ; 


K>. 


But mine was true, so was not thine. 


On, HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE 


But lookt like Janus' face. 


ISLE OF OUR OWN! 


For as the waves with every wind, 




So sail'st thou every shore, 


Oh, had we some bright little isle of our 


And leav'st my constant heart behind, — ■ 


own, 


How can I love thee more? 


In a blue summer ocean, far off and 




alone. 


My heart shall with the sun be flx'd 


Where a leaf never dies in the still bloom- 


For constancy most strange. 


ing bowers. 


And thine shall with the moon be mix'd, 


And the bee banquets on through a whole 


Delighting aye in change. 


year of flowers ; 


Thy beauty shined at first more bright. 


Where the sun loves to pause 


And woe is me therefore, 


With so fond a delay. 


That ever I found thy love so light 


That the night only draws 


I could love thee no more ! 


A thin veil o'er the day. 




AVhere simply to feel that we breathe, that 


The misty mountains, smoking lakes. 


we live, 


The rocks' resounding echo. 


Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere 


The whistling wind that murmur makes 


can give. 


Shall with me sing hey ho ! 




The tossing seas, the tumbling boats. 


There, with souls ever ardent and pure as 


Tears dropping from each shore. 


the clime. 


Shall tune with me their turtle notes — 


AVe should love as they loved in the first 


I'll never love thee more. 


golden time ; 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



195 



Theglow of the sunshine, the balm of the air, 

Would steal to our hearts and make all 

sumnirr there. 

AVith afTV'ction a^; free 

From decline as the bowers, 

And with hope, like the bee. 

Living always on flowers, 

Our life should resemble a long day of light. 

And our death come on, holy and calm as 

the night. 

Thomas Moobe. 

To Celia. 

Drixk to me only with thine eyes. 

And I will pledge with mine; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath. 

Not so much honoring thee 
As giving it a hope that there 

It could not wither'd be; 
But thou thereon didst only breathe 

And sent'st it back to me ; 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 

Not of itself, but thee ! 

(From the Greek.) 
Bes Josson. 

A T Setting Da y and rising 
Morn. 

At setting day and rising morn, 

With soul that still .shall love thee, 
I'll ask of Heaven thy safe return. 

With all that can improve thee. 
I'll visit aft the birken bush. 

Where first thou kindly told me 
Sweet tales of love, an<l hid thy blu.sh, 

Whilst round thou didst enfold me. 
To all our haunts I will repair. 

By greenwood shaw or fountain, 
Or wlicrc the summer day I'd share 

With tliec upon yon mountain; 
There will I tell the frees and flowers, 

From thoughts unfeign'd and tender. 
By vows you're mine, by love is yours 

A heart that cannot wander. 

Ali.a.n Uamsay. 



Song of Margaret. 

Ay, I saw her, we have met ; — 

Married eyes, how sweet they be ! 
Are you happier, Margaret, 

Than you might have been with me? 
Silence ! make no more ado ! 

Did she think I should forget? 
Matters nothing, tliough I knew, 

Margaret, Margaret. 

Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy. 

Told a certain thing to mine; 
What they told me I put by. 

Oh, so careless of the sign. 
Such an easy thing to take. 

And I did not want it then ; 
Fool ! I wish my heart would break ; 

Scorn is hard on hearts of men. 

Scorn of self is bitter work, — 

Each of us has felt it now ; 
Bluest skies she counted mirk, 

Self-betray'd of eyes and brow; 
As for me, I went my way. 

And a better man drew nigh, 
Fain to earn, with long essay. 

What the winner's hand threw by. 

Matters not in deserts old, 

What was born, and wa.x'd, and yearn'd. 
Year to year its meaning told, 

I am come, — its deeps are learn'd ; 
Come, but there is naught to say, — 

Married eyes with mine have met. 

Silence ! Oh, I had my day, 

Margaret, Margaret. 

Jean Ixgelow. 



LOCHABER NO MORE. 

Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell, my 

Jean, 
Where heartsomc with thee I hae mony 

day been ! 
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, 
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more ! 
These tears that I shed, they are a' for 

my dear, 
And no for the dangers attending on 

war, 
Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody 

shore, 
Mavbe to return to Lochaber no more. 



196 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Though hurricanes rise, and rise every 

wind, 
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in 

my mind ; 
Though loudest of thunder on louder 

waves roar, 
That's naething like leaving my love on 

the shore. 
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair 

pain'd ; 
By ease that's inglorious no fame can be 

gain'd ; 
And beauty and love's the reward of the 

brave, 
And I must deserve it before I can crave. 



Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my ex- 
cuse ; 

Since honor commands me, how can I re- 
fuse? 

Without it I ne'er can have merit for 
thee. 

And without thy favor I'd better not be. 

I gae then, my lass, to win honor and 
fame. 

And if I should luck to come gloriously 
hame, 

I'll bring a heart to thee with love run- 
ning o'er. 

And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no 
more. 

Allan Ramsay. 



Tebnissa. 

Ternissa, you are fled ! 

I say not to the dead, 
But to tbe happy ones who rest below ; 

For, surely, surely, where 

Your voice and graces are. 
Nothing of death can any feel or know. 

Girls who dc'light to dwell 

Where grows most asphodel. 
Gather to their calm breasts each word you 
speak ; 

The mild Persephone 

Places you on her knee, 
And your cool palm smooths down stern 
Pluto's cheek. 

Walter Savage Landor. 



Evelyn Hope. 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 
She pluck'd that piece of geranium- 
flower, 
Beginning to die, too, in the glass. 

Little has yet been changed, I think ; 
The shutters are shut — no light may pass. 
Save two long rays thro' the hinges' 
chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my 
name — 
It was not her time to love ; beside. 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares ; 

And now was quiet, now astir — • 
Till God's hand beckon'd unawares. 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? 

What! your soul was pure and true; 
The good stars met in your horoscope. 

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew ; 
And just because I was thrice as old. 

And our paths in the world diverged so 
wide, 
Each was nanght to each, must I be told ? 

We were fellow-mortals — naught beside ? 

No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make. 
And creates the love to reward the love ; 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
Delay'd, it may be, for more lives yet, 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a 
few ; 
Much is to learn and much to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 

But the time will come — at last it will — 
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall 
say. 
In the lower earth — in the years long still — 

That body and soul so gay? 
Why your hair was amber I shall divine. 
And your mouth of your own geranium's 
red — 
And what you would do with me, in fine. 
In the new life come in the old one's 
stead. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



1?>7 



I have lived, I shall say, so much since 
then, 

Given up myself so many times, 
Gain'd me the gains of various men, 

Ransack'd the ages, spoil'd the climes; 
Yet one thing — one — in my soul's full 
scope. 

Either I niiss'd or it.self niiss'd me — 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 

What is the issue? let us see ! 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ; 

My heart seem'd full as it could hold — 
There was place and to spare for the frank 
young smile 
And the red young mouth and the hair's 
young gold. 
So hush ! I will give you this leaf to keep; 
See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold 
hand. 
There, that is our secret ! go to sleep; 
You will wake, and remember, and un- 
derstand. 

ROBEBT BBOWSINO. 



Come a wa r, Come a wa r, Dea th. 

Come away, come away. Death, 

And in sad cypres let me be laid ; 
Fly away, fly away, breath ; 

I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew. 

Oh prepare it ! 
My part of death no one so true 
Did .share it. 

Not a flower, not a flower sweet 

On my black collin let there be strown; 
Not a friend, not a friend greet 
My poor corpse, where my bones shall 
be thrown : 
A thousand thousand sighs to save. 

Lay me, oh where 
Sad true lover never find my grave, 
To weep there. 

WlLLIAU SUAKESPEABE. 



Colin akd Lucy. 

Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair, 
Bright Lucy was the grace ; 

Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream 
Reflect so fair a face. 



Till luckless love and pining care 

Impair'd her ro.sy hue, 
Her coral lip, and damask cheek, 

And eyes of glossy blue. 

Oh, have you seen a lily pale. 

When beating rains descend ? 
So drooi>'d the slow-consuming maid ; 

Her life now near its end. 

By Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains 

Take heed, ye easy fair ; 
Of vengeance due to broken vows 

Ye perjured swains beware. 

Three times, all in the dead of night, 

A bell was heard to ring ; 
And at her window, shrieking thrice, 

The raven flapp'd his wing. 

Too well the love-lorn maiden knew 

Tiiat solemn boding sound ; 
And thus in dying words bespoke 

The virgins weeping round : 

" I hear a voice you cannot hear. 

Which says I must not stay ; 
I see a hand you cannot see. 

Which beckons me away. 

" By a false heart and broken vows, 

In early youth I die. 
Am I to blame because his bride 

Is thrice as rich as I ? 

" Ah, Colin ! give not her thy vows, 

Vows due to me alone : 
Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss, 

Nor think him all thy own. 

" To-mnrrow in the church to wed. 

Impatient, both prciiare, 
But know, fond maid, and know, false youth, 

That Lucy will be there. 

"Then bear my corse, ye comrades, bear, 
The bridegroom blithe to meet ; 

He in his wedding-trim so gay, 
I in my winding-sheet." 

She spoke, she died ; — her corse was borne 
The bridegroom blithe to meet; 

He in his wedding-trim so gay, 
.•^he in her winding-sheet. 



198 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



Then what were perjured Colin's thoughts? 

How were those nuptials kept? 
The bride-men flocli'd round Lucy dead, 

And all the village wept. 

Confusion, shame, remorse, despair, 

At once his bosom swell ; 
The damps of death bedew'd his brow. 

He shook, he groan'd, he fell. 

From the vain bride (ah, bride no more!) 

The varying crimson fled, 
When, stretch'd before her rival's corse, 

She saw her husband dead. 

Then to his Lucy's new-made grave, 
Convey'd by trembling swains, 

One mould with her beneath one sod, 
For ever now remains. 

Oft at their grave the constant hind 

And plighted maid are seen ; 
With garlands gay, and true-love knots 

They deck the sacred green. 

But, swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art. 

This hallow'd spot forbear. 
Remember Colin's dreadful fate, 

And fear to meet him there. 

Thomas Tickell. 



LOSD LOVEL. 

Lord Lovel he stood at his castle-gate 
Combing his milk-white steed ; 

When up came Lady Nancy Belle, 
To wish her lover good speed, speed, 
To wish her lover good speed. 

"Where are you going, Lord Lovel?" she 
said, 
" Oh ! where are you going?" said she; 
" I'm going, my Lady Nancy Belle, 
Strange countries for to see, to see, 
Strange countries for to see." 

"When will you be back. Lord Lovel?" 
she said ; 
" Oh I when will you come back ?" said 
she; 
" In a year or two — or three, at the most, 
I'll return to ray fair Nancy-cy, 
I'll return to my fair Nancy." 



But he had not been gone a year and a 
day, 
Strange countries for to see, 
When languishing thoughts came into his 
head. 
Lady Nancy Belle he would go see, see. 
Lady Nancy Belle he would go see. 

So he rode and he rode on his milk-white 
steed, 
Till he came to London town, 
And there he heard St. Pancras' bells, 
And the people all mourning, round, 

round. 
And the people all mourning round. 

"Oh ! what is the matter?" Lord Lovel he 
said, 
" Oh ! what is the matter?" said he ; 

" A lord's lady is dead," a woman replied, 
" And some call her Lady Nancy-cy, 
And some call her Lady Nancy." 

So he order'd the grave to be open'd wide. 
And the shroud he turned down. 

And there he kiss'd her clay-cold lips. 
Till the tears came trickling down, down. 
Till tlie tears came trickling down. 

Lady Nancy she died as it might be to-day. 

Lord Lovel he died as to-morrow ; 
Lady Nancy she died out of pure, pure 
grief. 
Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow, sor- 
row. 
Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow. 

Lady Nancy was laid in St. Pancras' 
church. 
Lord Lovel was laid in the choir; 
And out of her bosom there grew a red 
rose. 
And out of her lover's a brier, brier, 
And out of her lover's a brier. 

They grew, and they grew, to the church- 
steeple top. 
And then they could grow no higher: 
So there they entwined in a true-lover's 
knot. 
For all lovers true to admire-mire, 
For all lovers true to admire. 

Author Unknown. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



199 



AJvyiE Laurie. 

Maxwelton braes arc bonnie 

Where early fa's tiie dew, 
And it's there that Annie Laurie 

Gie'd nie her promise true — 
Gie'd me her promise true, 

Wliich ne'er forgot will be ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I'd lay me doune and dee. 

Her brow is like the snaw-drift; 

Her throat is like the swan ; 
Her face it is the fairest 

That e'er the sun shone on — 
That e'er the sun shone on — 

And dark blue is her ee ; 
And for bonnie Antiie Laurie 

I'd lay me doune and dee. 

Like dew on the gowan lying 

Is the fa' o' her fairy feet ; 
And like the winds in summer sighing, 

Her voice is low and sweet — 
Her voice is low and sweet — 

And she's a' the world to me; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I'd lay me doune and dee. 

AoTUOR Unknown. 



llV/.^r Ails this Heart o' Miset 

What ails this heart o' mine? 

What ails this watery ee? 
What gars me a' turn pale as death 

When I fake leave o' thee? 
When thou art far awa', 

Thou'lt dearer grow to me ; 
But chatii;e o' place and change o' folk 

May gar thy fancy jee. 

When I gae out at e'en, 

Or walk at morning air, 
Ilka rustling bush will seem to say, 

I used to meet thee there. 
Then I'll sit down and cry, 

And live aneath the tree, 
And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, 

I'll ca' 't a word frae thee. 

I'll hie me to the bower 

That thou wi' roses tied. 
And where wi' mony a blushing bud 

I strove mvself to hide. 



I'll doat on ilka spot 

Where I hae been wi' thee; 

And ca' to mind some kindly word. 
By ilka burn and tree. 

Susanna Blamirk 



The Portrait. 

Midnight past ! Not a sound of aught 

Through the silent house, but the wind 
at liis prayers. 
I sat by the <lying fire, and thought 
Of the dear dead woman up stairs. 

A night of tears ! for the gusty rain 
Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping 
yet; 
And the moon look'd forth, as though in 
pain, 
With her face all white and wet : 

Nobody with me, my watch to keep, 

But the friend of my bosom, the man I 
love : 

And grief had sent him fast to sleep 
In the chamber up above. 

Nobody else, in the country place 

All round, that knew of my loss beside, 

But the good young Priest with the Ra- 
phael-face, 
Who confess'd her when she died. 

That good ycmng Priest is of gentle nerve. 
And my grief had moved him beyond 
control ; 

For his lip grew white, as I could observe, 
When he speeded her parting soul. 

I sat by the dreary hearth alone : 

I thought of the pleasant days of yore : 

I said, " The staff of my life is gone : 
The woman I loved is no more. 

" On ber cold dead bosom my i)ortrait lies. 
Which next to her heart she used to 
wear — 

Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes 
When my own face was not there. 

" It is set all round with rubies red, 

And pearls which a Peri might have kept. 

For each ruby there my heart hath bled : 
For each pearl my eyes have wept." 



200 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



And I said — " The thing is precious to me : 
They will bury lier soon in the church- 
yard clay ; 

It lies on her heart, and lost must be 
If I do not take it away." 

I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, 
And crept up the stairs that creak'd for 
fright, 

Till into the chamber of death I came, 
Where she lay all in white. 

The moon shone over her winding-sheet. 
There stark she lay on her carven bed : 

Seven burning tapers about her feet, 
And seven about her head. 

As I stretch'd my hand, I held my breath ; 

I turn'd as I drew the curtains apart: 
I dared not look on the face of death : 

I knew where to find her heart. 

I thought at first, as my touch fell there. 
It had warm'd that heart to life, with 
love ; 

For the thing I touch'd was warm, I swear. 
And I could feel it move. 

'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving 
slow 
O'er the heart of the dead, — from the 
other side : 
And at once the sweat broke over my 
brow : 
" Who is robbing the corpse ?" I cried. 

Opposite me by the tapers' light, 
The friend of my bosom, the man I 
loved, 

Stood over the corpse, and all as white. 
And neither of us moved. 

" What do you here, my friend ?" . . . The 
man 

Look'd first at me, and then at the dead. 
" There is a portrait here," he began ; 

" There is. It is mine," I said. 

Said the friend of my bosom, " Yours, no 
doubt. 

The portrait was, till a month ago. 
When this suffering angel took that out, 

And placed mine there, I know. 



"This woman, she loved me well," said I. 

" A month ago," said my friend to me : 
" And in your throat," I groan'd, " you 
lie!" 

He answer'd, ..." Let us see." 

" Enough !" I return'd, " let the dead de- 
cide : 

And whose soever the portrait prove. 
His shall it be, when the cause is tried. 

Where Death is arraign'd by Love." 

We found the portrait there, in its place : 
We open'd it by the tapers' shine : 

The gems were all unchanged : the face 
Was — neither his nor mine. 

"One nail drives out another, at least! 

The face of the portrait there," I cried, 
" Is our friend's the Raphael-faced young 
Friest, 

Who confess'd her when she died." 

The setting is all of rubies red. 

And pearls which a Feri might have 
kept. 
For each ruby there my heart hath bled : 
For each pearl my eyes have wept. 

Robert Bulwer Lytton. 
(Owen Meredith.) 



Amynta. 

My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep- 
hook, 
And all the gay haunts of my youth I 

forsook ; 
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I 

wove : 
For ambition, I said, would soon cure me 
of love. 
Oh, what had my youth with ambition 

to do? 
Why left I Amynta ? Why broke I my 

vow? 
Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep- 
hook restore. 
And I'll wander from love and Amynta 
no more. 

Through regions remote in vain do I 

rove, 
And bid the wide ocean secure me from 

love! 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



201 



O fool ! to imagine that aught could subdue 

A love so well founded, a pa.ssion so true! 

Oh, what had my youth with ambition 

to do? 
Why left I Amynta ? Why broke I my 

vow ? 
Oh, give me my sheej), and my shcep- 

liook restore, 
And I'll wander from love and Amynta 

no more. 

Alas ! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine ; 
Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be 

thine : 
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are 

vain. 
The moments neglected return not again. 
Oh, what had my youth witli ambition 

to do ? 
Why left I Amynta? Why broke I my 

vow? 
Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep- 
hook restore. 
And ril wander from love and Amynta 

no more. 

Sir Gilbert Elliot. 

TriE Lord of BuRiEian. 

Ix her ear he whispers gayly, 

" If my heart by signs can tell, 
Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, 

And I think thim lov'st me well." 
She replies, in accent.s fainter, 

" There is none I love like thee." 
He is but a landscape-painter, 

And a village maiden she. 
He to lips, that fondly falter, 

Presses his without reproof: 
Leads her to the villajre altar, 

And they leave lier father's roof. 
" I can make no marriage pre.sent ; 

Little can I give my wife. 
Love will make our cottage pleasant, 

And I love thee more than life." 
They by parks and lodges going 

See the lordly castles stand ; 
Summer woods, about them blowing. 

Made a murmur in the land. 
From deep thought himself he rouses, 

Says to her that loves him well, 
" Let us see these handsome houses 

Where the wealthy nobles dwell." 



So she goes, by him attended, 

Hears him lovingly converse. 
Sees whatever fair and splendid 

Lay betwixt his home and hers : 
Parks with oak and chestnut sliady. 

Parks and order'd gardens great, 
Ancient homes of lord and lady. 

Built for pleiusure and for state. 
All he shows her makes him dearer : 

Evermore she seems to gaze 
On that cottage growing nearer, 

Where they twain will spend their days. 
Oh but she will love him truly ! 

He shall have a cheerful home; 
She will order all things duly. 

When beneath his roof they come. 
Thus her heart rejoices greatly, 

Till a gateway she discerns 
M'ith armorial bearings stately. 

And beneath the gate she turns; 
Sees a mansion more majestic 

Than all those she saw before : 
JIany a gallant gay domestic 

Bows before him at the door. 
And they speak in gentle murmur, 

When they answer to his call, 
^Vhile he treads with footstep firmer. 

Leading on from hall to hall. 
And, while now she wonders blindly. 

Nor the meaning can divine. 
Proudly turns he round and kindly, 

" All of this is mine and thine." 
Here he lives in state and bounty. 

Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, 
Not a lord in all the county 

Is so great a lord as he. 
All at once the color flushes 

Her sweet face from brow to chin : 
As it were with shame she blushes. 

And her spirit changed within. 
Then her countenance all over 

Pale again as death did prove; 
But he clasp'd her like a lover, 

And he cheer'd her soul with love. 
So she strove against her weakness, 

Tho' at times her spirit sank : 
Shaped her heart with woman's meekness 

To all duties of her rank : 
And a gentle consort made he, 

And her gentle mind was such 
That she grew a noble lady. 

And the people loved her much. 



202 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



But a trouble weigli'd upon her, 

And perplex'd her, night and morn. 
With the burden of an lionor 

Unto which she was not born. 
Faint she grew, and ever fainter, 

As she murmur'd, " Oh, that he 
Were once more that landscape-painter 

Which did win my heart from nie !" 
So she droop'd and droop'd before him, 

Fading slowly from his side : 
Three fair children first she bore him. 

Then before her time she died. 
Weeping, weeping late and early. 

Walking up and pacing down, 
Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, 

Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. 
And he came to look upon her. 

And he look'd at her and said, 
"Bring the dress and put it on her. 

That she wore when she was wed." 
Then her people, softly treading. 

Bore to eartli her body, drest 
In the dress that she was wed in. 

That her spirit might have rest. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

My Only Jo and Dearie, 0. 

Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue, 

My only jo and dearie, O ; 
Thy neck is like the siller dew 

Upon the banks sae briery, ; 
Tliy teeth are o' the ivory. 
Oh, sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee ! 
Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me, 

Jly only jo and dearie, 0. 

The birdie sings upon the thorn 
Its sang o' joy, fu' cheerio, 0, 
Rejoicing in the summer morn, 
Nae care to make it eerie, O ; 
But little kens the sangster sweet 
Aught o' the cares I hae to meet. 
That gar my restless bosom beat. 
My only jo and dearie, O. 

Whan we were bairuies on yon brae. 
And youth was blinking bonny, 0, 
Aft we wad daff the lec-lang day. 

Our joys fu' sweet and mony, O ; 
Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lee. 
And round about the thorny tree. 
Or pu' the wild-flowers a' for thee, 
My only jo and dearie, O. 



I hae a wish I canna tine 

'Mang a' the cares that grieve me, ; 
I wish thou wert for ever mine. 

And never mair to leave me, O: 
Then I wad daut thee night and day. 
Nor ither warldly care wad hae. 
Till life's warm stream forgot to play. 

My only jo and dearie, O. 

Richard Gall. 

LUCY'S FUTTIN'. 

'TwAS when the wan leaf frae the birk 
tree was fa'in. 
And Martinmas dowie had wound up 
the year, 
That Lucy rowed up her wee kist wi' her 
a' in't. 
And left her auld maister and ncibours 
sae dear : 
For Lucy had served i' the glen a' the 
simmer ; 
She cam there afore the bloom cam on 
the pea ; 
An orphan was she, and they had been 
gude till her. 
Sure that was the thing brocht the tear 
to her ee. 

She gaed by the stable where Jamie was 
stannin' ; 
Richt sair was his kind heart her flittin' 
to see. 
" Fare ye weel, Lucy !" quo' Jamie, and 
ran in ; 
The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae 
her ee. 
As down the burnside she gaed slow wi' 
her flittin', 
" Fare ye weel, Lucy !" was ilka bird's 
sang ; 
She heard the craw sayin't, high on the 
tree sittin'. 
And the robin was chirpin't the brown 
leaves amang. 

" Oh, what is't that pits my puir heart in 
a flutter ? 
And what gars the tears come sae fast 
to my ee? 
If I wasna ettled to be ony better, 
Then what gars me wish ony better to 
be? 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



203 



I'm just like a lammie that loses its 
inither; 
Nae mither or friend the puir lammie 
can 8ee ; 
I fear I hae tint my puir heart a'tliegither, 
Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae 
my ee. 

" Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae rowed up 
the ribbon, 
The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae 
me; 
Yestreen, when he gae me't, and saw I was 
sabbin', 
I'll never forget the wae bliiilc o' liis ee. 
Though now he said naething but ' Fare 
ye weel, Lucy !' 
It made me I neither could speak, hear, 
nor see : 
He couldna say mair but just, ' Fare ye 
wcel, Lucy !' 
Yet that I will mind till the day that 
I dee." 

The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when 

it's droukit ; 

The hare likes the brake and the braird 

on the lea ; 

But Lucy likes Jamie ; — she turn'd and 

she lookit. 

She thocht the dear place she wad never 

mair sec. 

Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie 

and cheerless! 

And weel may he greet on the bank o' 

the burn ! 

Fi)r bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and 

peerless. 

Lies cauld in her grave, and will never 

return ! 

William Laldlaw. 



Lilian. 

Airy, fairy Lilian, 

Flitting, fairy Lilian, 
When I .a.sk her if she love me, 
Clasps her tiny hands above me, 

Laujihing all she can : 
She'll not tell me if she love me, 

Cruel little Lilian. 



When my passion seeks 

Pleasance in love-sighs, 
She, looking thro' and thro' me 
Thoroughly to undo me, 

Smiling, never speaks: 
So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, 
From beneath her gather'd wimple 

Glancing with black-beaded eyes. 
Till the lightning laughters dimple 

The baby-roses in her cheeks ; 

Then away she flies. 

Prythee weep. May Lilian ! 
Gayety without eclipse 

Wearieth me. May Lilian: 
Thro' my very heart it thrillcth 

When from crimson-threaded lips 
Silver-treble laugliter trilleth : 

Prythee weep, Jlay Lilian. 

Praying all 1 can, 
If prayers will not hush thee. 

Airy Lilian, 
Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee. 

Fairy Lilian. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

Love and Death. 

Glories, pleasures, pomps, delight.*, and 
ease. 

Can but please 
The outward senses, when the mind 
Is or untroubled, or by peace refined. 
Crowns may flourish and decay. 
Beauties shine, but fade away. 
Youth may revel, yet it must 
Lie down in a bed of dust. 
Earthly honors flow and waste. 
Time alone doth change and last. 
Sorrows mingled with contents, prepare 

Rest for care ; 
Love only reigns in death; though art 
Can find no comfort for a broken heart. 

John Fokd. 

Lang LEY Lane. 

In all the land, range up, range down. 
Is there ever a place so plciisant and 
sweet 
As Langlcy Lane, in London town. 
Just out of the bustle of s<|uare and 
street ? 



204 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Little white cottages, all in a row, 
Gardens, where bachelors'-buttons grow. 

Swallows' nests in roof and wall. 
And u|) above the still blue sky, 
Where the woolly-white clouds go sailing 

by- 

I seem to be able to see it all ! 

For now, in summer, I take my chair, 
And sit outside in the sun, and hear 
The distant murmur of street and square, 
And the swallows and sparrows chirping 
near ; 
And Fanny, who lives just over the way. 
Comes running many a time each day. 
With her little hand's-touch so warm 
and kind; 
And I smile and talk, with the sun on my 

cheek, 
And the little live hand seems to stir and 
speak, — 
For Fanny is dumb and I am blind. 

Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she 
Has fine black ringlets, and dark eyes 
clear, 
And I am older by summers three, — 
Why should we hold one another so 
dear? 
Because she cannot utter a word. 
Nor hear the music of bee or bird. 
The water-cart's splash, orthe milkman's 
call. 
Because I have never seen the sky, 
Nor the little singers that hum and fly, — 
Yet know she is gazing upon them all. 

For the sun is shining, the swallows fly. 

The bees and the blue-flies murmur low. 
And I hear the water-cart go by. 

With its cool splash-splash down the 
dusty row ; 
And the little one, close at my side, per- 
ceives 
Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves. 
Where birds are chirping in summer 
shine, 
And I hear, though I cannot look, and 

she. 
Though she cannot hear, can the singers 
see, — 
And the little soft fingers flutter in 
mine. 



Hath not the dear little hand a tongue. 

When it stirs on my palm for the love of 
me? 
Do I not know she is pretty and young? 

Hath not my soul an eye to see ? 
'Tis pleasure to make one's bosom stir. 
To wonder how things appear to her. 

That I only hear as they pass around ; 
And as long as we sit in the music and 

light, 
She is happy to keep God's sight. 

And / am happy to keep God's sound. 

Why, I know her face, though I am 
blind— 
I made it of music long ago : 
Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined 
Round the pensive light of a brow of 
snow ; 
And when I sit by my little one. 
And hold her hand, and talk in the sun. 
And hear the music that haunts the 
place, 
I know she is raising her eyes to me. 
And guessing how gentle my voice must 
be. 
And seeing the music upon my face. 

Though, if ever Lord God should grant 
me a prayer 
(I know the fancy is only vain), 
I should pray : Just once, when the weather 
is fair. 
To see little Fanny and Langley Lane; 
Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to 

hear 
The voice of the friend that she holds so 
dear. 
The song of the birds, the hum of the 
street, — 
It is better to be as we have been, — 
Each keejjing up something, unheard, un- 
seen. 
To make God's heaven more strange and 
sweet. 

Ah ! life is pleasant in Langley Lane! 

There is always something sweet to 
hear! 
Chirping of birds, or patter of rain ; 

And Fanny, my little one, always near; 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



205 



And though I am weak, and cannot live 

long, 
And Fanny, my darling, is far from strong, 
And though we can never married be, — 
What then ? — since we hold one another so 

dear, 
For the sake of the pleasure one cannot 
hear. 
And the pleasure that only one can see ? 
Robert Buchasan. 



A Pastoral Ballad. 

IN FOUR PARTS. 

I. Absence. 
Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay, 

Whose flocks never carelessly roam ; 
Should Corydon's happen to stray. 

Oh call the poor wanderers home. 
Allow me to muse and to sigh, 

Nor talk of the change that ye find ; 
None once was so watchful as I : 

I have left my dear Phillis behind. 

Now I know what it is, to have strove 

With the torture of doubt and desire ; 
What it is, to admire and to love. 

And to leave her we love and admire. 
Ah lead forth my flock in the morn, 

And the damps of each ev'ning repel ; 
Alas ! I am faint and forlorn : 

I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell. 

Since Phillis vouchsafed me a look, 

I never once dreamt of my vine ; 
May I lose both my pipe and my crook. 

If I knew of a kid that was mine. 
I prized every hour that went by, 

Beyond all that had plea.sed me before; 
But now they are past, and I sigh; 

And I grieve that I prized them no more. 

But why do I languish in vain '? 

Why wander thus pensively here? 
Oh, why did I come from the plain, 

Where I fed on the smiles of my dear ? 
They tell me my favorite maid. 

The pride of that valley, is flown ; 
Alas ! where with her I have stray'd, 

I could wander with pleasure, alone. 

When forced the fair nymph to forego, 
What anguish I felt at my heart ! 



Yet I thought — but it might not be so — 
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart. 

She ga/.ed, as I slowly withdrew ; 
My path I could hardly discern ; 

So sweetly she bade me adieu, 
I thought that she bade me return. 

The pilgrim that journeys all day 

To visit .some far-distant shrine. 
If he bear but a relic away. 

Is happy, nor heard to repine. 
Thus widely removed from the fair, 

Where my vows, my devotion, I owe. 
Soft hope is the relic 1 bear. 

And my solace wherever I go. 

II. Hope. 

My banks they are furnish'd with bees, 

Whose murmur invites one to sleep ; 
My grottos arc shaded with trees. 

And my hills are white-over with sheep. 
I seldom have met with a loss. 

Such health do my fountains bestow — 
My fountains all border'd with moss. 

Where the harebells and violets grow. 

Not a pine in my grove is there seen, 

But with tendrils of woodbine is bound : 
Not a beech's more beautiful green, 

But a sweetbrier entwines it around. 
Not my fields, in the prime of the year. 

More charms than my cattle unfold : 
Not a brook that is limpid and clear. 

But it glitters with fishes of gold. 

One would think she might like to retire 

To the bow"r I have labor'd to rear; 
Not a shrub that I heard her admire, 

But I hasted and planted it there. 
Oh how sudden the jessamine strove 

With the lilac to render it gay ! 
Already it calls for my love, 

To prune the wild branches away. 

From the plains, from the woodlands and 
groves, 

What strains of wild melody flow? 
How the nightingales warble their loves 

From the thickets of roses that blow 1 
And when her bright form shall appear, 

Each bird shall harmoniously join 
In a concert so soft and so clear, 

As — she may not be fond to resign. 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



I have found out a gift for my fair ; 

I have found where the wood-pigeons 
breed : 
But let me that plunder forbear, 

She will say 'twas a barbarous deed. 
For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd, 

Who could rob a poor bird of its young; 
And I loved her the more, when I heard 

Such tenderness fall from her tongue. 

I have heard her with sweetness unfold 

How that pity was due to — a dove : 
That it ever attended the bold, 

And she called it the sister of Love. 
But her words such a pleasure convey, 

So much I her accents adore. 
Let her speak, and whatever she say, 

Methinks I should love her the more. 

Can a bosom so gentle remain 

Unmoved when her Corydon sighs? 
Will a nj'mph that is fond of the plain. 

These plains and this valley despise ? 
Dear regions of silence and shade ! 

Soft scenes of contentment and ease ! 
Where I could have pleasingly stray'd, 

If aught, in her absence, could please. 

But where does my Phyllida stray ? 

And where are her grots and her bo'wrs ? 
Are the groves and the valleys as gay. 

And the shepherds as gentle as ours ? 
The groves may perhaps be as fair, 

And the face of the valleys as fine; 
The swains may in manners compare, 

But their love is not equal to mine. 

III. Solicitude. 

Why will you my passion reprove ? 

Why term it a folly to grieve ? 
Ere I show you the charms of my love. 

She is fairer than you can believe. 
With her mien she enamors the brave ; 

With her wit she engages the free ; 
With her modesty pleases the grave ; 

She is ev'ry way pleasing to me. 

you that have been of her train. 
Come and join in my amorous lays; 

1 could lay down my life for the swain 
That will sing but a song in her praise. 



When he sings, may the nymphs of the 
town 

Come trooping, and listen the while ; 
Nay, on him let not Phyllida frown ; 

— But I cannot allow her to smile. 

For when Paridel tries in the dance 

Any favor with Phyllis to find, 
Oh how, with one trivial glance, 

Might she ruin the peace of my mind 1 
In ringlets he dresses his hair. 

And his crook is bestudded around ; 
And his pipe — oh may Phyllis beware 

Of a magic there is in the sound ! 

'Tis his with mock passion to glow ; 

'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, 
" How her face is as bright as the snow, 

And her bosom, be sure, is as cold ! 
How the nightingales labor the .strain. 

With the notes of his charmer to vie; 
How they vary their accents in vain, 

Kepine at her triumphs, and die." 

To the grove or the garden he strays, 

And pillages every sweet; 
Then, suiting the wreath to his lays. 

He throws it at Phyllis's feet. 
" O Phyllis," he whispers, " more fair, 

More sweet than the jessamine's flow'r ! 
What are pinks, in a morn, to compare? 

AVhat is eglantine, after a show'r? 

"Then the lily no longer is white. 

Then the rose is deprived of its bloom. 
Then the violets die with despite. 

And the woodbines give up their per- 
fume." 
Thus glide the soft numbers along. 

And he fancies no shepherd his peer. 
Yet I never should envy the song, 

Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear. 

Let his crook be with hyacinths bound. 

So Phyllis the trophy despise ; 
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd. 

So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes. 
The language that flows from the heart 

Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue, 
Yet may she beware of his art, 

Or sure I must envy the song. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



•207 



IV. DiSAPPOIXTMENT. 

Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay, 

AikI take no more heed of my sheep ; 
They have nothing to do but to stray, — 

I have nothinjr to do but to weep. 
Yet do not my Colly reprove; 

She wa.s fair — and my passion begun ; 
She smiled — and I could not but love ; 

She is faithless — and I am undone. 

Perhaps I was void of all thought ; 

Perhaps it was plain to foresee, 
That a nymph so complete would be 
sought 

By a swain more engaging than me. 
Ah ! love every hope can inspire ; 

It banishes wisdom the while, 
And the lip of the nymph we admire 

Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile. 

She is faithless, and I am undone; 

Ye that witness the woes I endure. 
Let rea-son instruct you to shun 

What it cannot instruct you to cure. 
Beware how ye loiter in vain 

Amid nymphs of a higher degree; 
It is not for mc to explain 

How fair and how fickle they be. 

Ala.s I from the day that we met, 

What hope of an end to my woes, 
When I cannot endure to forget 

The glance that undid my repose ? 
Yet time may diminish the pain ; 

The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree, 
AVhich I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, 

In time may have comfort for rae. 

The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose, 

The sound of a murmuring stream. 
The peace which from solitude flows. 

Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. 
High transports are shown to the sight. 

But we are not to find them our own ; 
Fate never bestow'd such delight 

As I with my Phyllis had known. 

ye woods, spread your branches apace ; 
To your deepest reces.scs I fly ; 

1 would hide with the beasts of the chase ; 
I would vanish from every eye. 



Yet my reed shall resouud thro' the 
grove 
With the same sad complaint it begun ; 
How she smiled, and I could not but 
love; 
Was faithless, and I am undone ! 

William Shexstoxe. 



riER Letter. 

I'm sitting alone by the fire, 

Dress'd just as I came from the dance. 
In a robe even you would admire — 

It cost a cool thousand in France ; 
I'm be-diamonded out of all reason, 

My hair is done up in a cue : 
In short, sir, " the belle of the season " 

Is wasting an hour on you. 

A dozen engagements I've broken ; 

I left in the midst of a set ; 
Likewise a proposal, half spoken. 

That waits — on the stairs — for me yet. 
They say he'll be rich — when he grows 
up— 

And then he adores me indeed; 
And you, sir, are turning your nose up, 

Three thousand miles off", as you read. 

" And how do I like my position ?" 

"And what do I think of New York?" 
" And now, in my higher ambition, 

With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk ?" 
" And isn't it nice to have riches. 

And diamonds and silks, and all 
that?" 
" And aren't it a change to the ditches 

And tunnels of Poverty Flat?" 

Well, yes — if you saw us out driving 

Each day in the park, four-in-hand — 
If you saw poor dear mamma contriving 

To look supernaturally grand— 
If you saw papa's picture, as taken 

By Brady, and tinted at that, — 
You'd never suspect he sold bacon 

And flour at Poverty Flat. 

And yet just this moment, when sitting 
In the glare of the grand chandelier — 

In tlie bustle and glitter befitting 
The " finest toire^ of the year," 



208 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



lu the mists of a gaze de Chambiry, 
And the hum of the smallest of talk — 

Somehow, Joe, I thought of the " Ferry," 
And the dance that we had on " The 
Fork ;" 

Of Harrison's barn, with its muster 

Of flags festoon'd over the wall ; 
Of the candles that shed their soft lustre 

And tallow on hoad-dress and shawl ; 
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle ; 

Of the dress of my queer vis-d-vU, 
And how I once went down the middle 

With the man that shot Sandy McGee ; 

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping 

On the hill, when the time came to go ; 
Of the few baby peaks that were peeping 

From under their bedclothes of snow ; 
Of that ride — that to me was the rarest ; 

Of — the something you said at the gate : 
Ah, Joe, then I wasn't an heiress 

To " the best-paying lead in the State." 

Well, well, it's all past ; yet it's funny 

To think, as I stood in the glare 
Of fashion and beauty and money, 

That I should be thinking, right there, 
Of some one who breasted high water, 

And swam the North Fork, and all that. 
Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daugh- 
ter. 

The Lily of Poverty Flat. 

But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing ! 

(Mamma says my taste still is low). 
Instead of my triumphs reciting, 

I'm spooning on Joseph — heigh-ho ! 
And I'm to be " finish'd " by travel — 

Whatevcr's the meaning of that — 
Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel 

In drifting on Poverty Flat? 

Good-night— here's the end of my paper ; 

Good-night — if the longitude j)leasc — 
For maybe, while wasting my taper. 

Your sun's climbing over the trees. 
But know, if you haven't got riches. 

And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that. 
That my heart's somewhere there in the 
ditches, 

And you've struck it — on Poverty Flat. 
Francis Bret Haete. 



My Love. 

Not as all other women, are 

Is she that to my soul is dear ; 
Her glorious fancies come from far. 
Beneath the silver evening-star; 
And yet her breast is ever near. 

Great feelings hath she of her own, 
Which lesser souls may never know ; 

God giveth them to her alone, 

And sweet they are as any tone 

Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. 

Yet in herself she dwelleth not. 
Although no home were half so fair ; 

No simplest duty is forgot; 

Life hath no dim and lowly spot 
That doth not in her sunshine share. 

She doeth little kindnesses, 

Which most leave undone or despise; 
For naught that sets one heart at ease, 
And giveth happiness or peace. 

Is low-esteemfed in her eyes. 

She hath no scorn of common things ; 

And, though she seem of other birth. 
Round us her heart entwines and clings, 
And patiently she folds her wings 

To tread the humble paths of earth. 

Blessing she is ; God made her so ; 

And deeds of week-day holiness 
Fall from her noiseless as the snow ; 
Nor hath she ever chanced to know 

That aught were easier than to bless. 

She is most fair, and thereunto 

Her life doth rightly harmonize; 
Feeling or thought that was not true 
Ne'er made less beautiful the blue, 
Unclouded heaven of her eyes. 

She is a woman — one in whom 

The spring-time of her childish years 
Hath never lost its fresh perfume. 
Though knowing well that life hath room 
For many blights and many tears. 

I love her with a love as still 
As a broad river's peaceful might, 

Which, by high tower and lowly mill, 

Goes wandering at its own will, 
And yet doth ever flow aright. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



209 



And, on its full, deep breast serene, 

Like quiet isles, my duties lie; 
It flows around them ami hotwcen, 
And makes them fresh and fair and green- 
Sweet homes wherein to live and die. 
James Kusskll Lowell. 



TffE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA. 

" Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden 

cushion down ; 
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze 

with all the town ! 
From gay guitar and violin the silver notes 

are flowing. 
And the lovely lute doth speak between 

the trumpet's lordly blowing. 
And banners bright from lattice light are 

waving everywhere. 
And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's 

bridegroom floats proudly in the air. 
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden 

cushion down ; 
Rise u]), come to the window, and gaze 

with all the town ! 

" Arise, arise, Xarifa ! I see Andalla's 

face — 
He bends him to the people with a calm 

and princely grace; 
Through all the land of Xcres and banks 

of Guadalquiver 
Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so 

brave and lovely, never. 
Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of 

pur])le mixe<l with white, 
I guess 'twas wreath'd by Zara, whom he 

will wed to-night. 
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden 

cushion down ; 
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze 

with all the town ! 

" What aileth thee, Xarifa — what makes 

thine eyes look down ? 
Why stay ye from tiie window far, nor 

gaze with all the town ? 
I've heard you say on many a day — and 

sure you said the trutli — 
Andalla rides without a peer among all 

Ciranada's youth : 
U 



Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk- 
white horse doth go 

Beneath his stately ma.ster with a stately 
step and slow : — 

Then rise — oh rise, Xarifa, lay the golden 
cushion down ; 

Unseen here through the lattice you may 
gaze with all the town !" 

The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her 

cushion down, 
Nor came she to the window to gaze with 

all the town ; 
But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in 

vain her fingers strove, 
And though her needle press'd the silk, 

no flower Xarifa wove ; 
One bonny rosebud she had traced before 

the noise drew nigh — • 
That bonny bud a tear eflliced, slow droop- 
ing from her eye — 
"No — no!" she sighs — "bid nic not rise, 

nor lay my cushion down, 
To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing 

town!" 

" Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your 

cushion down ? 
Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the 

gazing town? 
Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and 

how the people cry ; 
He stops at Zara's palace-gate — why sit ye 

still— oh, why?" 
— " At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate ; in 

him shall I discover 
The dark-eyed youth pledged me his trutli 

with tears, and was my lover? 
I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay 

my cushion down, 
To gaze on false Andalla with;ill the gaz- 
ing town !" 

From the Spanish. 
John Gibson Lockiiakt. 



The Captive Bee. 

As Julia once a-.slumbering lay, 
It chanced a bee did fly that way. 
After a dew, or dew-like shower, 
To tipple freely in a flower. 
For some rich flower he took the lip 
Of Julia, and began to sip : 



210 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



But when he felt he suck'd from theuce 

Honey, and in the quintessence, 

He drank so much he scarce could stir ; 

So Julia took the pilferer — 

And thus surprised, as filchers use, 

He thus began himself t' excuse : 

"Sweet Lady-flower, I never brought 
Hither the least one thieving thought; 
But, taking those rare lips of yours 
For some fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers, 
I though I might there take a taste 
Where so much syrup ran at waste. 
Besides, know this, — I never sting 
The flower that gives me nourishing'. 
But with a kiss or thanks, do pay 
For honey that I bear away." 

This said, he laid his little scrip 
Of honey 'fore her ladyship ; 
And told her, as some tears did fall. 
That that he took, and that was all. 
At which she smiled, and bade him go 
And take his bag, but thus much know: 
When next he came a-pilfering so. 
He should from her full lips derive 
Honey enough to fill his hive. 

EoliKKT HeRRICK. 



To DIANEME. 

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes. 
Which, star-like, sparkle in their skies; 
Nor be you proud, that you can see 
All hearts your captives, yours yet free ; 
Be you not proud of that rich haire. 
Which wantons with the love-sick aire ; 
When as that rubie which you weare, 
Sunk from the tip of your soft eare, 
AVill last to be a precious stone, 
AVhen all your world of beautie's gone. 
Robert Herrick. 



The MAIDEN'S Choice. 

Genteei. in personage. 
Conduct and equipage; 
Noble by heritage ; 

Generous and free ; 

Brave, not romantic; 
Learn'd, not pedantic ; 



Frolic, not frantic — 
This must he be. 

Honor maintaining. 
Meanness disdaining. 
Still entertaining. 

Engaging, and new; 

Neat, but not finical ; 
Sage, but not cynical; 
Never tyrannical. 
But ever true, 

Author Unknow.v. 



Lady Clara Vere de Vere. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of me you shall not win renown ; 
You thought to break a country heart 

For pastime, ere you went to town. 
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 

I saw the snare, and I retired : 
The daughter of a hundred Earls, 

You are not one to be desired. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know you proud to bear your name. 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine. 

Too proud to care from whence I came. 
Nor would I break for your sweet sake 

A heart that doats on truer charms. 
A simple maiden in her flower 

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find. 
For were you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love. 

And my disdain is my reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than I. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my head. 
Not thrice your branching limes have 
blown 

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 
Oh, your sweet eyes, your low replies: 

A great enchantress you may be ; 
But there was that across his throat 

Which you had hardly cared to see. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 211 


Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 


The minster bell tolls out 


When thus he met his mother's view, 


Above the city's rout, 


She had the passions of her kind, 


And noise and humming; 


She spake some certain truths of you. 


They've hush'd the minster bell : 


Indeed, I heard one bitter word 


The organ 'gins to swell : 


That scarce is fit for you to hear ; 


She's coming, she's coming ! 


Her manners had not that repose 




AVhich stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. 


My lady comes at last, 




Timid, and stepping fast. 


Lady Chira Vere de Vere, 


And hastening hither, 


There stands a spectre in your hall: 


With modest eyes downcast : 


The guilt of blood is at your door : 


She comes — she's here — she's past — 


You changed a wholesome heart to gall. 


Jlay Heaven go with her ! 


You held your course without remorse, 




To make him trust his modest worth, 


Kneel undisturb'd, fair saint ! 


And, la.st, you fixed a vacant stare, 


Pour out your praise or plaint 


And slew him with your noble birth. 


Jleekly and duly ; 




I will not enter there. 


Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 




From yon blue heavens above us bent. 
The grand old gardener and his wife 


To sully your pure prayer 
With thoughts unruly. 


Smile at the claims of long descent. 


But suffer me to pace 


Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 


Round the forbidden place, 

Lingering a minute, 
Like outcast s]iirits who wait 
And see through heaven's gate 


'Tis only noble to be good. 


Kind hearts are more than coronets, 


And simple faith than Norman blood. 


I know you, Clara Vere de Vere : 


Angels within it. 


You pine among your halls and towers: 


William Makepeace Thackeray. 


The languid light of your proud eyes 


KX 


Is wearied of the rolling hours. 


JN A YEAR. 


In glowing health, with boundless wealth. 




But sickening of a vague disease. 


Never anv more 


You know so ill to deal with time. 


While I live. 


You needs must play such pranks as these. 


Need I hope to see his face 




As before. 


Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 


Once his love grown chill, 


If time be hea^•y on your hands, 


Mine may strive, — 


Are there no beggars at your gate, 


Bitterly we re-embrace, 


Nor any poor about your lands? 


Single still. 


Oh teach the orphan boy to read. 




Or teach the orphan girl to sew, 


Was it something said, 


Pray heaven for a human heart, 


Something done. 


And let the foolish yeoman go. 


Vex'd him ? was it touch of hand, 


Alfred Tennyson. 


Turn of head? 




Strange ! that very way 


At the Church Gate. 


Love begun. 




I as little understand 


Although I enter not, 


Love's decay. 


Yet round about the spot 


■ 


Ofttimes I hover ; 


When I sew'd or drew. 


And near the sacred gate. 


I recall 


AVith longing eyes I wait, 


How he look'd as if I sang 


E.xpectaut of her. 


— Sweetly too. 



212 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


If I spoke a word, 


" Dying for my sake- 


First of all 


White and pink ! 


Up his cheek the color sprang, 


Can't we touch these bubbles then 


Then he heard. 


But they break ?" 


Sitting by my side. 


Dear, the pang is brief. 


At my feet, 


Do thy part, 


So he breathed the air I breathed. 


Have thy pleasure. How perplext 


Satisfied ! 


Grows belief? 


I, too, at love's brim 


Well, this cold clay clod 


Touch'd the sweet. 


Was man's heart. 


I would die if death bequeath'd 


Crumble it, — and what comes next ? 


Sweet to him. 


Is it God •? 




Robert Browning. 


"Speak,— I love thee best !" 




He exclaim'd, — 




" Let thy love my own foretell." 


Song. 


I confess'd : 


Lay a garland on my hearse 


" Clasp my heart on thine 


Of the dismal yew : 


Now unblamed. 


Maidens, willow branches bear; 


Since upon thy soul as well 


Say I died true. 


Hangeth mine !" 


My love was false, but I was firm. 


Was it wrong to own. 


From my hour of birth ; 


Being truth ? 


Upon my buried body, lie 


Why should all the giving prove 


Lightly, gentle earth ! 




Beaumont and Fletcher. 


His alone ? 




I had wealth and ease. 




Beauty, youth,— 


Sonnet. 


Since my lover gave me love, 




I gave these. 


To live in hell, and heaven to behold, 


To welcome life, and die a living death, 


That was all I meant, 


To sweat with heat, and yet be freezing 


— To be just. 


cold. 


And the passion I had raised 


To grasp at stars, and lie the earth be- 


To content. 


neath, 


Since he chose to change 


To tread a maze that never shall have end, 


Gold for dust. 


To burn in sighs, and starve in daily 


If I gave him what he praised. 


tears. 


Was it strange ? 


To climb a hill, and never to descend, 




Giants to kill, and quake at childish 


Would he loved me yet, 


fears. 


On and on, 


To pine for food, and watch the Hesperian 


While I found some way uudream'd. 


tree. 


—Paid my debt ! 


To thirst for drink, and nectar still to 


Gave more life and more. 


draw. 


Till, all gone. 


To live accursed, whom men hold blest to 


He should smile, "She never seem'd 


be. 


Mine before. 


And weep those wrongs, which never 




creature saw ; 


" What— she felt the while. 


If this be love, if love in these be founded. 


Must I think ? 


My heart is love, for these iu it are 


Love's so different with us men," 


grounded. 

Henry Constable. 


He should smile. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



213 



To I A y THE. 

Ianthe ! vdu are call'd to cross the sea ! 

A path forbidden me! 
Kemember, while the sun his blessing 
sheds 
L'pon the mountain-heads, 
How often we have watcht him laying 
down 
His brow, and dropt our own 
Against each other's, and how faint and 
short 
And sliding the support ! 
What will succeed it now? Mine is un- 
blest, 
lanthe ! nor will rest 
But on the very thought that swells with 
pain. 
Oh bid me hope again ! 
Oh give me back what Earth, what (with- 
out you) 
Not Heaven itself can do, 
One of the golden days that we have past ; 

And let it be my last! 
Or else the gift would be, however sweet, 
Fragile and incomplete. 

Walter Savaoe Lakdor. 



EVPHROSYXE. 

I WILL not say that thou wast true. 
Yet let me say that thou wast fair ! 

And they that lovely face who view. 
They should not ask if truth be there. 

Truth — what is truth ? Two bleeding hearts 
Wounded by men, by Fortune tried. 

Out-wearied with their lonely parts, 
Vow to beat henceforth side by side. 

The world to them was stern and drear, 
Their lot was but to weep and moan ; 

Ah, let them keep their faith sincere, 
For neither could subsist alone ! 

But souls whom some benignant breath 
Has charm'd at birth from gloom and 
care. 

These ask no love, these plight no faith. 
For they are happy as they are. 

The world to them may homage make. 
And garlands for their forehead weave ; 



And what the world can give, they take — 
But they bring more than they receive. 

They .smile upon the world. Their ears 
To one demand alone are coy ; 

They will not give us love and tears — 
They bring us light, and warmth, and 

joy. 

On one she smiled, and he was blest ! 

She smiles elsewhere — we make a din ! 
But 'twas not love which heaved her breast. 

Fair child ! — it Wiis the bliss within. 

Matthew Arnold. 



Jealousy, the Tyr^ixt of the 
Mind. 

What state of life can be so blest 

As love, that warms a lover's breast? 

Two .souls in one, the same desire 

To grant the bliss, and to require! 

But if in heaven a hell we find, 

'Tis all from thee, 

O Jealousy ! v 

'Tis all from thee, 

O Jealousy ! 

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy, 

Thou tyrant of the mind ! 

All other ills though sharp they prove, 
Serve to refine and perfect love : 
In absence, or unkind disdain. 
Sweet hope relieves the lover's pain. 
But, ah ! no cure but death we find. 
To set us free from Jealousy : 
O Jealousy ! 

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy, 
Thou tyrant of the mind! 

False in thy glass all objects are. 

Some set too near, and some too far; 

Thou art the fire of endless night. 

The fire that burns, and gives no light. 

.Vll torments of the damn'd wo find 

In only thee, 

O .Icalousy ! 

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy, 

Thou tyrant of the mind. 

John Drydsb. 



214 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Sixteen: 


Cherry-Ripe. 


In Clementina's artless mien 


Cheery-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, 


Lucilla asks me what I see, — 


Full and fair ones ; come and buy ; 


And are the roses of sixteen 


If so be you ask me where 


Enough for me ? 


They do grow, I answer, there. 




Where my Julia's lip.s do smile, 


Lucilla asks, if that be all, 


There's the land, or cherry isle, 


Have I not cull'd as sweet before ? 


Whose plantations fully show 


Ah yes, Lucilla ! and their fall 


All the year where cherries grow. 


I still deplore. 


Robert Herbick. 


I now behold another scene, 


nx 


Where pleasure beams with heaven's 


The White Rose. 


own light, — 


SENT BY A YOKKISH LOVER TO HIS LANCAS- 


More»pure, more constant, more serene. 


TRIAN MISTRESS. 


And not less bright : 


If this fair rose offend thy sight. 




Placed in thy bosom bare, 


Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose. 


'Twill blush to find itself less white. 


Whose chain of flowers no force can 


And turn Lancastrian there. 


sever ; 




And Modesty, who, when she goes, 




Is gone for ever. 


But if thy ruby lip it spy. 


Walter Savage Landor. 


As kiss it thou mayst deign, 




With en\7^ pale 'twill lose its dye, 




And Yorkish turn again. 


Co3rm' Through the Rye. 


Author Unknown. 


Gin a body meet a body 




Comin' through the rye, 


The Primrose. 


Gin a body kiss a body, 




Need a body cry ? 


Ask me why I send you here 


Every lassie has her laddie — 


This sweet Infanta of the year ? 


Ne'er a ane hae I; 


Ask me why I send to you 


Yet a' the lads they smile at me 


This primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew? 


When comin' through the rye. 


I will whisper to your ears, 


Amang the train there is a swain 


The sweets of love are mi.xt with tears. 


I dearly lo'e mysel' ; 




But whaur his hame, or what his name, 


Ask me why this flower does show 


I dinna care to tell. 


So yellow-green, and sickly, too ? 




Ask me why the stalk is weak 


Gin a body meet a body 


And bending, yet it doth not break ? 


Comin' frae the town, 


I will answer : these discover 


Gin a body greet a body, 


What fainting hopes are in a lover. 


Need a body frown ? 


Robert Herrick, 


Every lassie has her laddie — 




Ne'er a ane hae I ; 




Yet a' the lads they smile at me 


HERE'S TO Thee, my Scottish 


When comin' through the rye. 


Lassie. 


Amang the train there is a swain 




I dearly lo'e mysel' ; 
But whaur his hame, or what his name. 


Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! here's 
a hearty health to thee ! 


I dinna care to tell. 


For thine eye so bright, thy form so light, 


Author Unknown. 


and thy step so firm and free; 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



215 



For all thine artless elegance, and all thy 

native grace; 
For the music of thy mirthful voice, and 

the sunshine of thy face; 
For thy guileless look and speech sincere, 

yet sweet as speech can be, — 
Here's a health, my Scottisli lassie ! here's 

a hearty health to thee ! 

Here's to thee, my Scottisli lassie ! Though 

my glow of youth is o'er. 
And I, as once I felt and drcam'd, must 

feel and dream no more ; 
Though the world, ^Yith all its frosts and 

storms, has chill'd my soul at last, 
And genius with the foodfiil looks of 

youthful friendship jiass'd ; 
Though my path is dark and lonely, now, 

o'er this world's dreary sea. 
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's 

a hearty health to thee ! 

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! though 

I know that not for me 
Is thine eye so bright, thy form so light, 

and thy step so firm and free; 
Though thou, with cold and careless looks, 

wilt often pass me by, 
Unconscious of my swelling heart and of 

my wistful eye; 
Though thou wilt wed some Highland love, 

nor wiiste one thought on me, 
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's 

a hearty health to thee ! 

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! when I 

meet thee in the throng 
Of merry youths and maidens dancing 

lightsomcly along, 
I'll dream away an hour or twain, still 

gazing on thy form. 
As it flaslies through the baser crowd, like 

liglitning through a storm ; 
And I, perhaps, shall touch thy hand, and 

share thy looks of glee. 
And for once, my Scottish lassie, dance a 

giddy dance with thee ! 



I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice 
in every wind that grieves, 

As it whirls from the abandon'd oak its 
wither'd autumn leaves; 

In the gloom of the wild forest, in the still- 
ness of the sea, 

I shall think, my Scottish lassie, I shall 
often think of thee ! 

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! In my 

sad and lonely hours. 
The thought of tiicc comes o'er me like the 

breatli of distant flowers : 
Like the music that enchants mine ear, the 

sights that bless mine eye. 
Like the verdure of the meadow, like the 

azure of tiie sky, 
Like the rainbow in the evening, like the 

blossoms on the tree, 
Is the thought, my Scottish lassie, is the 

lonely thought of thee. 

Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! — here's 

a parting health to thee ! 
May thine be still a cloudless lot, though 

it be far from me ! 
May still thy laughing eye be bright, and 

open still thy brow, 
Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, 

thy heart as light as now 
And, whatsoe'er my after-fate, my dearest 

toast shall be, — 
Still a health, my Scottish lassie! still a 

hearty health to thee ; 

Jons MOI'LTRIE. 



Good- Morrow Soxg. 

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day, 

With night we banish sorrow; 
Sweet air, blow soft, mount, larks, aloft, 

To give my Love good-morrow ! 
Wings from the wind to please her mind, 

Notes from the lark I'll borrow ; 
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, 

To give my Love good-morrow ; 
To give my Love good-morrow 
Notes from them both I'll borrow. 



Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! I shall Wake from thy nest, Robin redbreast, 

think of thee at even, Sing, birds, in every furrow ; 

When I see its first and fairest star come l And from eacli liill let music shrill 

smiling up through heaven; | Give my fair Love good-morrow! 



21G 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow ! 
You jiretty elves, amongst yourselves 
Sing my fair Love good-morrow ; 
To give my Love good-morrow 
Sing, birds, in every furrow ! 

Thomas Heywood. 



The Song of the Camp. 

" Give us a song !" the soldiers cried. 

The outer trenches guarding, 
When the heated guns of the camps allied 

Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 
Lay grim and threatening under ; 

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
No longer belch'd its thunder. 

There was a pause. A guardsman said : 
" We storm the forts to-morrow ; 

Sing while we may, another day 
Will bring enough of sorrow." 

They lay along the battery's side, 

Below the smoking cannon : 
Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, 

And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame ; 

Forgot was Britain's glory : 
Each heart recall'd a different name, 

But all sang "Annie Laurie." 

Voice after voice caught up the song, 

Until its tender passion 
Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, — 

Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak. 

But as the song grew louder. 
Something upon the soldier's cheek 

Wash'd off the stains of powder. 

Beyond the darkening ocean burn'd 

The bloody sunset's end:)ers, 
While the Crimean valleys learn'd 

How English love remembers. 

And once again a fire of hell 
Eain'd on the Russian quarters. 

With scream of shot, and burst of shell. 
And bellowing of the mortars ! 



And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 
For a singer dumb and gory ; 

And English JIary mourns for him 
Who sang of "Annie Laurie." 

Sleep, soldiers ! still in honor'd rest 
Your truth and valor wearing: 

The bravest are the tenderest, — 
The loving are the daring. 

Bayard Taylor. 



Urania. 

She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, 
While we for hopeless passion die; 
Yet she could love, those eyes declare. 
Were but men nobler than they are. 

Eagerly once her gracious ken 
Was turn'd upon the sons of men ; 
But light the serious visage grew — 
She look'd, and smiled, and saw them 
through. 

Our petty souls, our strutting wits. 
Our labor'd, puny passion-fits — 
Ah, may she scorn them still, till we 
Scorn them as bitterly as she ! 

Yet show her once, ye heavenly powers, 
One of some worthier race than ours ! 
One for whose sake she once might prove 
How deeply she who scorns can love. 

His eyes be like the starry lights — 
His voice like sounds of summer nights — 
In all his lovely mien let pierce 
The magic of the universe ! 

And she to him will reach her hand. 
And gazing in his eyes will stand, 
And know her friend, and weep for glee, 
And cry, " Long, long I've look'd for thee." 

Then will she weep! — with smiles, till 

then,' 
Coldly she mocks the sons of men. 
Till then her lovely eyes maintain 
Their pure, unwavering, deep disdain. 

Matthew Arnold. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



217 



To Eva. 

O FAIK and stately inaiil, whose eyes 
Were kindled in the upper skies 

At the same torch that lighted mine; 
For so I must interpret still 
Thy sweet dominion o'er my will, 

A sympathy divine. 

Ah, let me blameless gaze upon 
Features that seem at heart my own ; 

Nor fear those watchful sentinels. 
Who charm the more their glance forbids, 
Chaste-glowing, underneath their lids. 

With fire that draws while it repels. 

Kalph Waldo Emerson. 



Who is Sylvia? 

Who is Sylvia ? what is she, 
That all the swains commend her ? 

Holy, fair, and wise is she ; 
The heavens such grace did lend her 

That she might adorfed be. 

Is she kind, or is she fair? 

For beauty lives with kindness. 
Love does to her eyes repair 

To help him of his blindness — 
And, being help'd, inhabits there. 

Then to Sylvia let us sing 

That ."Sylvia is excelling ; 
She excels each mortal tiling 

Upon the dull earth dwelling ; 
To her let us garlands bring. 

William SILAK^:s^KAKE. 



AUF WIEDERSEHEN. 

SUMMEK. 

The little gate was reach'd at last, 

Half hid in lilacs down the lane; 
She push'd it wide, and, as she past, 
A wistful look she backward ca-st. 
And said, " Auf Wkdersehen !" 

With hand on latch, a vision white 

Lingered reluctant, and again. 
Half doubting if she did aright, 
Soft as the dews that fell that night. 
She said, " Au/ Wicdersehen t" 



The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair ; 

I linger in delicious pain ; 
Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air 
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, 

Thinks she, "Auf Wicdersehen .'" 

'Tis thirteen years : once more I press 
The turf thai silences the lane ; 

I hear the rustle of her dress, 

I smell the lilacs, and — ah yes, 
I hear, " Atif Wiedersehen .'" 

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art! 

The Englisli words had seem'd too fain ! 
But these — they drew us heart to heart. 
Yet held us tenderly apart ; 

She said, "Auf Wkdersehen !" 

James Russell Lowell. 



Tbe Love-Knot. 

Tying her bonnet under her chin, 
She tied her raven ringlets in; 
But not alone in its silken snare 
Did she catch her lovely floating hair, 
For, tying her bonnet under her chin, 
She tied a young man's heart within. 

They were strolling together up the hill. 
Where the wind comes blowing merry and 

chill ; 
And it blew the curls a frolicsome race 
All over the hap|)y peach-color'd face, 
Till, scolding and laughing, she tied them 

in. 
Under her beautiful dimpled chin. 

And it blew a color, bright .is the bloom 
Of the pinkest fuschia's tossing plume. 
All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl 
That ever imprison'd a romping curl, 
Or, in tying her bonnet under her chin. 
Tied a young man's heart within. 

Steeper and steeper grew the hill — 
Madder, merrier, chillier still 
The western wind blew down and play'd 
The wildest tricks with the little maid. 
As, tying her bonnet under her chin. 
She tied a young man's iieart within. 

O western wind, do you think it was fair 
To play such tricks with her floating hair? 



218 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



To gladly, gleefully do your best 

To blow her against the young man's 

breast ? 
Where he as gladly folded her in ; 
He kiss'd her mouth and dimpled chin. 

Oh, Ellery Vane, you little thought, 
An hour ago, when you besought 
This country lass to walk with you, 
After the sun had dried the dew, 
What perilous danger you'd be in. 
As she tied her bonnet under her chin. 

Author Unknown. 



When Stars are in the Quiet 
Skies. 

When stars are in the quiet skies. 

Then most I pine for thee ; 
Bend on me then thy tender eyes. 

As .stars look on the sea ! 
For thoughts, like waves that glide by 
night, 

Are stillest when they shine ; 
Mine earthly love lies hush'd in light 

Beneath the heaven of thine. 

There is an hour when angels keep 

Familiar watch o'er men, 
When coarser souls are wrapt in sleep — 

Sweet spirit, meet me then ! 
There is an hour when holy dreams 

Through slumber fairest glide ; 
And in that mystic hour it seems 

Thou shouldst be by my side. 

My thoughts of thee too sacred are 

For daylight's common beam : 
I can but know thee as my star, 

Jly angel and my dream ; 
When stars are in the quiet skies, 

Then most I pine for thee ; 
Bend on me then thy tender eyes, 

As stars look on the sea ! 

Edward Bulwer Lytton. 



The Lily of Nithesdale. 

She'.s gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, 
She's gane to dwall in heaven ; 

Ye're ower pure, quo' the voice o' God, 
For dwalling out o' heaven. 



Oh, what'U she do in heaven, my lassie. 
Oh, what'll she do in heaven? 

She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' 
sangs. 
An' make them mair meet for heaven. 

She was beloved by a', my lassie, 

She was beloved by a', 
But an angel fell in love wi' her, 

An' took her frae us a'. 

Low there thou lies, my lassie. 

Low there thou lies ; 
A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird. 

Nor frae it will arise. 

Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie, 

Fu' soon I'll follow thee ; 
Thou left me naught to covet ahin'. 

But took gudeness sel' wi' thee. 

I look'd on thy death-cold face, my lassie, 
I look'd on thy death-cold face ; 

Thou seem'd a lily new cut i' the bud, 
An' fading in its place. 

I look'd on thy death-shut eye, my lassie, 
I look'd on thy death-shut eye ; 

An' a lovelier light in the brow of heaven 
Fell Time shall ne'er destroy. 

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie. 
Thy lips were ruddy and calm ; 

But gane was the holy breath o' heaven, 
To sing the evening psalm. 

There's naught but dust now mine, lassie, 
There's naught but dust now mine ; 

My Saul's wi' thee i' the cauld grave, 
An' why should I stay behin' ? 

AlLAN CCNNINGHAM. 



Sonnet. 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 

Admit impediments ; love is not love 
Which alters when it alteration finds. 

Or bends with the remover to remove. 
Oh no ! it is au ever-fixfed mark, 

That looks on tempests, and is never 
shaken ; 
It is the star to every wandering bark, 

Whose worth's unknown, although his 
height be taken. 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



219 



Love's not Time's fool, thougb rosy lips 
and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass 
come; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and 
weeks, 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
If this be error, and upon me proved, 
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

William Suaksspeare. 



SoyysT. 

Tired with all these, for restful death I 
crj-. 
As to behold desert a beggar born, 
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, 

And purest faith unhappily forsworn. 
And gilded honor shamefully misplaced. 
And maiden virtue rudely strum peted. 
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced. 
And strength by limping sway disabled. 
And art made tongue-tied by authority. 

And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, 
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, 
And captive Good attending Captain 
111;— 
Tired with all these, from these would I 

be gone. 
Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone. 
William Shakespeare. 



SOX!fET. 



No longer mourn for me when I am dead, 
Than you shall hear the surly, sullen 
bell 
Give warning to the world that I am fled 
From this vile world, with vilest worms 
to dwell. 
Nay, if you read this line, remember not 
The hand that writ it, for I love you so, 
That I in your sweet thoughts would be 
forgot. 
If thinking on me then should make 
you woe. 
Oh, if, I say, you look upon this verse 
When I perhaps compounded am with 
clay. 
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse, 
But let your love even with my life de- 
cav, 



Lest the wise world should look into youi 

moan. 
And mock you with me after I am gone. 
WiLLiAii Shakespeare. 



SONXET. 

That time of year thou may'st in me be- 
hold. 
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do 
hang 
Upon those boughs which shake against 
the cold, 
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet 
birds sang. 
In me thou seest the twilight of such day 

As after sunset fadeth in the west, 
Which by and by black night doth take 
away, 
Death's second self, that seals up all in 
rest; 
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire 

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie. 
As the deathbed wliereon it must expire, 
Consumed"with that which it was nour- 
ish'd by. 
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy 

love more strong. 
To love that well which thou must leave 



ere long. 



W1LL1A3I SuAKESPEARE. 



SOA'^XET. 

Whex in disgrace with fortune and men's 

eyes, 
I all alone beweep my outcast state. 
And trouble deaf Heaven with my boot- 
! less cries. 

And look upon myself, and curse my 
fate, 
; Wishing me like to one more ridi in 

hope, 
' Featured like him, like him with friends 
possess'd, 
Desiring this man's art, and that man's 
I scope, 

With what I most enjoy contented least; 
' Yet in these thoughts myself almost de- 
spising. 
Haply I think on thee, and then my 
I state 



220 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



(Like to the lark at break of day arising 
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heav- 
en's gate : 

For thy sweet love remember'd such 
wealth brings, 

That then I scorn to change my state 

with kings. 

William Shakespeare. 



SOX'NET. 

When in the chronicle of wa.sted time 

I see descriptions of tlie fairest wights, 
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme 

In praise of ladies dead, and bively 
knights ; 
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, 

Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow. 
I see their antique pen would have exjjrest 

Ev'n such a beauty as you master now. 
So all their praises are but prophecies 

Of this our time, all you prefiguring ; 
And for they look'd but with divining eyes. 

They had not skill enough your worth 

to sing ; 

For we, which now behold these present 

days, 

Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to 

praise. 

William Shakespeare. 



Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? 
Thou art more lovely and more temper- 
ate; 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of 
May, 
And summer's lease hath all too short a 
date. 
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines. 
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd, 
And every fair from fair sometime de- 
clines, 
By chance, or Nature's changing course, 
untrimm'd. 
But thy eternal summer shall not fade, 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou 
owest. 
Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in 
his shade, 
When in eternal lines to time thou 
growest. 



So long as men can breathe, or eyes can 

see. 
So long lives this, and thi.s gives life to thee. 
William Shakespeare. 

Epithalamium. 

I SAW two clouds at morning, 

Tinged by the rising sun, 
And in the dawn they floated on. 

And mingled into one ; 
I thought that morning cloud was bless'd, 
It moved so sweetly to the west. 

I saw two summer currents 
Flow smoothly to their meeting, 

And join their course, with silent force, 
In peace each other greeting ; 

C'alm was their course through banks of 
green. 

While dimpling eddies play'd between. 

Such be your gentle motion, 

Till life's last pulse shall beat; 
Like summer's beam, and summer's stream, 

Float on, in joy, to meet 
A calmer sea, where storms shall cease — 
A purer sky, where all is peace. 

John G. C. Brainard. 



Bridal Song. 

To the sound of timbrels sweet 
Moving slow our solemn feet, 
We have borne thee on the road 
To the virgin's blest abode ; 
With thy yellow torches gleaming, 
And thy scarlet mantle streaming. 
And the canopy above 
Swaying as we slowly move. 

Thou hast left the joyous feast, 
And the mirth and wine have ceased ; 
And now we set thee down before 
The jealously-unclosing door. 
That the favor'd youth admits 
Where the veilfed virgin sits 
In the bliss of maiden fear, 
Waiting our soft tread to hear. 
And the music's brisker din 
At the bridegroom's entering in — 
Entering in, a welcome guest. 
To the chamber of his rest. 

Henry Hart Milman. 



PART IV. 



Personal Poems 



^j^. 



Personal Poems. 



The Grave of Mac aura. 

And this is thy grave, Macaura, 

Here by the pathway lone, 
Where the thorn-blossoni:5 are bending 

Over thy nioulder'd stone. 
Alas ! for the sons of glory ; 

O thou of the darken d brow, 
And the eagle plume, and the belted clans. 

Is it here thou art sleeping now ? 



Oh wild is the spot, Macaura, 

In which they have laid thee low — 
The field where thy people triuniph'd 

Over a siaughter'd foe ; 
And loud was the banshee's wailing, 

And deep was the clansmen's sorrow, 
When, with bloody hands and burning 
tears. 

They buried thee here, Macaura ! 

And now thy dwelling is lonely, 

King of the rushing horde ; 
And now thy bailies are over. 

Chief of the shining sword ; 
And the rolling thunder echoes 

O'er torrent and mountain free, 
But alas ! and alas ! Macaura, 

It will not awaken thee. 



Farewell to thy grave, Macaura, 

Where the slanting sunbeams shine, 
And the brier and waving fern 

Over thy slumbers twine ; 
Thou whose gathering .summons 

Could waken the sleeping glen ; 
Macaura. ahis for thee and thine, 

'Twill never be heard again I 

M.vKV Dow.Ni.su. 



Inscription fob a Statue of 
Chaucer at Woodhtock. 

Such was old Chaucer: such the placid 

mien 
Of him who first with harmony inform'd 
The language of our fathei-s. Here he dwelt 
For many a cheerful day. These ancient 

walls 
i Have often heard him, while his legends 
j blithe 

He sang ; of love, or knighthood, or the 

wiles 
Of homely life; through each estate and 

age. 
The fashions and the follies of the world 
With cunning hand portraying. Though 

perchance 
From Blenheim's towers, O stranger, thou 

art come 
Glowing with Churchill's trophies; yet in 

vain 
Dost thou applaud them, if thy brca t be 

cold 
To him, this other hero ; who in times 
Dark and untaught, began v.ith charming 

verse 
To tame the rudeness of his native land. 
Makk Akensidh:. 



TO MISTRESS Margaret IIussey. 

Merry Margaret, 

As midsumnier flower, 

Gentle as falcon. 

Or hawk of the tower ; 

With solace and gladness. 

Much mirth and no madness, 

All gooil and no badness ; 

So joyously, 

So maidenly. 

So womanly 

223 



224 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Her demeaning,— 


Have miss'd the ball, and got sight of our 


In everything 


dame. 


Far, far passing 


To bait her eyes, which kept the leads 


That I can indite, 


above. 


Or suffice to write, 


The gravel ground, with sleeves tied on 


Of merry Margaret, 


the helm 


As midsummer flower, 


Of foaming hoise, with swords and 


Gentle as falcon 


friendly hearts ; 


Or hawk of the tower ; 


With chere, as though one should another 


As patient and as still, 


whelm. 


And as full of good-will, 


Where we have fought, and chased oft 


As fair Isiphil, 


with darts ; 


Coliander, 


The secret groves, which oft we made re- 


Sweet Pomander, 


sound 


Good Cassander ; 


Of pleasant plaint, and of our ladies' 


Steadfast of thought. 


praise ; 


Well made, well wrought ; 


Recording oft what grace each one had 


Far may be sought 


found, 


Ere you can find 


What hope of speed, what dread of loug 


So courteous, so kind. 


delays : 


As merry Margaret, 


The wild forfest, the clothfed holts with 


This midsummer flower, 


green ; 


Gentle as falcon. 


With reins avail'd, and swift-ybreathed 


Or hawk of the tower. 


horse. 


John Skelton. 


With cry of hounds and merry blasts be- 




tween, 




Where we did chase the fearful hart 


Prisoned in Windsor. 


of force. 


So cruel prison how could betide, alas ! 


The wide vales, eke, that harbor'd us each 


As proud Windsor ? where I in lust and 


night ; 


joy, 


Wherewith, alas! reviveth in my breast 


With a King's son, my childish yeai-s did 


The sweet accord, such sleeps as yet de- 


pass. 


light ; 


In greater feast than Priam's sons of 


The pleasant dreams, the quiet bed of 


Troy. 


rest; 


Where each sweet place returns a taste 


The secret thoughts, imparted with such 


full sour. 


trust; 


The large green courts, where we were 


The wanton talk, the divers change of 


wont to hove, 


play ; 


With eyes cast upunto the Maiden's Tower, 


The friendship sworn, each promise kept 


And easy sighs, such as folk draw in 


so just, 


love. 


Wherewith we past the winter nights 


The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue. 


away. 


The dances short, long tales of great de- 


And with this thought the blood forsakes' 


light ; 


the face. 


With words, and looks, that tigers could 


The tears berain my cheeks of deadly hue. 


but rue. 


The which, as soon a.s sobbing sighs. 


AVhere each of us did plead the other's 


alas. 


right. 


Upsupped have, thus I my plaint renew; 


The palme-play, where, despoiled i'or the 


place of bliss! renewer of my woes! 


game, 


Give me account, where is my noble 


With dazed eyes oft we by gleams of love. 


fere? 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



Wliom in thy walls thou dost each night 
enclose ; 

To other leef; but unto me most dear: 
Echo, alas ! that doth my sorrow rue, 

Returns thereto a hollow sound of plaint. 
Thus I alone, where all my freedom grew. 

In ])rison pine with bondageand restraint. 
And with renieinbrancc of the greater grief 
To banish the less, I find my chief relief. 
IIenky HoWiVRD, Earl of Surrey. 

The Good Lord Clifford. 

Soxr; AT THE Fe.\st of Rrouoham Castle 
ri'ox THE Restoration of Lord Clif- 
ford, THE Shepherd, to the Estates 
AND Honors of his Ancestors. 

Hk; n in the breathless hall the minstrel sate, 
And Emont's murmur mingled with the 
song. 

The words of ancient time I thus translate, 
A festal strain tiiat hath been silent long. 

" From town to town, from tower to tower, 

The red rose is a gladsome flower. 

Her thirty years of winter past. 

The red rose is revived at bust ; 

She lifts her head for endless spring, 

For everla-sting blossoming : 

Both roses flourish, red and white. 

In love and sisterly delight 

The two that were at strife are blended, 

And all old troubles now are ended. 

Joy ! joy to both ! but most to her 

Who is the flower of Lanca-stcr! 

liihobl her how she smilc-s to-day 

On this great throng, this bright array ! 

Fair greeting doth she send to all 

Yrom every corner of the Hall ; 

But, eiiiefly, from above the board 

Where sits in state our rightful lord, 

A Clitlbrd to his own restored ! 

"Tiiey came with banner, spear, and shield : 
And it was proved in Bosworth field. 
Not long the avenger was withstood — 
Earth help'd him with the cry of blood 
8t. George was with us, and the might 
Of blessed angels crown'd the right. 
Loud voice the land has utter'd forth. 
We loudest in the faithful north: 
Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring, 
Our streams proclaim a welcoming; 
15 



Our strong abodes and castles see 
The glory of their loyalty. 

" How glad is Pkipton at this hour — 
Though she is but a lonely tower! 
To vacancy and silence left; 
Of all her guardian sons bereft — 
Knight, squire, or yeoman, page or groom ; 
We have them at the feast of Brougham. 
How glad Pendr.igon — though the sleep 
Of years be on her 1 — She shall reaj) 
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing 
As in a dream her own renewing. 
Rejoiced is Brough, right glad, I deem. 
Beside her little bumble stream ; 
And she that keepetli watch and ward 
Her st.atelier Eden's course to guard ; 
They both are happy at this hour, 
Though each is but a lonely tower: — 
But here is perfect joy and pride 
For one fair House by Emont's side, 
This day, distinguish'd without peer. 
To .see her Master, and to cheer 
Him and and his Lady Mother dear I 

" Ob ! it was a time forlorn. 
When the fatherless was born — 
Give her wings that she may fly, 
Or she see-s her infant die ! 
Swords that are with slaughter wild 
Hunt the mother and the child. 
Wlio will take them from the light? 
— Yonder is a man in sight — 
Yonder is a house — but where ? 
No, they must not enter there. 
To tiie caves, and to the brooks, 
To the clouds of heaven she looks ; 
She is speechles-s, but her eyes 
Pray in ghostly agonies. 
Blissful Mary, mother mild. 
Maid and mother undefiled, 
Save a mother and her child! 

" Now who is he th.at bounds with joy 

On Carrock's side — a Sliepherd Boy'/ 

No thought.s hath he but thoughts that pass 

Light as the wind along the grass. 

Can this be he who hither came 

In secret, like a smother'd flame? 

O'er whom such thankful tears were shed 

For shelter, and a i)oor man's Iiread ! 

(lod loves the child, and (iod hath will'd 

That those dear words should be fulfill'd, 



226 



FIRESIDE ENGYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



The lady's words, when forced away, 
The last she to her babe did say, 
' My own, my own, thy fellow-guest 
I may not be ; but rest thee, rest, 
For lowly shepherd's life is best !' 

" Alas ! when evil men are strong 

No life is good, no pleasure long. 

The boy must part from Mosedale's groves 

And leave Blencathara's rugged coves. 

And quit the flowers that summer brings 

To Glenderamakin's lofty springs ; 

Must vanish, and his careless cheer 

Be turn'd to heaviness and fear. 

— Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise ! 

Hear it, good man, old in days ! 

Thou free of covert and of rest 

For this young bird that is distrest ; 

Among the branches safe he lay. 

And he was free to sport and play 

When falcons were abroad for prey. 

" A recreant harp, that sings of fear 

And heaviness in Clifford's ear! 

I said, when evil men are strong. 

No life is good, no pleasure long,— 

A weak and cowardly untruth ! 

Our C'lifFord was a happy youth, 

And thankful through a weary time 

That brought him up to manhood's prime. 

— Again he wanders forth at will 

And tends a flock from hill to hill : 

His garb is humble : ne'er was seen 

Such garb with such a noble mien : 

Among the Shepherd-grooms no mate 

Hath he, a child of strength and state ! 

Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee, 

And a cheerful comp.any. 

That learn'd of him submissive ways, 

And comforted his private days. 

To his side the fallow-deer 

Came, and rested without fear; 

The eagle, lord of land and sea, 

Stoop'd down to pay him fealty ; 

And both the undying fish tliat swim 

Through Bowscale Tarn did wait on him. 

The pair were servants o: his eye 

In their immortality ; 

They moved about in open sight. 

To and fro, for his delight. 

He knew the rocks which angels haunt 

On the mountains visitant; 



He hath kenn'd them taking wing: 

And the caves where faeries sing 

He hath enter'd ; — and been told 

By voices how men lived of old. 

Among the heavens his eye can see 

Face of thing that is to be ; 

And, if men report him right, 

He could whisper words of might. 

— Now another day is come. 

Fitter hope, and nobler doom : 

He hath thrown aside his crook, 

And hath buried deep his book ; 

Armor rusting in his halls 

On the blood of Clifford calls ;— 

' Quell the Scot,' exclaims the lance — 

Bear me to the heart of France, 

Is the longing of the shield — 

Tell thy name, thou trembling field; 

Field of death, where'er thou be, 

Groan thou with our victory ! 

Happy day, and mighty hour, 

When our Shepherd, in his power, 

Mail'd and horsed, with lance and sword, 

To his ancestors restored. 

Like a re-appearing star. 

Like a glory from afar, 

First shall head the flock of war !" 

Alas ! the fervent harper did not know 
That for a tranquil soul the lay was 
framed. 
Who, long compell'd in humble walks to go. 
Was soften'd into feeling, soothed, and 
tamed. 

Love had he found in huts where poor 
men lie ; 
His daily teachers had been woods and 
rills. 
The silence that is in the starry sky. 
The sleep that is among the lonely hills. 

In him the savage virtue of the race. 
Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts wer:' 
dead : 
Nor did he change ; but kept in lofty 
place 
The wisdom which adversity had bred. 

Glad were the vales, and every cottage 
hearth ; 
The Shepherd Lord was honor'd more 
and more : 



PERSOXAL POEMS. 



And Hges after he was laid in earth, Great gifts and wisedoui rare imployd tlice 

'■ Tiie good Lord Clifford " was the name thence, 

he bore. To treat from kings with those more 

great than kings ; 
Such li()i)e men had to lay the highest 



William Wordsworth. 



Ax Epitaph upo.y the Rkiit 



thinsirs 



UOyOURABLE SIR PHILLIP SiDXEY. °" ''>>' "'^^^ >'^"">' '" ^^ "•^"^PO'-ted henee. 

To praise thy life, or waile thy worthie Whence to sharpe wars sweet honor did 

death, thee call. 

And want thy wit, thy wit high, pure, Thy countries love, religion, and thy 

divine, friends : 

Is far beyond the powre of niortall line, Of wortliy men the marks, the lives, and 

Nor any one hath worth that draweth i ends, 

breath. And her defence, for whom we labor all. 

Yet rich in zeale, though poore in learn- i There didst thou vanquish shame and 



ings lore. 



tedious age, 



And friendlycareobscurdcinsecretbrest, j Griefe, sorrow, sicknes, and base fortunes 
And love that envie in thy life supprest, i might : 

Thy deere life done, and death hath Thv rising day saw never wofull iiiirht, 



doubled more. 

And I, that in thy time and living state, 
Did oncly praise thy vertues in my 

thought, 
As one that feeld the rising sun hath 



With words and tearcs now waile thy 
timelesse fate. 



But past with praise from oil" this worldly 
stage. 

Back to the camps, by thee that day was 
brought, 



First thine owne death, and after tin- 
long fame ; 

Teares to the soldiers, the proud ('astil- 
ians shame, 
Drawne was thy race aright from princely ' ^'''""'' exprcst, and honor truly taught. 



Nor les^^e than such (by gifts that nature ! '^^ '''" ''^^"' '^« •""' t'»=^' «"'^'^ g''^"' g'"'*«=e 

gave, '^"^'> ^™" • 

The common mother that all creatures "^°""" >''^eres for endless yecrcs, and 

have) 



Doth vertue shew, and princely linageshine. 



hope unsure 
Of fortunes gifts for wealth that still 
shall dure : 

A king gave thee thy name: a kingly minde 0^> happie race with so great praises run ! 
That God thee gave ; who found it now 

too deere 
For this base world, and hath resumde 
it neere. 
To sit in skies, and sort with powres divine. 



Englaml dfitli hold thy linis that bred the 
same, 
Flaunders thy valure where it la^t was 

tried. 
The campe thy sorrow where thy bodie 
died. 
Thy friends thy want ; the world thy ver- 
tues fame : 



Kent thy birth daies, and Oxford held thy 
youth ; 
The heavens made hast, and staid nor 

yeers, nor time : 
The fruits of age grew ripe in Uiy first Nations thy wit, our mindes lay up thy 
l>riinc ; love ; 

Thy will, thy words ; thy words the scales Letters thy learning, thy losse yeere.« 



of truth. 



long to come: 



228 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPvEDIA OF POETRY. 



In worthy harts sorrow hath made thy 
tombe ; 
Thy soule and spright enrich the heavens 
above. 

Thy liborall hart imbahnd in gratefull 
teares, 
Yoong sighes, sweet siglies, sage sighes, 

bewaile thy fall ; 
Envie her sting, and Spite hath left her 
gall, 
Malice her selfe a mourning garment 
weares. 

That day their Hanniball died, our Scipio 

fell! 

Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time ! 

Whose vertues, wounded by my worth- 

lesse rime, 

Let Angels speake, and heaven thy praises 

tell. 

Sib Walter Raleigh. 



Lament for astrophel. 

(Sir Philip Sidney.) 

You knew, — who knew not Astrophel? 

That I should live to say I knew, 
And have not in possession still ! — ■ 
Things known permit me to renew. 
Of him you know his merit such 
I cannot say — you hear — too much. 

Within these woods of Aready 

He chief delight and pleasure took ; 
And on the mountain Partheny, 
Upon the crystal liquid brook. 
The Muses met him every day, — 
Taught him to sing, and write, and 
say. 

When he descended down the mount 
His personage seem'd most divine ; 
A thousand graces one might count 
Upon his lovely, cheerful eyne. 
To hear him speak, and see him smile, 
You were in Paradise the while. 

A sweet, attractive kind of grace ; 
A full assurance given by looks ; 
Continual comfort in a face ; 
The lineaments of gospel books : 
I trow that countenance cannot lie 
Whose thoughts are legible in the eve. 



Above all others this is he 

Who erst approved in his song, 
That love and honor might agree. 
And that pure love will do no wrong. 
Sweet saints, it is no sin or blame 
To love a man of virtuous name. 

Did never love so sweetly breathe 

In any mortal breast before : 
Did never muse inspire beneath 
A poet's brain with finer store. 

He wrote of love with high conceit 
And beauty rear'd above her height. 
Matthew Eoydon. 



Lines. 

Written the Night before his Exe- 
cution. 
E'en such is time ; which takes on trust 

Our youth, our joys, our all we have, 
And pays us but with earth and dust ; 
Which in the dark and silent grave. 
When we have wander'd all our ways, 
Shuts up the story of our days : 
But from this earth, this grave, this dust. 
My God shall raise me up, I trust. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 



To THE Memory of my Be- 
loved, THE Author, Mr. Wii^ 
LI AM Shakespeare, and what 

HE HATH LEFT US. 

To draw no envy (Shakespeare) on thy 

name. 
Am I thus ample to thy book, and fame ; 
While I confess thy writings to be such. 
As neither man, nor muse, can praise too 

much ; 
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage ; but these 

ways 
Were not the path I meant unto thy praise : 
For seeliest ignorance on these may light, 
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes 

right, 
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance 
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by 

chance ; 
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, 
And think to ruin, where it seem'd to 

raise : 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



229 



Tliese are, as some infamous bawd, or 

whore, 
Should praise a matron : what could hurt 

her more ? 
But thou art proof against them ; and, in- 
deed, 
Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need. 
I therefore will bejrin : — Soul of the age. 
The applause, delight, the wonder of our 

stage, 
My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge 

thee by 
Chaucer, or Spenser; or bid Beaumont lie 
A little further, to make thee a room ; 
Thou art a monument without a tomb ; 
And art alive still, while thy book doth live. 
And we have wits to read, and praise to 

give. 
That I not mi.\ thee so, my brain excuses; 
I mean, with great but disproporfion'd 

muses : 
Fpr, if I thought my judgment were of 

years, 
I should commit thee surely witii tiiy 

peers ; 
And tell how far thou didst our I.yly out- 
shine. 
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line: 
And though thou hadst small Latin, and 

less Greek, 
From thence to honor thee, I would not 

seek 
For names; but call forth thundering 

.lEschylus, 
Euripides, and Sophocles, to us, 
Pacuvius, Aecius, him of Cordova dead, 
To live again, to hear thy buskin tread 
And shake a stage; or, when thy socks were 

on, 
Leave thee alone, for the comparison 
Of all that insolent Greece, or haughty 

Home, 
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes 

come. 
Trium]>h, my Britain I thou ha.st one to 

show. 
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. 
He was not of an age, but for all time; 
And all the muses still were in their 

jirime, 
When like Apollo he came forth to warm 
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm. 



Nature herself wa.s proud of his designs. 
And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines: 
Which were so richly spun, and woven so 

fit. 
As since she will vouchsafe no other wit. 
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, 
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not 

please ; 
But antiiiuated and deserted lie, 
As they were not of Nature's lamily. 
Yet must I not give Nature all; thy art, 
Jly gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part: 
For though the poet's matter nature be. 
His art doth give the fashion ; and that 

he. 
Who casti! to write a living line, must 

sweat 
(Such as thine are), and strike the second 

heat 
Upon the muses' anvil ; turn the same 
(And himself with it) that he thinks to 

frame ; 
Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn. 
For a good poet's made as well as born : 
And such wert thou. Look, how the fa- 
ther's face 
Lives in his issue ; even so the race 
Of Shakespeare's mind, and manners, 

brightly shines 
In his well-turni-d and truo-filod lines; 
In each of wliiili he seems to shake a 

lance. 
As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance. 
Sweet Swan of. Avon, what a sight it 

were. 
To see thee in our water yet appear; 
And make those Higlits upon the banks of 

Tlianies, 
That so did take Eliza, and our James. 
But stay ; I see thee in the hemisjjherc 
Advanced, and made a constellation 

there : 
Shine forth, thou star of poets; and with 

rage, 
Or influence, chide, or cheer, the drooping 

stage ; 
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath 

mourn'd like night, 

And despairs day, but for thy volume's 

light. 

Ben Josso.v. 



230 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Ax Epitaph on the Admirable 
Dramatic Poet, W. Shakespeare. 

What need my Shakespeare for his 

honour'd bones, 
The labour of an age in pilE^d stones ; 
Or that his hallow'd rcliques should be hid 
Under a star-ypointed pyramid ? 
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame. 
What need'stthou such dull witness of thy 

name ? 
Thou, in our wonder and astonishment, 
Hast built thyself a lasting monument : 
For whilst, to the shame of slow-eudeav- ■ 

ouring art, 
Thy easy numbers flow ; and that each 

part 
Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued 

book, 
Those Delphic lines with deep impression 

took; 
Then thou, our fancy of herself bereaving. 
Dost make us marble with too much con- 
ceiving ; 
And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie. 
That kings for such a tomb would wish to 

die. 

John Milton. 

Lines on the Portrait of 
Shakespeare. 

This figure, that thou here seest put, 

It was for gentle Shakespeare cut ; 

Wherein the Graver had a strife 

With Nature to outdo the life: 

Oh, could he but have drawn his wit 

As well in brass, as he hath hit 

His face ; the Print would then surpass 

xVll that was ever writ in brass. 

But since he cannot, Reader, look 

Not at his picture, but his book. 

Ben Jonson. 

Shakespeare Ode. 

God of the glorious Lyre 
Whose notes of old on lofty Pindus rang, 

While Jove's exulting choir 
Caught the glad echoes and responsive 
sang,— 

Come ! bless the service and the shrine 

We consecrate to thee and thine. 



Fierce from the frozen north, 
When Havoc led his legions forth. 

O'er Learning's sunny groves the dark de- 
stroyers spread : 
In dust the sacred statue slept. 
Fair Science round her altars wept, 

Aud Wisdom cowl'd his head. 

At length, Olympian lord of morn. 

The raven veil of night was torn. 
When, through golden clouds descending. 

Thou didst hold thy radiant (light, 
O'er Nature's lovely pageant bending. 

Till Avon roll'd, all sparkling, to thy 
sight ! 

There, on its bank, beneath the mul- 
berry's shade, 
Wrapp'd in young dreams, a wild-eyed 
minstrel stray'd. 
Lighting there and lingering long, 
Thou didst teach the bard his song ; 
Thy fingers strung his sleeping shell, 
And round his brows a garland curl'd ; 

On his lips thy spirit fell, 
And bid him wake and warm the world. 

Then Shakespeare rose ! 
Across the trembling strings 
His daring hand he flings. 
And lo ! a new creation glows ! 
There, clustering round, submissive to his 

will. 
Fate's vassal train his high commands 
fulfil.— 

j Madness, with his frightful scream, 
Vengeance, leaning on his lance, 

Avarice, with his blade and beam, 
Hatred, blasting with a glance. 

Remorse that weeps, and Rage that roars, 
And Jealousy that dotes, but dooms and 
murders, yet adores. 

Mirth, his face with sunbeams lit, 
Waking laughter's merry swell. 

Arm in arm with fresh-eyed Wit, 
That waves his tingling lash, while Folly 
shakes his bell. 

Despair, that liauntsthe gurgling stream, 
Kiss'd by the virgin moon's cold beam. 



PERSONAL POEMS. 231 


Where some lost maid wild chaplets 


With pictur'd Folly gazing fools toshame, 


wrcatlies, 


-Vnd guide young Glory's foot along the 


And swan-like, there her own dirge 


path of fame. 


breathes, 




Tlu-n, brolven-hearted, sinks to rest, 


Lo! hand in hand. 


Beneath the bubbling wave that shrouds 


Hell's juggling sisters stand. 


her maniac breast. 


To greet tlieir victim from the fight; 




Group'd on the Ijlasted lioath. 


Young Love, with eye of tender gloom. 


They tempt him to the work of death, 


Now drooping o'er the hallow'd tomb 


Then melt in air, and mock his wondering 


Where his plighted victims lie, — 


sight. 


Where they met, but met to die ; 




And now, when crimson buds are sleep- 


Ill midnight's hallow'd hour 


i'lgi 


He seeks the fatal tower, 


Through the dewy arbor peeping, 


Where the lone raven, perch'd on high, 


Where Beauty's child, the frowning world 


Pours to the sullen gale 


forgot, 


Her hoarse, prophetic wail. 


To Youth's devoted tale is listening, 


And croaks the dreadful moment nigh. 


Rapture on her dark lash glistening. 


See, by the ]ihantom dagger led. 


Wiiile fairies leave their cowslip cells and 


Pale, guilty thing ! 


guard the happy spot. 


Slowly he steals, with silent tread, 




And grasjis his coward steel to smite his 


Thus rise the phantom throng, 


sleeping king ! 


Obedient to tiieir blaster's song. 




And lead in willing chains the wonder- 


Hark ! 'tis the signal bell, 


ing soul along. 


Struck by that bold and unsex'd one 


For other worlds war's Great One sigh'd 


Whose milk is gall, whose heart is stone; 


in vain, — 


His ear hath caught the knell, — • 


O'er other worlds see Shakespeare rove 


'Tis done ! 'tis done ! 


and reign ! 


Beiiold him from the chamber rushing 


The rapt magician of his own wild lay, 


Where his dead monarch's blood is gush- 


Earth and her tribes his mystic wand 


ing! 


obey. 


Look whore he trembling stands, 


Old Ocean trembles. Thunder cracks the 


Sad gazing there, 


skies, 


Life's smoking crimson on his hands. 


Air teems with shapes, and tell-tale 


And in his felon heart the worm of wild 


spectres rise ; 


despair ! 


Night's paltering hags their fearful orgies 




keep, 


Mark the sceptred traitor slumbering! 


And faithless Guilt unseals the lip of 


Tliere flit the slaves of conscience round, 


Sleep ; 


With boding tongue foul murders num- 


Time yields his trophies up, and Death 


bering ; 


restores 


Sleep's leaden portals catch the sound. 


Tlie mouldcr'd victims of his voiceless 


In his dream of blood for mercy quaking. 


shores. 


,\t hii <t\\~i\ ihill scream behold him wak- 


The fireside legend and the fadeil page, 


ing ! 


The crime that cursed, the deed that 


Soon that dream to fate shall turn : 


blcss'd an age, 


For him the living furies burn ; 


All, all come forth, — the good to charm 


For him the vulture sita on yonder misty 


and cheer. 


peak. 


To scourge bold Vice, and start the gen- 


And chides the lagging night, and whets 


erous tear; 


her hungry beak. 



Hark ! the trumpet's warning breath 
Echoes round the vale of death. 
Unhorsed, unhehn'd, disdaining shield, 
The panting tyrant scours the field. 

Vengeance! he meets thy dooming blade! 
The scourge of earth, the scorn of Heaven, 
He falls! unwept and unforgiven, 

And all his guilty glories fade. 

Like a crush'd reptile in the dust he lies, 

And Hate's last lightning quivers from his 
eyes! 

Behold yon crownless king, — 

Yon white-lock'd, weeping sire, — 
Where heaven's unpillar'd chambers ring, 
And burst their streams of flood and fire ! 
He gave them all, — the daughters of his 

love ; 
That recreant pair ! they drive him forth 
to rove 
In such a night of woe. 
The cubless regent of the wood 
Forgets to bathe her fimgs in blood, 

And caverns with her foe ! 
Yet one was ever kind ; 
Why lingers she behind? 
Oh pity ! — view him by her dead form 

kneeling 
Even in wild frenzy holy nature feeling. 
His aching eyeballs strain 

To see those curtain'd orbs unfold, 
That beauteous bosom heave again ; 

But all is dark and cold. 
In agony the father shakes ; 
Grief's choking note 
Swells in his throat, 
Each wither'd heartstring tugs and breaks ! 
Round her pale neck his dying arms he 

wreathes, 
And on her marble lips his last, his death- 
kiss breathes. 

Down, trembling wing ! — shall insect weak- 
ness keep 

The sun-defying eagle's sweep? 

A mortal strike celestial strings. 

And feebly echo what a seraph sings? 

Who now shall grace the glowing throne 

Where, all unrivall'd, all alone. 

Bold Shakespeare sat, and look'd creation 
through. 

The minstrel monarch of the worlds he 
drew ? 



That throne is cold — that lyre in death 

unstrung 
On whose proud note delighted Wonder 

hung. 
Yet old O'olivion, as in wrath he sweeps. 
One spot shall spare, — the grave where 

Shakespeare sleeps. 
Rulers and ruled in common gloom may lie, 
But Nature's laureate bards shall never 

die. 
Art's chisell'd boast and Glory's trophied 

shore 
Must live in numbers, or can live no more. 
While sculptured Jove some nameless 

waste may claim. 
Still rolls the Olympic car in Pindar's 

fame ; 
Troy's doubtful walls in ashes pass'd away. 
Yet frown on Greece in Homer's deathless 

lay; 
Rome, slowly sinking in her crumbling 

fanes. 
Stands all immortal in her Maro's strains ; 
So, too, yon giant empress of the isles. 
On whose broad sway the sun for ever 

smiles, 
To Time's unsparing rage one day must 

bend, 
And all her triumphs in her Shakespeare 

end ! 

O Thou ! to whose creative power 
We dedicate the festal hour, 

While Grace and Goodness round the altar 
stand, 

Learning's anointed train, and Beauty's 
rose-lipp'd band — 

Realms yet unborn, in accents now un- 
known. 

Thy song shall Icani, and bless it for their 
own. 

Deep in the West, as Independence roves. 
His banners planting round the land he 

loves. 
Where Nature sleeps in Eden's infant 

grace, 
In Time's full hour shall spring a glorious 

race. 
Thy name, thy verse, thy language, shall 

they bear. 
And deck for thee the vaulted temple there. 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



233 



Our Roman-hearted fathers broke 
Tliy parent fni])iri''s frallinfr yoke; 
But thou, harmonious master of the mind, 
Around their sons a gcntk^r eliain shalt 

bind ; 
Once more in thee shall Albion's sceptre 

wave, 
And what lier monarch lost her Monarch- 
Bard shall save. 

Charles Spbagde. 



EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. IL 

Wori-nsT thou hcare what man can say 

In a little? — reader, stay ! 

Underneath this stone doth lye 

As much beauty as could dye ; 

Which in life did harbor give 

To more vertue than doth live. 

If at all she had a fault. 

Leave it buried in this vault. 

One name was Elizabeth — 

Th' other, let it sleep with death : 

Fitter, where it dyed to tell, 

Than that it lived at all. Farewell ! 

Bex Jonson. 



Epitaph ox the Couxtess of 
Pembroke. 

UxriEKXEATH this sable hearse 
Lies the subject of all verse, 
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother; 
Deatlil ere thou hast slain another, 
Learn'd and fair and good as she, 
Time shall throw a dart at thee. 

Bex Jonsos. 



To Viy'CEXT Cop BET, jrv Sox. 

What I shall leave thee, none can tell, 

But all shall say I wish thee well. 

I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth, 

Both bodily and {rhostly health ; 

Nor too much wealth nor wit come to thee, 

So nuieh of either may undo thee. 

I wish thee learning not for sliow, 

Enough for to instruct and know ; 

Not such as gentlemen require 

To prate at table or at fire. 

I wish thee all tliy mother's graces. 

Thy father's fortune^i and his places. 



I wish thee friends, and one at court, 
\ot to build on, but support ; 
To keep thee not in doing n\any 
Oppressions, but from suffering any. 
I wish thee peace in all thy ways, 
Nor lazy nor contentious days ; 
And, when thy soul and body part, 
As innocent as now thou art. 

KiciiARD Corbet. 



Ox Lucy, Couxtess of Bedford. 

This morning, timely rapt with holy fire, 
I thought to form unto my zealous Muse, 
What kind of creature I could most desire, 
To honor, serve, and love ; a.s poets use, 
I meant to make her fair, and free, and 
wi.se. 
Of greatest blood, and yet more good 
than great ; 
I meant the day-star should not brighter 
rise. 
Nor lend like influence from his lucent 
seat. 
I meant she should be courteous, facile, 
sweet. 
Hating that solemn vice of greatnes-s, 
pride ; 
I meant each softest virtue there should 
meet. 
Fit in that softer bosom to reside. 
Only a learn^d and a manly soul 

I purposed her ; that should, with even 
jMiwers, 
The rock, the spindle, and the shears 
control 
Of Destiny, and spin her own free 
hours. 
Such when I meant to feign, and wish'd to 

see, 
My Muse bade, Bedford write, and that 
was she. 

Be.\ Jossox. 

Of myself. 

Tm.s onlv grant me, that mv means niav 

lie 
Too low for envy, for contempt too high. 

Some honor I would have. 
Not from great deeds, but good alone ; 
The unknown are better than ill known : 

Uumor can ope the grave. 



234 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Acquaintance I would have, but when 't 

depends 
Not on the number, but the choice, of 

friends. 

Books should, not business, entertain the 

light. 
And sleep, as undisturb'd as death, the 
night. 
My house a cottage more 
Than palace ; and should fitting be 
For all my use, no luxury. 

My garden painted o'er 
With Nature's hand, not Art's ; and pleas- 
ures yield, 
Horace might envy in his Sabine field. 

Thus would I double my life's fading space ; 
For he that runs it well twice runs his 
race. 
And in this true delight. 
These unbought sports, this happy state, 
I would not fear, nor wish, my fate ; 

But boldly say each night. 
To-morrow let my sun his beams display. 
Or in clouds hide them ; I have lived to- 
day. 

Abraham Cowley. 



Sonnet. 

To THE Lord General Cromwell. 

Ceomwell, our chief of men, who through 
a cloud 
Not of war only, but detractions rude. 
Guided by fiiith and matchless fortitude. 
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast 

plough'd 
And on the neck of crowned fortune proud 
Hast rear'd God's trophies, and his 

work pursued. 
While Darwen stream with blood of 

Scots imbrued. 
And Dunbar field resounds thy praises 
loud, 
And AVorcester's laureat wreath. Yet 
uuich remains 
To conquer still ; peace hath her vic- 
tories 
No less renown'd than war. New foes 
arise 
Threatening to bind our souls with secular 
chains : 



Help us to save free conscience from the 

paw 
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their 

maw. 

John Milton. 

Sonnet. 

To Cyrlvo Skinner. 

Cyriac, this three years day these eyes, 
tho' clear 
To outward view of blemish or of spot. 
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot ; 
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the 
year. 
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not 
Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate 

a jot 
Of heart or liope ; but still bear up and 
.steer 
Right onward. What supports rac, dost 
thou ask ? 
The conscience, friend, t' have lost them 

overplied 
In liberty's defence, my noble task, 
Of which all Europe rings from side to 
side. 
This thought might lead me through the 
world's vain mask, 
Content though blind, had I no better 

guide. 

John Milton. 

Sonnet 

On his Blindness. 

When I consider how my light is spent, 
Ere half my days in this dark world 

and wide. 
And that one talent which is death to 
hide, 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul 

more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest He returning chide ; 
" Doth God exact day-labor, light de- 
nied ?" 
I fondly ask : but Patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon rej^lies, " God doth 
not need 
Either man's work or his own gifts : who 
best 



PERSOSAL POEMS. 



Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best : 

liis state 
Is kingly; thousands at his biddingspeed, 
And jjost o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
They also serve who only stand and 

wait." 

John Milton. 

MiLTOS's Prayer of Patience. 

I AM old and blind ! 
Men point at me as smitten by God's 

frown ; 
Afflicted and deserted of my kind, 

Yet am I not cast down. 

I am weak, yet strong ; 
I murmur not that I no hinger see ; 
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong, 

Father Supreme ! to Thee. 

All-merciful One ! 
^V^len men are furthest, then art Thou most 

near ; 
When friends pass by, my weaknesses to 
shun. 

Thy chariot I hear. 

Thy glorious face 
Is leaning toward me ; and its holy light 
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place, — 

And there is no more night. 

On my bended knee 
I recognize Tliy purpose clearly shown: 
My vision Thou hast diuini'd, tliat I may see 

Thyself, — Thyself alone. 

I have naught to fear ; 
This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing; 
Beneath it I am almost sacred ; here 

Can come no evil thing. 

Oh, I seem to stand 
Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath 

been, 
Wrapp'd in that radiance from the sinless 
land. 

Which eye hath never seen ! 

Visions come and go : 
Shapes of resplendent beauty round me 

throng ; 
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow 
Of soft and holy song. 



It is nothing now, 
Wlien heaven is opening on my sightless 

eyes. 
When airs from Paradise refresh my brow, 

The eartli in darkness lies. 

In a purer clime 
My being fills with rapture, — waves of 

thought 
Roll in upon my spirit, — strains sublime 

Break over me unsought. 

Give me now my lyre ! 
I feel the stirrings of a gilt divine : 
Witliin my bo-soni glows unearthly fire. 

Lit by no skill of mine. 

Elizabeth Lloyd Howell. 



To THE Lady Margaret Ley. 

Daughter to that good earl, once Presi- 
dent 
Of England's Council, and her Treasury, 
Who lived in both, uustain'd with gold 
or fee. 
And left them both, more in himself con- 
tent. 
Till the sad breaking of that Parliament 
Broke him, as that dishonest victory 
At Cha^ronea, fatal to liberty, 
Kill'd with report that old man eloquent. 
Though later born than to have known the 
days 
Wherein your fatlicr flourish'd, yet by 
you. 
Madam, methinks I see him living yet; 
So well your words his noble virtues praise. 
That all both judge you to relate them 
true. 
And to possess them, honor'd ^largaret. 
John Milton. 



Lycidas. 

Yf.t once more, O ye laurels, and once 

more 
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 
I come to pluck your berries harsh and 

crude. 
And with forced fingers rude 
Shatter your leaves before tlie mellowing 

year. 
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, 



230 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Compels me to disturb your season due ; 


The willows, and the hazel copses green. 


For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime. 


Shall now no more be seen. 


Young Lycidas, and liatli not left his 


Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft 


peer. 


lays. 


Who would not sing for Lycidas? he 


As killing as the canker to the rose, 


knew 


Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that 


Himself to sing, and build the lofty 


graze, 


rhyme. 


Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe 


He must not float upon his watery bier 


wear, 


Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, 


When first the white-thorn blows ; 


Without the meed of some melodious tear. 


Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear. 


Begin then, sisters of the sacred well, 


Where were ye, nymphs, when the re- 


That from beneath the seat of Jove doth 


morseless deep 


spring, 


Closed o'er the head of your loved Ly- 


Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the 


cidas ? 


string. 


For neither were ye playing on the steep. 


Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse ; 


Where your old bards, the famous druids, 


So may some gentle muse 


lie, 


With lucky words favor my destined urn. 


Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high. 


And as he passes turn, 


Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard 


And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. 


stream. 


For we were nursed upon the self-same 


Ay me ! I fondly dream ! 


hill, 


Had ye been tliere, for what could that 


Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, 


have done ? 


and rill. 


What could the muse herself that Orpheus 


Together both, ere the high lawns ap- 


bore. 


pear'd 


The muse herself for her enchanting son. 


Lender tlie opening eyelids of the morn. 


Whom universal Nature did lament. 


We drove a-field, and both together heard 


When, by the rout that made the hideous 


What time the gray-fly winds her sultry 


roar. 


horn, 


His gory vision down the stream was sent. 


Batt'niug our flocks with the fresh dews 


Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian 


of night 


shore ? 


Oft till the star that rose at evening bright 


Alas ! what boots it with incessant care 


Toward heaven's descent had sloped his 


To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's 


west'ring wheel. 


trade. 


Jleanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, 


And strictly meditate the thankless muse? 


Teniper'd to th' oaten flute; 


Were it not better done, as others use. 


Rough satyrs danced and fauns with cloven 


To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 


heel 


Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? 


From the glad song would not be absent 


Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth 


long. 


raise 


And old Damsetus loved to hear our song. 


(That last infirmity of noble mind) 


But oh, the heavy change, now thou art 


To scorn delights and live laborious days ; 


gone— 


But the fair guerdon when we hope to find. 


Now thou art gone, and never must re- 


And think to burst out into sudden blaze. 


turn ! 


Comes the blind fury with th' abhorr&d 


Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert 


shears. 


caves. 


And slits the thin-spun life. But not the 


With wild thyme and the gadding vine 


praise, 


o'ergrown, 


Phoebus replied, and touch'd my tremb- 


And all their echoes, mourn ; 


ling ears ; 



PERSONAL POEMS. 237 


Fame is no plant that grows on mortal 


How well could I have spared for thee. 


soil, 


young swain. 


Xor in the glistering foil 


Enow of such as for their bellies' sake 


Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumor 


Creep, and intrude, and climb into the 


lies ; 


fold ? 


Rut lives and spreads aloft by those pure 


Of other care they little reckoning make. 


eyes 


Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, 


And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; 


And shove away the worthy bidden guest ; 


As he pronounces lastly on each deed. 


Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves 


Of so much fame in heaven expect thy 


know how to hold 


meed. 


A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else 


fountain Arethuse, and thou honor'd 


the least 


flood, 


That to the faithful herdsman's art be- 


Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with 


longs ! 


vocal reeds. 


What recks it them ? what need they ? they 


That strain I heard was of a higher mood ; 


are sped ; 


But now my oat proceeds, 


And when they list, their lean and flashy 


And listens to the herald of the sea 


songs 


That came in Neptune's plea ; 


Grate on their scrannel jiipes of wretched 


He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon 


straw ; 


winds. 


The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 


What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle 


But swoln with wind and the rank mist 


swain ? 


they draw, 


And question'd every gust of rugged 


Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ; 


wings 


Besides what the grim wolf witli privy 


That blows from off each beakfed promon- 


liaw 


tory : 


Daily devours apace, and nothing said ; 


They knew not of his story ; 


But that two-handed engine at the door 


And sage Hippotades their answer brings, 


Stands ready to smite once, and smite no 


That not a bhist Wiis from liis dungeon 


more. 


stray'd ; 


Return, .M|iheus, the dread voice is past, 


The air was calm, and on tlie level brine 


That slirunk thy streams : return, Sicilian 


Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. 


muse. 


It was that fatal and pertidious bark. 


And call the vales, and bid them hither 


Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses 


cast 


dark, 


Their bells, and flow'rets of a thousand 


That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 


hues. 


Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing 


Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers 


slow, 


use 


His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, 


Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing 


Inwrought with figures dim, and on the 


brooks. 


edge 


On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely 


Like to that sanguine flower inscribed 


looks, 


with woe. 


Throw hither all your ijuaint enanull'd 


Ah I who hath reft Iquoth he) my dearest 


eyes, 


pledge ? 


That on the green turf suck the honey 'd 


Last came, and last did go, 


showers. 


The pilot of the Galilean Lake ; 


And purple all the ground witli vernal 


Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 


flowers. 


(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain) ; 


Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken 


He shook his mitred locks, and stern be- 


dies, 


spake : 


The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine. 



238 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



The white pink, and the pansy freak'd 

with jet, 
The glowing violet, 

The musk-rose, and the well-attired wood- 
bine, 
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive 

head, 
And every flower that sad embroidery 

wears ; 
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, 
And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, 
To strew the laureat hearse where Lyeid lies. 
For so to interpose a little ease. 
Let our frail thoughts dally with false sur- 
mise. 
Ay me ! whilst thee the shores and sound- 
ing seas 
Wash far away where'er thy bones are 

hurl'd, 
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 
Where thou perhaps under the whelming 

tide 
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ; 
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, 
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old. 
Where the great vision of the guarded 

mount 
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's 

hold; 
Look homeward angel now, and melt with 

ruth ! 
And, ye dolphins, waft the hapless 
youth ! 
Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep 
no more ! 
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, 
Sunk though he be beneath the watery 

floor. 
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, 
And yet anon repairs his drooping head. 
And tricks his beams, and with new- 
spangled ore 
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky ; 
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high. 
Through the dear might of Him that 

walk'd the waves. 
Where, other groves and other streams 

along. 
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves. 
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, 
Li the blest kingdoms meek of joy and 
love. 



There entertain him all the saints above, 
In solemn troops and sweet societies, 
That sing, and singing in their glory move. 
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no 

more ; 
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the 

shore, 
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 
Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks 

and rills, 
While the still morn went out with sandals 

gray ; 
He touch'd the tender stops of various 

quills. 
With eager thought warbling his Doric 

lay. 
And now the sun had stretch'd out all 

the hills. 
And now was dropt into the western bay ; 
At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle 

blue : 
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new- 

John Milton. 

An lion ATI ax Ode. 

Vvos Cromwell's Beturn froji Ire- 
land. 

The forward youth that would apjiear, 
Must now forsake his Muses dear. 

Nor in the shadows sing 

His numbers languishing. 

'Tis time to leave the books in dust, 
And oil the unused armor's rust. 

Removing from the wall 

The corslet of the hall. 

So restless Cromwell could not cease 
In the inglorious arts of peace. 

But through adventurous war 

Urged his active star : 

And like the three-fork'd lightning first, 
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, 

Did thorough his own side 

His fiery way divide ; 

For 'tis all one to courage high. 
The emulous, or enemy ; 

And with such, to enclose 

Is more than to oppose. 



PERSONAL POEMS. 239 


Tlien burning through the air he went, 
And palaces anil temples rent, 
And Ciesar's head at last 
Did through his laurels blast. 


This was that memorable hour 
Which first assured the forced power. 

So when they did design 

The Capitol's first line, 


'Tis madness to resist or blame 
The face of angrj' Heaven's flame, 
And if we would speak true. 
Much to the Man is due 


A bleeding head, where they begun, 
Did fright the architects to run ; 
And yet in that the State 
Foresaw its happy fate ! 


Who, from his private gardens, where 
He lived reserved and austere 

(As if his highest jilot 

To plant the bergamot). 


And now the Irish are ashamed 
To see themselves in one year tamed ; 
So much one man can do 
That does both act and know. 


Could by industrious valor climb 
To ruin the great work of time, 

And ca.st the Kingdoms old 

Into another mould. 


They can aflirm his praises best. 
And have, though overcome, confe.st 
How good he is, how just. 
And fit for highest trust; 


Though Justice against Fate complain. 
And plead the ancient rights in vain — 
But those do hold or break 
As men are strong or weak. 


Nor yet grown stiiler with command. 
But .still in the Republic's hand — 

Hf)W fit he is to sway 

That can so well obey! 


Nature, that hateth emptiness, 

Allows of penetration le.ss. 

And therefore must make room 
AVhere greater spirits come. 


He to the Commons' feet presents 
A Kingdom for liis first year's rents. 
And (what he may) forbears 
His fame, to make it theirs ; 


What field of all the civil war 
Where his were not the deepest scar? 

And Hampton shows what part 

He had of wiser art. 


And has his sword and spoils ungirt, 
To lay them at the public's skirt. 
So when the falcon high 
Falls heavy from the sky, 


Where, twining subtle fears with hope. 
He wove a net of such a scope 

That Charles himself might chase 
To Carisbrook's narrow case ; 


She, having kill'd, no more does search 
But on the ne.xt green bough to perch. 
Where, when he first docs lure, 
The falconer has her sure. 


That thence the royal actor borne 
The tragic seatlold might adorn. 
While round the arnii-d banda 
Did clap their bloody hands ; 


What may not then our Isle presume 
While victory his crest does plume? 
What may not others fear 
If thus he crowns each year? 


He nothing common did or mean 
Upon that memorable scene, 
But with his keener eye 
The a.xe's edge did trj' ; 


As Ccesar he, ere long, to (iaul. 

To Italy an Hannibal, 

And to all states not free 
Shall climacteric be. 


Xor call'd the gods, with vulgar spite, 
To nndicate his helpless right. 

But bow'd his comely head 

Down, as upon a bed. 


The Pict no shelter now shall find 
Within his parti-color'd mind, 
But from this valor, .sad 
Shrink underneath the plaid— 



240 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Happy if in the tufted brake 
The English hunter him mistake, 

Kor lay his hounds in near 

The Caledonian deer. 

But thou, the AVar's and Fortune's son, 

JIarch indefatigably on, 
And for the last effect 
Still keep the sword erect . 

Besides the force it has to fright 
The spirits of the shady night. 
The same arts that did gain 
A power, must it maintain. 

Andrew Marvell. 

The Picture of T. C. 

In a Prospect of Flowers. 

See with what simplicity 

This nymph begins her golden days ! 
In the green grass she loves to lie. 

And there with her fair aspect tames 
The wilder flowers, and gives them 
names ; 
But only with the roses plays, 
And them does tell 
What color best becomes them, and what 
smell. 

Who can foretell for what high cause 
This darling of the gods was born ? 
See ! this is she whose chaster laws 

The wanton Love shall one day fear. 
And, under her command severe, 
See his bow broke and eusigus torn. 
Happy who can 
Appease this virtuous enemy of man ! 

Oh, then let me in time compound 

And parley with those conquering eyes, — 
Ere they have tried their force to wound. 
Ere with their glancing wheels they 

drive 
In triumph over hearts that strive, 
And them that yield but more despise : 
Let me be laid 
Where I may see the glorj' from some shade. 

Meanwhile, whilst every verdant thing 

Itself does at thy beauty charm. 
Reform the errors of the spring : 

Make that the tulips may have share 
Of sweetness, seeing they are fair; 
And roses of their tliorns disarm ; 



But most procure 
That violets may a longer age endure. 

But, O young beauty of the woods. 
Whom Nature courts with fruit and 
flowers. 
Gather the flowers, but spare the buds, 
Lest Flora, angry at thy crime 
To kill her infants in their prime. 
Should quickly make the example 
yours ; 
And, ere we see, 
Nip iu the blossom all our hopes in thee. 

AKDREW M.IRVELL. 



Lines written under the Pic- 
ture OF John Milton, 

Before his "Pakadise Lost." 
Three Poets, in three distant ages born, 
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. 
The first in loftiness of thought sur- 

pass'd ; 
The next in majesty; in both the last. 
The force of Nature could no further go ; 
To make a third, she joined the former two. 

John Duvden. 

Sonnet. 

To Milton. 

Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this 

hour : 

England hath need of thee : she is a fen 

Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and 

pen. 

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and 

bower, 
Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
Of inward happiness. We are selfish 

men : 
Oh raise us up, return to us again ; 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, 

power ! 
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart ; 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was 

like the sea ; 
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, 
free. 
So didst thou travel on life's common way 
In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 

"William \\'ui:u.s\vuktu. 



rERSONAL POEMS. 



241 



LOYALTY CONFINED. 

Beat on, proud billows; Boreas blow ; 

Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof: 
Your incivility doth show. 

That innocence is tempest proof; 
Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts 

are calm ; 
Then strike. Affliction, for thy wounds are 
balm. 

That which the world miscalls a jail, 

A private closet is to me : 
Whilst a good conscience is my bail, 

And innocence my liberty : 
Locks, bars, and solitude, together met. 
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret. 

I, whilst I wisht to be retired. 

Into this private room was turn'd ; 

As if their wisdoms had conspired 
The salamander should be burn'd : 

Or like those sophists, that would drown a 
fish, 

I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish. 

The cyiiick loves his poverty : 

The pelican her wilderness; 
And 'tis the Indian's pride to be 

Naked on frozen Caucasus : 
Contentment cannot smart, Stoicks we see 
Make torments easie to their apathy. 

These manacles upon my arm 
I. as my mistress' favours, wear ; 

And for to keep my ankles warm, 
I have .some iron sliacklcs there : 

These walls are but my garrison ; this cell, 

Which men call jail, doth prove my cit- 
adel. 

I'm in the cabinet lockt up. 
Like some high-prized margarite. 

Or, like the great mogul or pope. 

Am cloyster'd up from publick sight: 

Retiredne.ss is a piece of majesty. 

And thus, proud sultan, I'm as great aa 
thee. 

Here sin for want of food must starve, 
Where tempting objects are not seen ! 

And these strong walls do only serve 
To keep vice out, and keep me in : 

Malice of late's grown charitable, sure, 

I'm not committed, but am kept secure. 
16 



So he that struck at Jason's life, 

Thinking t' have made his purpose sure, 

By a malicious friendly knife 
Did only wound him to a cure: 

Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant 

Mischief, oft-times proves favour by th' 
event. 

When once my prince affliction hath. 
Prosperity doth treason seem ; 

And to make smooth so rough a path, 
I can learn jiatifence froin him : 

Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart, 

When kings want ease subjects must bear 
a part. 

What though I cannot see my king 
Neither in person nor in coin; 

Yet contemplation is a thing 
That renders what I have not, mine : 

My king I'rom me what adamant can part, 

AVhom I do wear engraven on my licart ! 

Have you not seen the nightingale, 
A prisoner like, coopt in a cage, 

How doth she chaunt her wonted tale, 
In that her narrow hermitage! 

Even then her charming melody doth 
prove, 

That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove. 

I am that bird, whom they combine 

Thus to deprive of liberty ; 
But though they do my corps confine. 

Yet maugrc hate, my soul is free ; 
And though immured, yet can I chirp, and 

sing 
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king. 

My soul is free, as ambient air, 

Although my baser part's immew'd. 

Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair 
T' accompany my solitude; 

Although rebellion do my body binde. 

My king alone can captivate my minde. 

Snt UotJKK L'ESTR.VNOK. 



Epitaph Extempore. 

Nobles and heralds, by your leave. 

Here lies what once was Matthew Prior, 

The son of Adam and of Eve ; 

Can Stuart or Nassau claim higher"? 

M.vTTiiiiw Trior. 



242 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPyEDIA OF POETRY. 



Prologue to Mr. Addison's 
Tragedy of "Cato." 

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, 
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart, 
To make mankind, in conscious virtue 

bold. 
Live o'er each scene, and be what they 

behold : 
For this the tragic Muse first trod the 

stage. 
Commanding tears to stream through every 

age; 
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept. 
And foes to virtue wonder'd how they 

wept. 
Our author shuns by vulgar springs to 

move 
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love ; 
In pitying love, we Init our weakness show, 
And wild ambition well deserves its woe. 
Here tears shall flow from a more gener- 

rous cause. 
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws: 
He bids your breasts with ancient ardor 

rise, 
And calls forth Roman drops from British 

eyes. 
Virtue confe.ss'd in human shape lie draws. 
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato 

was : 
No common object to your sight displaj-s, 
But what with pleasure Heaven itself sur- 
veys, 
A brave man struggling in the storms of 

fate. 
And greatly falling, with a falling state. 
While Cato gives his little senate laws, 
What bosom beats not in his country's 

cause ? 
Who sees him act, but envies every deed? 
Who hears him groan, and does not wish 

to bleed? 
Even when proud Csesar, 'midst triumphal 

cars, 
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of 

wars, 
Ignobly vain, and impotently great, 
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in 

state ; 
As her dead father's reverend image pass'd 
The pomp was darken'd, and the day 

o'ercast ; 



The triumph ceased, tears gush'd from 

every eye ; 
The world's great victor pass'd unheeded 

by; 
Her last good man dejected Rome adored, 
And honor'd Ccesar's less than Cato's 

sword. 
Britons, attend : be worth like this ap- 
proved. 
And show you have the virtue to be moved. 
With honest scorn the first famed Cato 

view'd 
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom 

she subdued ; 
Your scene precariously subsists too long 
On French translation, and Italian song. 
Dare to have sense yourselves ; assert the 

stage. 
Be justly warm'd with your own native 

rage : 
Such plays alone should win a British 

ear. 
As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear. 
Alexander Pope. 



To the Earl of Warwick on the 
Death of Mr. Addison. 

If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hatli 

stay'd, 
And left her debt to Addison unpaid, 
Blame not her silence, Warwick, but be- 
moan, 
And judge, oh judge my bosom by your 

own. 
What mourner ever felt poetic fires? 
Slow comes the verse that real woe 

inspires ; 
Grief unaffected suits but ill with art. 
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. 
Can I forget the dismal night that gave 
My soul's best part for ever to the grave? 
How silent did his old companions tread. 
By midnight lamps, the mansions of the 

dead, 
Through breathing statues, then unheeded 

things, 
Through rows of warriors, and through 

walks of kings ! 
What awe did the slow, solemn knell 

inspire ; 
The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



^3 



The duties by the lawn-robed prelate 

paid ; 
And tlu? last words, that dust to dust con- 

vey'd ? 
Wliile speechless o'er thy closing grave we 

bend, 
Accept these tears, thou dear, departed 

friend. 
Oh, gone for ever ! take this long adieu ; 
And sleep in peace, next thy loved Mon- 
tague. 
To strew fresh laurels let the task be 

mine, 
A frequent pilgrim, at thy sacred shrine; 
Mine with true sighs thy absence to be- 
moan 
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy 

stone. 
If e'er from me thy loved memorial part. 
May shame afflict this alienated heart ; 
Of thee forgetful, if I form a song, 
My lyre be broken, and untuned my 

tongue ; 
My grief be doubled from thy image free. 
And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee. 
Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, 
Sad luxury ! to vulgar minds unknown ; 
Along the walls where speaking marbles 

show 
What worthies form the hallow'd mould 

below ; 
Proud names, who once the reins of empire 

held ; 
In arms who triumph'd, or in arts excell'd; 
Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of 

blood ; 
Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom 

stood ; 
Just men, by whom imjiartial laws were 

given ; 
And saints who taught, and led, the way 

to heaven ; 
Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty 

re,st, 
Since their foundation, came a nobler 

guest ; 
Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss con- 

vey'd 
A fairer spirit or more welcome .shade. 

In what new region to the just assign'd. 
What new employments please th' un- 
bodied mind ? 



Awingfed Virtue, through th' ethereal sky, 

From world to world unwearied does he 
fly? 

Or curious trace the long. Laborious maze 

Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering 
angels gaze ? 

Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell 

How Michael battled, and the dragon fell; 

Or, mix'd with milder chcrul)im, to glow 

In hymns of love, not ill essay'd below? 

Or dost thou warn poor mortals left be- 
hind ?— 

A task well suited to thy gentle mind. 

Oh ! if sometimes thy spotless form de- 
scend ; 

To me, thy aid, thou guardian genius, 
lend! 

When rage misguides me, or when fear 
alarms, 

When pain distresses, or when pleasure 
charms. 

In silent whisperings purer thouglits im- 
part. 

And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart ; 

Lead through the paths thy virtue trod 
before. 

Till bliss shall join, nor deatli ran part us 
more. 
That awful form, which, so the heavens 
decree, 

Must still be loved and still deplored by me, 

In nightly visions seldom fails to rise. 

Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes. 

If business calls, or crowded courts invite, 

Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike 
my sight ; 

If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, 

I meet his soul which breathes in Cato 
there ; 

If pensive to the rural shades I mve. 

His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove ; 

'Twas there of just and good he reason'd 
strong, 

Clear'd some great truth, or raised some 
serious song. 

There i>atient show'd us the wise course to 
steer, 

A candid censor, and a friend severe ; 

There taught us how to live; and (oh too 
high 

The price for knowledge!) taught us liow 
to die. 



244 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



Thou Hill, whose brow the antique struc- 
tures grace, 

Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble 
race. 

Why, once so loved, whene'er thy bower 
appears, 

O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden 
tears ! 

How sweet were once thy prospects fresh 
and fair. 

Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air! 

How sweet the glooms beneath thy agfed 
trees, 

Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening 
breeze ! 

His image thy forsaken bowers restore; 

Thy walks and airy prospects charm no 
more ; 

No more the summer in thy glooms allay'd, 

Thy evening breezes, and thy noonday 
shade. 

From other hills, however Fortune frown'd, 

Some refuge in the JIuse's art I found ; 

Reluctant now I touch the trembling string. 

Bereft of him, who taught me how to sing ; 

And these sad accents, murmur'd o'er his 
urn. 

Betray that absence they attempt to 
mourn. 

Oh! must I then (now fresh my bosom 
bleeds. 

And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds) 

The verse, begun to one lost friend, pro- 
long. 

And weep a second in th' unfinish'd song ! 
These works divine, which, on his death- 
bed laid 

To thee, Craggs, th' expiring sage cou- 
vey'd. 

Great, but ill-omen'd, monument of fame. 

Nor he survived to give, nor thou to 
claim. 

Swift after him thy social .spirit flies, 

And close to his, how soon ! thy coffin lies. 

Blest pair ! whose union future bards shall 
tell 

In future tongues ; each other's boast ! 
farewell. 

Farewell ! whom join'd in fame, in friend- 
ship tried. 

No chance could sever, nor the grave 

divide. 

Thomas Tickell. 



Ode on the Death of Mr. 
Thomson. 

In' yonder grave a Druid lies 

Where slowly winds the stealing wave ! 
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise, 

To deck its poet's sylvan grave ! 

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds 
His airy harp shall now be laid. 

That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds. 
May love through life the soothing 
shade. 

Then maids and youths shall linger here, 
And, while its sounds at distance swell, 

Shall sadly seem in pity's ear 

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. 

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore 
When Thames in summer wreaths is 
drest, 

And oft suspend the dashing oar 
To bid his gentle spirit rest I 

And oft as ease and health retire 
To breezy lawn or forest deep. 

The friend shall view yon whitening spire, 
And 'mid the varied landscape weep. 

But thou, who own'st that earthly bed. 
Ah ! what will every dirge avail ? 

Or tears which love and pity shed. 
That mourn beneath the gliding sail? 

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye 
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering 
near ? 

With him, sweet bard, may fancy die, 
And joy desert the blooming year. 

But thou, lorn stream, whose .sullen tide 
No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend. 

Now waft me from the green hill's side 
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend ! 

And see, the fairy valleys fade. 

Dun night has veil'd the solemn view ! 

Yet once again, dear parted shade, 
Jleek Nature's child, again adieu ! 

The genial meads assign'd to bless 

Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom ; 

Their hinds and shepherd girls shall dre.ss 
With simple hands thy rural tomb. 



PERSO^'AL POEMS. 



245 



Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay 
Sliall melt the musing Briton's eyes, 

O vales and wild wood-;, sludl he say. 
In yonder grave your Druid lies) 

William Collins. 



0-V THE DEATH OF DR. LEVETT. 

Condemx'd to hope's delusive mine, 
As on we toil from day to day, 

By sudden blasts, or slow decline, 
Our social comforts drop away. 

Well tried through many a varying year, 
See Levett to the grave descend, 

Officious, innocent, sincere, 
Of every friendless name the friend. 

Yet still he fills affection's eye, 
Obscurely wise and coarsely kind ; 

Nor, lettcr'd arrogance, deny 
Thy praise to merit unrefined. 

When fainting Nature call'd for aid. 
And hovering Death prepared the blow. 

His vigorous remedy display'd 
The power of art without the show. 

In misery's darkest cavern known, 
His useful care was ever nigh. 

Where hopeless anguish ])our'd his groan. 
And lonely want retired to die. 

No summons mock'd by chill delay. 
No petty gain disdain'd by j)ride ; 

The modest wants of every day 
The toil of every day supplied. 

His virtues walk'd their narrow round. 
Nor made a pause, nor left a void ; 

And sure the Eternal Miister found 
The single talent well employ'd. 

The busy day, the peaceful night, 
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by ; 

His frame was firm, liis powers were bright. 
Though now nis eightieth year was 
nigh. 

Then with no fiery throbbing pain. 

No eiild gradations of decay. 
Death broke at once the vital chain. 

And freed his soul the nearest way. 

S.isn'KL Johnson. 



To MRS. VNWiy. 

Mary ! I want a lyre with other strings, 
Such aid from heaven as some have 

feign'd they drew, 
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, 
new 
And undebased by praise of meaner things. 

That ere through age or woe I shed my 
wings 
I may record thy worth with honor due. 
In verse as musical as thou art true. 

And that immortalizes whom it sings. 

But thou hast little need. There is a Book 
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly 

light, 
On which the eyes of God not rarely look, 

A chronicle of actions just and bright — 

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, 

shine: 

And since thou own'st that praise, I spare 

thee mine. 

William Cowper. 

To Mary. 

The twentieth year is well-nigh past 
yincc first our sky was overcast ; 
Ah, would that this might be the last ! 
My Mary I 

Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
I see thee daily weaker grow — 
'Twas my distress that brought thee low. 
My Mary ! 

Thy needles, once a shining store, 
For my sake restless heretofore, 
Now rust disused, and shine no more ; 
My Mary ! 

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
The same kind office for me still. 
Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 
My Mary ! 

But well thou play'dst the housewife's 

part. 
And all thy threads with magic art 
Have wound themselves about this heart, 
My Mary! 



246 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. 



Thy indistinct expressions seem 
Lilve language utter'd in a dream ; 
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, 
ily JIary ! 

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
Are still more lovely in my sight 
Than golden beams of Orient light, 
My Mary ! * 

For could I view nor them nor thee. 
What sight worth seeing could I see? 
The sun would rise in vain for me, 
My Mary ! 

Partakers of thy sad decline, 
Thy hands their little force resign ; 
Yet gently press'd, press gently mine, 
My Mary ! 

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st 
That now at every step thou mov'st 
Upheld by two ; yet still thou lov'st, 
My Mary ! 

And still to love, though press'd with ill. 
In wintry age to feel no chill, 
With me is to be lovely still. 
My Mary ! 

But ah ! by constant heed I know 
How oft the sadness that I show 
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe. 
My Jlary ! 

And shoidd my future lot be cast 

With much resendjlance of the past. 

Thy worn-out heart will break at last — 

My Mary ! 

William Cowpek. 



Co WPEE'S GRA VE. 

It is a place where poets crown'd may feel 

the heart's decaying ; 
It is a place where happy saints may weep 

amid their praying. 
Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as 

silence languish : 
Earth surely now may give her calm to 

whom she gave her anguish. 

O poets, from a maniac's tongue was pour'd 
the deathless singing ! 

O Christians, at your cross of hope a hope- 
less hand was clinging ! 



O men, this man in brotherhood your 

weary paths beguiling, 
Groan'd inly while he taught you peace, 

and died while ye were smiling! 

And now, what time ye all may read 
through dimming tears his story, 

How discord on the music fell and dark- 
ness on the glory. 

And how when, one by one, sweet sounds 
and wandering lights departed, 

He wore no less a loving face because so 
broken-hearted,— 

He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's 

high vocation, 
And bow the meekest Christian down in 

meeker adoration ; 
Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or 

good forsaken, 
Named softly as the household name of 

one whom God hath taken. 

With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn 

to think upon him. 
With meekness that is gratefulness to God 

whose heaven hath won him. 
Who suffer'd once the madness-cloud to 

His own love to blind him. 
But gently led the blind along where 

breath and bird could find him ; 

And wrought within his shatter'd brain 
such quick poetic senses 

As hills have language for, and stars, har- 
monious influences : 

The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his 
within its number. 

And silent shadows from the trees refresh'd 
him like a slumber. 

Wild timid hares were drawn from woods 

to share his home-caresses, 
Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan 

tendernesses : 
The very world, by God'i constraint, from 

falsehood's ways removing, 
Its women and its men became, beside him, 

true and loving. 

And though, in blindness, he remain'd un- 
conscious of that guiding, 

And things provided came without the 
sweet sense of jji-oviding, 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



247 



He testified this solemn truth, while frenzy 

desolated, 
— Xor man nor nature satisties whom only 

God created. 

Like a sick child that knowcth not his 
mother while she blesses, 

And drops upon his burning brow the cool- 
ness of her kisses, — 

That turns his fever'd eyes around — " My 
mother I where's my mother?" — 

As if such tender words and deeds could 
come from any other ! — 

The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees 

her bending o'er him, 
Her face all pale from watchful lo^e, the 

unweary love she bore him I — 
Thus woke the poet from the dream his 

life's long fever gave him, 
Beneath those deep pathetic eyes which 

closed in death to save him. 

Thus? oh, not thm.' no type of earth can 

image that awaking, 
Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of 

seraphs, round him breaking. 
Or felt the new immortal throb of soul 

from body parted. 
But felt those eyes alone, and knew, — "My 

Saviour ! not deserted !" 

Deserted! Who hath dreamt that when 

the cro.ss in darkness rested. 
Upon the Victim's hidden face no love wa.s 

manifested? 
What frantic hands outstretch'd have e'er 

th' atoning drojis averted? 
What tears have wash'd them from the 

soul, that one should be deserted? 

Deserted ! God could separate from His 

own essence rather; 
And Adam's sins have swept between the 

righteous Son and Father : 
Yea, once, Immanucl's orplian'd cry His 

universe hath shaken — 
It went up single, echoless, "My God, I am 

forsaken !" 

It went up from the Holy's lips amid Ilis 

lost creation, 
That, of the lo.st, no son should use those 

words of desolation I 



That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, 
should mar not hope's fruition. 

And I, on Cowi)cr's grave, should see his 
rapture in a vision. 

ELIZ^tBETU B.MtRinT BROW.NI.NO. 



Elegy ox Captain Matthew 
Henderson, 

A Gentleman who held the Patent for 
HIS Honors immediately fro.m Al- 
mioiity God. 
"Should the poor be flattered ?" — .Shakespeare. 

O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 

The meikle devil wi' a woodie 

Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, 
O'er hurcheon hides, 

And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 
Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn, 

The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 

Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where, haply. Pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exiled. 

Ye hills, near noibors o' the starns. 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye clifis, the haunts of sailing earns, 

AVhere echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers! 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! 

Ye haz'ly shaws and briery dens ! 

Ye buruies, wim])lin' down your glens, 

Wi' toddlin' din. 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae lin to lin ! 

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; 
Ye statefy foxgloves, fair to see ; 
Y'^e woodbines, hanging bonnilie, 

III scented bow'rs ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree. 

The first o' How'rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry gra.ssy blade 

I)rii()i)s with a diamond at its head. 

At ev'ii, when beans their fragrance shed 

I' th' rustling gale. 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, 

Come join my wail. 



248 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
An' mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood !- 

He's gane for ever ! 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals ; 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels : 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Kair for his sake. 

Mourn, clam'ring craiks, at close o' day, 
'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld sbore. 
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay. 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye houle"ts, frae your ivy bow'r, 
In some auld tree or eldritch tow'r. 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r. 

Sets up her horn, 
AVail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn ! 

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my cantie strains : 
But now what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ? 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year ! 
Ilk cowslij) cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou Simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head. 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear 

For him that's dead. 

Thou Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair. 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, Winter, hurling thro' the air 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 



light ! 
Mourn, Empress of the silent night ! 



And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, 
My Matthew mourn ! 

For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight. 
Ne'er to return. 

Henderson ! the man — the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ? 
And hast thou crost that unknown river, 

Life's dreary bound ? 
Like thee, where shall I find another, 
The world around ? 

Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by thy honest turf I'll wait. 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 

The Epitaph. 
Stop, passenger ! — my story's brief, 
And truth I shall relate, man ; 

1 tell nae common tale o' grief — 
For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 
Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man, 

A look of pity hither cast — • 
For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art, 
That passest by this grave, man. 

There moulders here a gallant heart — 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man, 

Here lies wha weel had won thy praise — 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at Friendship's sacred ca' 

Wad life itself resign, man. 
Thy symjiathetic tear maun fa' — 

For Matthew was a kind man. 

If thou art staunch without a stain. 
Like the unchanging blue, man. 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain — • 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire. 
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man, 

This was thy billie, dam, and sire — 
For Matthew was a queer man. 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



249 



If ony whiggish whingin sot, 
To blame poor Matthew dare, man, 

May dool and sorrow be his lot ! 
For Matthew was a rare man. 

liut now his radiant course is run, 
For Matthew's was a bright one ! 

Ilis soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless, heav'nly light, man. 

KOBEBT BUBKS. 



BURX^S. 

To A Rose BRofonT fkom near Allo- 
WAY Kirk, in Avrsiiike, in the Au- 
tumn OF 1822. 

Wild rose of Alloway ! my thanks : 
Thou 'mind'st me of that autumn noon 

When first wc met upon " the banks 
And braes o' bonny Doon." 

Like thine, beneath the thorn tree's bough. 
My sunny hour was glad and brief; 

We've cross'd the winter sea, and thou 
Art wither'd — flower and leaf. 

And will not thy death-doom be mine — 
The doom of all things wrought of 
clay? 

And wither'd my life's leaf like thine, 
Wild rose of Alloway? 

Not so his memory for whose sake 
My bosom bore thee far and long — 

His, who a humbler flower could make 
Immortal as his song, 

The memory of Burns — a name 

That calls, when brimm'd her festal 
cup, 
A nation's glory and her shame, 

In silent sadness up. 

A nation's glor>- — be the rest 

Forgot — she's canonized his mind, 

And it is joy to speak the best 
We may of humankind. 

I've stood beside the cottage-bed 
Where the bard -peasant first drew 
breath ; 

A straw-thatcli'd roof above his head, 
A straw-wrought couch beneath. 



And I have stood beside the pile. 

His monument — that tells to Heaven 

The homage of earth's proudest isle 
To that bard-peasant given. 

Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot. 
Boy-minstrel, in thy dreaming hour; 

And know, however low his lot, 
A poet's pride and power ; 

The pride that lifted Burns from earth, 
The power that gave a child of song 

Ascendency o'er rank and birth, 
The rich, the brave, the strong; 

And if despondency weigh down 
Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then, 

Despair — thy name is written on 
The roll of common men. 

There have been loftier themes than his, 
And longer scrolls, and louder lyres. 

And lays lit up with Poesy's 
Purer and holier fires ; 

Yet read the names that know not death ; 

Few nobler ones than Burns are there ; 
And few have won a greener wreath 

Than that which binds his hair. 

His is that language of the heart 

In which the answering heart would 
speak. 
Thought, word, that bids the warm tear 
start. 
Or tile smile light the cheek ; 

And his that music to whose tone 
The common i>ulse of man keeps time, 

In cot or castle's mirth or moan, 
In cold or sunny clime. 

And who hath heard his song, nor knelt 
Before its s])ell with willing knee. 

And listen'd and believed, and felt 
The poet's mastery 

O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm. 
O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers. 

O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm. 
O'er Reason's dark, cold hours ; 

On fields where brave men "die or do," 
In halls where rings the banijuet's mirth, 

Where mourners weep, where lovers woo, 
From throne to cottage hearth? 



250 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



What sweet tears dim the eye unshed, 
What wild vows falter on the tongue, 

When " Scots wlia hae wi' Wallace bled," 
Or " Auld Lang Syne," is sung! 

Pure hopes, that lift the soul above. 
Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise. 

And dreams of youth, and truth, and love 
With " Logan's " banks and braes. 

And when he breathes his master-lay 
Of AUoway's witch-haunted wall. 

All passions in our frames of clay 
Come thronging at his call. 

Imagination's world of air, 

And our own world, its gloom and glee, 
Wit, pathos, poetry, are there, 

And death's sublimity. 

And Burns — though brief the race he ran. 
Though rough and dark the path he 
trod — 

Lived, died, in form and soul a man. 
The image of his God. 

Through care, and pain, and want, and 
woe. 

With wounds that only death could heal. 
Tortures the poor alone can know. 

The proud alone can feel ; 

He kept his honesty and truth. 
His independent tongue and pen. 

And moved, in manhood as in youth. 
Pride of his fellow-men. 

Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, 
A hate of tyrant and of knave, 

A love of right, a scorn of wrong, 
Of coward and of slave ; 

A kind, true heart, a spirit high. 
That could not fear, and would not bow, 

Were written in his manly eye 
And on his manly brow. 

Praise to the bard ! his words are driven. 
Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown, 

Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven, 
The birds of fame have flown. 

Praise to the man ! a nation stood 
Beside his cofBn with wet eyes, 

Her brave, her beautiful, her good, 
As when a loved one dies. 



And still, as on his funeral-day. 

Men stand his cold earth-couch around, 
With the mute homage that we pay 

To consecrated ground. 

And consecrated ground it is, 

The last, the hallow'd home of one 

Who lives upon all memories. 
Though with the buried gone. 

Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines. 
Shrines to no code or creed confined — 

The Delphian vales, the Palestines, 
The Meccas, of the mind. 

Sages, with Wisdom's garland wreath'd, 
Crown'd kings, and mitred priests of 
power. 
And warriors with their bright swords 
sheath'd, 
The mightiest of the hour ; 

And lowlier names, whose humble home 
Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star. 

Are there — o'er wave and mountain come. 
From countries near and far ; 

Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have 
press'd 

The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand, 
Or trod the piled leaves of the West, 

My own green forest-land. 

All ask the cottage of his birth. 
Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung. 

And gather feelings not of earth 
His fields and streams among. 

They linger by the Boon's low trees, 
And pastoral Nith, and wooded Ayr, 

And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries ! 
The Poet's tomb is there. 

But wh.at to them the sculptor's art. 
His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns'? 

Wear they not graven on the heart 
The name of Robert Burns '? 

Fitz-Greene Halleck. 



Ode ojsr the Centenary of 

BUHNS. 

We hail this morn 
A century's noblest birth ; 

A Poet peasant-born. 
Who more of Fame's immortal dower 



PERSOyAL POEMS. 2.51 


Unto his country brings 


Down to the slenderest note 


Than all her kings ! 


Of a love-warble from the linnet's throat. 


As lamps high set 


But when begins 


Ujion some cartlily eniinenco — 


The array for battle, and the trumpet 


And to the gazer brighter thence 


blows, 


Than the si)here-lights they flout — 


A king must leave the feast and lead the 


Dwindle in distance and die out, 


tiirlit ; 


While no star waneth yet ; 


And with its mortal foes. 


So through the past's far-reaching night 


Grim gathering hosts of sorrows and of 


Only the star-souls keep their light. 


sins. 




Each human soul must close ; 


A gentle boy, 


And Fame her trumpet blew 


AVith moods of sadness and of mirth, 


Before him, wrapp'd him in her purple 


Quick tears and sudden joy, 


state. 


Grew up beside the peasant's hearth. 


And made him mark for all the shafts of 


His father's toil he shares ; 


Fate 


But half his mother's cares 


That henceforth round him flew. 


From his dark, searching eyes, 




Too swift to sympathize. 


Though he may yield, 


Hid in her heart she bears. 


Hard-press'd, and w^ounded fall 




Forsaken on the field ; 


At early morn 


His regal vestments soil'd ; 
His crown of half its jewels spoil'd ; 
He is a king for all. 


His father calls him to the field ; 


Through the stiff soil that clogs his feet. 


Chill rain, and harvest heat. 


He plods .all day ; returns at eve outworn. 


Had he but stood aloof! 


To the rude fare a peasant's lot doth 


Had he array'd himself in armor proof 


yield — 


Against temptation's darts ! 


To what else was he born ? 


So yearn the good — so those the world calls 




wise, 


The God-made king 


With vain, presumptuous hearts, 


Of every living thing 


Triumphant moralize. 


(For his great heart in love could hold 




them all) ; 


Of martyr-woe 


The dumb eyes meeting his by hearth and 


A sacred shadow on his memory rests — 


stall- 


Tears have not ceased to flow — 


Gifted to understand ! — 


Indignant grief yet stirs imi)etuous breasts. 


Knew it and sought his hand ; 


To think — above that noble soul brought 


And the most timorous creature had not fled 


low. 


Could she his heart have read. 


That wise and soaring spirit fool'd, en- 


Which fain all feeble things had bless'd 


slaved — ' 


and sheltered. 


Thus, thus he had been saved ! 


To Nature's feast, 


It might not be ! 


Who knew her noblest guest 


That heart of harmony 


And entertain'd him best, 


Had been too rudely rent ; 


Kingly he came. Her chambers of the e.ast 


Its silver chords, which any hand could 


8he draped with crimson and with gold, 


- wound. 


And jiour'd her pure joy-wines 


By no hand could be tuned, 


For him. the jioet-soul'd ; 


Save by the Maker of the instrument. 


For liini her anthem roll'd 


Its every string who knew, 


From the storm-wind among the winter 


And from profaning touch his heavenly 


pines, 


gift withdrew. 



252 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Regretful love 
His country lain would prove, 
By grateful honors lavisli'd on hiis grave ; 

Would fain redeem her blame 
That he so little at her hands can claim, 

Who unrewarded gave 
To her his life-bought gift of song and 
fame. 

The land he trod 
Hath now become a place of pilgrimage ; 

Where dearer are the daisies of the sod 

That could his song engage. 

The hoary hawthorn, wreath'd 
Above the bank on which his limbs he 
flung 

While some sweet plaint he breath'd ; 

The streams he wander'd near ; 
The maidens whom he loved ; the songs he 
sung— 

All, all are dear ! 

The arch blue eyes — 
Arch but for love's disguise — 
Of Scotland's daughters, soften at his 

strain ; 
Her hardy sons, sent forth across the main 
To drive the ploughshare through earth's 

virgin soils, 
Lighten with it their toils : 
And sister-lands have learn'd to love the 

tongue 
In which such songs are sung. 

For doth not song 

To the whole world belong ? 

Is it not given wherever tears can fall. 

Wherever hearts can melt, or blushes glow. 

Or mirth and sadness mingle as they flow, 

A heritage to all ? 

Isi Craig Knox. 



Burial of Sir John Moore. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we 
buried. 

We buried him darkly, at dead of night. 
The sods with our bayonets turning; 

By the struggling moonbeams' misty light. 
And the lantern diudy burning. 



No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound 
him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest. 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the 
dead, 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought as we hollow'd his narrow 
bed, 
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread 
o'er his head. 
And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's 
gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid 
him. 

But half of our heavy task was done 
When the clock struck the hour for 
retiring ; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
From the field of his fame fresh and 

gory ; 
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone. 
But we left him aloue in his glory. 

Chaklks Wulfe. 

On, Breathe not his Name. 

Robert Em.mett. 
Oh, breathe not his name ! let it sleep in 

the shade. 
Where cold and unhonor'd his relics are 

laid : 
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we 

shed. 
As the night-dew that falls on the grave 

o'er his head. 

But the night-dew that falls, though in 

silence it weeps. 
Shall brighten with verdure the grave 

where he sleeps; 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



253 



And the tear that we shed, though in 

secret it rolls, 

f^luiU long keep his memory green in our 

souls. 

Thomas Moork. 

Ox THE Death of Joseph Rod- 
mas Drake. 

Green be the turf above thee, 

Friend of my better days ! 
None knew thee but to love thee, 

Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell, when thou wert dying, 

From eyes unused to weep, 
And long, where thou art lying, 

AVill tears the cold turf steep. 

When hearts, whose truth was proven. 
Like thine, are laid in earth. 

There should a wreath be woven 
To tell the world their worth ; 

And I, who woke each morrow 

To clasp thy hand in mine. 
Who shared thy joy and sorrow. 

Whose weal and woe were thine, — 

It should be mine to braid it 

Around thy faded brow, 
But I've in vain cssay'd it. 

And feel I cannot now. 

While memory bids me weep thee, 
Nor thoughts nor words are free, 

The grief is fi.x'd too deeply 
That mourns a man like thee. 

I'lTZ-dKEE.SE IIaLLE<-K. 



Adoxais. 

Ajj Elegy on the Death of .Toiin 
Keats. 
I WKV.v for Adonaia — he is dead I 

Oh, weep for Adonais! though our tears 
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a 
head ! 
.\nd thou, sad Hour, selected from all 

years 
To mourn our los.s, rouse thy obscure 
compeers, 
.Vnd teach thcni thine own sorrow: say, 
"With me 
Died Adonais; till the Future dares 



Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall 

be 
An echo and a light unto eternity!" 

Where wert thou, mighty mother, when he 
lay, 
When thy son lay, pierced by the shaft 
which tlii's 
In darkness? where was lorn Urania 
When Adonais died? With veiled eyes, 
'Mid listening echoes, in her paradise 
She sate, while one, with soft enamor'd 

breath, 
• Rekindled all the fading melodies. 
With which, like flowers that mock the 

corse beneath. 
He had adorn'd and hid the coming bulk 
of death. 

Oh, weep for Adonais — he is dead ! 

Wake, melancholy mother, wake and 
weep ! 
Yet wherefore? Quench within their 
burning bed 
Thy fiery tears, and let thy linnl heart 

keep. 
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining 
sleep; 
For he is gone, where all things wise and 
fair 
Descend : — oh, dream not that the amor- 
ous Deep 
Will yet restore him to the vital air ; 
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs 
at our despair. 

Jlost musical of mourners, weep again! 

Lament anew, Urania ! — He died, 
Who was the sire of an immortal strain. 
Blind, old, and lonely, when his coun- 
try's pride 
The priest, the .slave, and the libertieide, 
Trampled and mock'd with many a loathed 
rite 
Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified. 
Into the gulf of death; but his clear 

sprite 
Yet reigns o'er earth ; the third among the 
sons of light. 

Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 
Not all to that bright station dared to 
climb; 



254 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



And happier Ihey their happiness who The shadow of white Death, and at the 



knew, 



door 



Whose tapers yet hurn through that Invisible Corruption waits to trace 



night of time 
In which suns perish'd; others more 

sublime, 
Struck by the envious wratli of man or 

God, 
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent 

prime; 



His extreme way to her dim dwelling- 
place ; 
The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and 
awe 
Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to 
deface 
So ftiir a prey, till darkness and the law 



And some yet live, treading the thorny Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal 



road. 

Which leads, through toil and hate, to 
Fame's serene abode. 



perish'd, 
The nursling of thy widowhood, who 
grew 
Like a pale flower by some sad maiden 
cherish'd, 
And fed with true love tears instead of 

dew ; 
Most musical of mourners, weep anew I 
Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the 
last. 
The l)loom, whose petals nipt before they 
blew 
Died on the promise of the fruit, is 

waste ; 
The broken lily lies — the storm is over- 
past. 

To that high capital, where kingly Death 
Keeps his pale court in beauty and 
decay. 
He came; and bought, with price of 
purest breath, 
A grave among the eternal. — Come 

away ! 
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian 
day 
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof ! while 
still 
He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay ; 
Awake him not ! surely he takes his fill 
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all 
ill. 

He will awake no more, oh, never more ! 
Within the twilight chamber spreads 
apace 



curtain draw. 

Oh, weep for Adonais ! — the quick Dreams, 

The passion-wingfed ministers of Thought, 

Who were his flocks, whom near the living 

streams 

Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he 

taught 
The love which was its music, wander 
not — 
Wander no more, from kindling brain 
to brain. 
But droop there, whence they sprung; 
and mourn their lot 
Round the cold heart, where, after their 

sweet pain, 
They ne'er will gather strength, nor find 
a home again. 

And one with trembling hand clasps his 
cold head. 
And fans him with her moonlight wings, 
and cries, 
" Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not 
dead ; 
See, on the silken fringe of his faint 

eyes. 
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there 
lies 
A tear some Dream has loosen'd from his 
brain." 
Lost angel of a ruin'd paradise ! 
She knew not 'twas her own ; as with no 

stain 
She faded, like a cloud which had outwept 
its rain. 

One from a lucid urn of starry dew 

Wash'd his light limbs, as if embalm- 
ing them ; 

Another dipt her profuse locks, and threw 
The wreath upon him, like an anadem. 



PEIiSOXAL POEMS. 



Which frozen tears instead of pearls Dimm'd the aerial eyes that kindle day; 



becreni ; 



Alar the niehuu'holy Thunder inoan'd, 



Another in her will'ul grief would break Pale Ocean in untiuiet slumber lay, 

Her bow and wingt?d reeds, as if to And the wild Winds flew arou)Kl, sobbing 



stem 
A greater loss with one which was more 

weak ; 
And dull the barbfed fire against his frozen 

cheek. 

Another Splendor on his mouth alit. 
That mouth whence it was wont to draw 
the breath 
Which gave it strength to pierce tiie 
guarded wit, 
And pass into the panting heart be- 
neath 
With lightning and with music : the 
damp death 
Quench'd its caress upon its icy lips ; 

And as a dying meteor stains a wreath 
Of moonlight vapor, which the cold night 

clips, 
It flush'd through his pale limbs, and 
pass'd to its eclipse. 

And others came, — Desires and Adora- 
tions, 
Winged Persuasions, and veil'd Desti- 
nies, 
Splendors, and Glooms, and glimmering 
Incarnations 
Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phan- 
tasies ; 
And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs. 
And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the 
gleam 
Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, 
Came in slow pomp ; — the moving pomp 

might seem 
Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal 
stream. 

-Vll he had loved, and moulded into 
thought 
From shape, and hue, and odor, and 
sweet sound. 
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 
Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair 
unbound. 



in their dismay. 

Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, 
And feeds her grief with his remember'd 
lay, 
And will no more reply to winds or foun- 
tains. 
Or amorous birds perch'd on the young 

green spray, 
Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closi ng day, 
Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear 
Than those for whose disdain they ])ined 
away 
Into a shadow of all sounds : — a drear 
Murmur, between their songs, is all the 
woodmen hear. 

Grief made the young Spring wild, and she 
threw down 
Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn 
were. 
Or they dead leaves; since her delight is 
flown, 
For whom should she have waked the 

sullen year ? 
To PlKebus was not Hyacinth so dear. 
Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both 

Thou, Adonais : wan they stand and sere 
Amid the faint companions of their 

youth. 
With dew all turn'd to tears ; odor, to 
sighing ruth. 

Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale. 
Mourns not her mate with such melo- 
dious i)ain ; 
Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale 
Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's 

domain 
Her mighty youth with morning, doth 
com]ilaiii. 
Soaring and screaming round her empty 
nest, 
As Albion wails for thee : the curse of 
Cain 
Light on his head who pierced thy inno- 
cent brea.Ht, 



Wet with the tears which should adorn I And scared the angel soul that was its 



the ground, 



earthly guest! 



256 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



All, woe is me ! Winter is come and gone, I And grief itself be mortal ! Woe is me ! 



But grief returns with the revolving 
year; 
The airs and streams renew their joyous 
tone ; 
The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear ; 
Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead 
Seasons' bier ; 
The amorous birds now pair in every brake. 
And build their mossy homes in field 
and brere : 
And the green lizard, and the golden snake. 
Like unimprison'd flames, out of their 
trance awake. 

Through wood, and stream, and field, and 
hill and ocean, 
A quickening life from the Earth's heart 
has burst. 
As it has ever done, with change and 
motion, 
From the great morning of the world 

when first 
God dawn'd on Chaos ; in its stream 
immersed. 
The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer 
light ; 
All baser things pant with life's sacred 
thirst; 
Diffuse themselves ; and spend in love's 

delight. 
The beauty and the joy of their renewed 
might. 

The leprous corpse, touch'd by this spirit 
tender, 
E.xhales itself in flowers of gentle breath ; 
Like incarnations of the stars, when splen- 
dor 
Is changed to fragrance, they illumine 

death. 
And mock the merry worm that wakes 
beneath ; 
Naught we know dies. Shall that alone 
which knows 
Be as a sword consiuned before the sheath 
By sightless lightning? th' intense atom 

glows 
A moment, then is quench'd in a most 
cold repose. 

Alas ! that all we loved of him should be, 
But for our grief, as if it had not been, 



Whence are we, and why are we? of 

what scene 
The actors or spectators? Great and 
mean 
Meet mass'd in death, who lends what life 
must borrow. 
As long as skies are blue, and fields are 
green. 
Evening must usher night, night urge the 

morrow. 
Month follow month with woe, and year 
wake year to sorrow. 

He will awake no more, oh, never more ! 
" Wake thou !" cried Misery, " childless 
mother, rise 
Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's 
core, 
A wound more fierce than his tears and 

sighs." 
And all the Dreams that watch'd Ura- 
nia's eyes, 
And all the Echoes whom their sister's 
song 
Had held in holy silence, cried "Arise!" 
Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory 

stung, 
From her ambrosial res^t the fading Splen- 
dor sprung. 

She rose like an autumnal Night, that 
springs 
Out of the East, and follows wild and 
drear 
The golden Day, which, on eternal wings, 
Even as a ghost abandoning a bier. 
Has left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow 
and fear 
So struck, so roused, so rapt, Urania, 
So .sadden'd round her like an atmo- 
sphere 
Of stormy mist; so swept her on her 

way. 
Even to the mournful place where Ado- 
nais lay. 

Out of her secret paradise she sped. 
Through camps and cities rough with 
stone, and steel. 
And human hearts, which to her aery 
tread 
Yielding not, wounded the invisible 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



257 



Palms of her tender feet where'er they 

fell : 

And barbed tongues, and thoughts more 

sharp than they, 

Rent the soft Form they never could repel, 

Whose sacred blood, like the young tears 

of May, 
Paved with eternal flowers that unde- 
serving way. 

In the death-chamber for a moment Death, 
Shamed by the presence of that living 
Might, 
Blush'd to annihilation, and the breath 
Revisited those lips, and life's pale light 
Flash'd through those limbs, so late her 
dear delight. 
" Leave me not wild and drear and com- 
fortless, 
As silent lightning leaves the starless 
night ! 
Leave me not !" cried Urania : her distress 
Roused Death : Death rose and smiled, 
and met her vain care.ss. 

" Stay yet a while ! speak to me once again ; 

Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live ; 

And in my heartless breiust and burning 

brain 

That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts 

else survive, 
With food of saddest niemon,- kept alive, 
Now thou art dead, as if it were a i)art 
Of thee, my Adonais ! I would give 
All that I am to be as thou now art ! 
But I am chain'd to Time, and cannot 
thence depart ! 

"0 gentle child, beautiful as thou wert. 
Why didst thou leave the trodden paths 
of men 
Too soon, and with weak hands though 
mighty heart 
Dare the unpasturcd dragon in his den ? 
Defenceless as thou wert, oh I where was 
then 
Wisdom the mirror'd shield, or scorn the 
spear '? 
Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when 
Thy spirit should have fiU'd its crescent 

sphere. 
The monsters of life's waste had fled from 
thee like deer. 
17 



"The herded wolves, bold only to [)ur- 
sue; 
The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the 
dead ; 
The vultures, to the conqueror's banner 
true. 
Who feed where Desolation first has 

fed. 
And whose wings rain contagion ; — how 
they fled. 
When, like Apollo, from his golden bow. 
The Pythian of the age one arrow sped 
And smiled ! — The spoilers tempt no sec- 
ond blow. 
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn 
them lying low. 

" The sun comes forth, and many reptiles 
spawn ; 
He sets, and each ephemeral insect then 
Is gather'd into death without a dawn. 
And the immortal stars awake again ; 
So it is in the world of living men : 
A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight 
Making eartli bare and veiling heaven, 
and wlien 
It sinks, the swarms that dimm'd or shared 

its light 
Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's aw- 
ful night." 

Thus ceased she : and the mountain-shep- 
herds came. 
Their garlands sere, their magic mantles 
rent ; 
The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame 
Over his living head like Heaven is 

bent. 
An early but enduring monument. 
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his 
song 
In sorrow ; from her wilds lorue sent 
The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, 
And love taught grief to fall like music 
from his tongue. 

'Midst others of less note came one frail 
Form, 
A ]>hantom among men ; companionless 
As the last cloud of an expiring storm, 
Whose thunder is its knell: he as I 

guess, 
Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, 



258 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray 

With feeble steps o'er the world's wil- 
derness, 

And his own thoughts, along that rugged 
way. 

Pursued, like raging hounds, their father 
and their prey. 

A pard-like Spirit beautiful and swift — 

A Love in desolation mask'd ; — a power 
Girt round with weakness ; — it can scarce 
uplift 
The weight of the superincumbent hour ; 
It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, 
A breaking billow ; — even whilst we speak 
Is it not broken? On the withering 
flower 
The killing sun smiles brightly : on a 

cheek 
The life can burn in blood, even while the 
heart may break. 

His head was bound with pansies over- 
blown, 
And faded violets, white, and pied, and 
blue ; 
And a light spear topp'd with a cypress 
cone. 
Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses 

grew. 
Yet dripping with the forest's noonday 
dew. 
Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart 

Shook the weak hand that grasp'd it ; of 
that erew 
He came the last, neglected and apart ; 
A herd-abandon'd deer, struck by the 
hunter's dart. 

All stood aloof, and at his partial moan 
Smiled through their tears ; well knew 
that gentle band 
Who in another's fate now wept his own ; 
As in the accents of an unknown land 
He sang new sorrow; sad Urania scann'd 
The Stranger's mien, and murmur'd : 
"Who art thou?" 
He answer'd not, but with a sudden hand 
Made bare his branded and ensanguined 

brow, 
Which was like Cain's or Christ's. — Oh ! 
that it should be so ! 



What softer voice is hushfed over the dead? 

Athwart what brow is that dark mantle 
thrown? 
What form leans sadly o'er the white 
deathbed, 
In mockery of monumental stone, 
The heavy heart heaving without a 
moan ? 
If it be he, who, gentlest of the wise. 
Taught, soothed, loved, honor'd the de- 
parted one ; 
Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs. 
The silence of that heart's accepted sac- 
rifice. 

Our Adonais has drunk poison — oh! 
Wliat deaf and viperous murderer could 
crown 
Life's early cup with such a draught of 
woe? 
The nameless worm would now itself 

disown : 
It felt, yet could escape the magic tone 
Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and 
wrong. 
But what was howling in one breast 
alone, 
Silent with the expectation of the song, 
Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver 
lyre unstrung. 

Live thou, whose infomy is not thy fame ! 
Live ! fear no heavier chastisement from 
me, 
Thou noteless blot on a remember'd 
name! 
But be thyself, and know thyself to be ! 
And ever at thy season be thou free 
To spill the venom when thy fangs o'er- 
flow : 
Remorse and self-contempt shall cling to 
thee ; 
Hot shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, 
And like a beaten hound tremble thou 
shalt — as now. 

Nor let us weep th.at our delight is fled 
Far from these carrion-kites that scream 
below ; 
He wakes or sleeps with the enduring 
dead: 
Thou canst not soar where he is sitting 
now. 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



259 



Dust to the dust I but the pure spirit shall 

flow 

Back to the burning fountain whence it 

came, 

A portion of the Eternal, which must glow 

Through time and change, unqucnchably 

the same. 
Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid 
hearth of shame. 

Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth not 
sleep — 
He hath awaken'd from the dream of 
life— 
'Tis we, who, lost in stormy visions, keep 
With phantoms an unprofitable strife. 
And in mad trance strike with our 
spirit's knife 
Invulnerable nothings. — We decay 

Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief 
Convulse us and consume us day by day, 
And cold hopes swarm like worms with- 
in our living clay. 

He has outsoar'd the shadow of our night ; 
Envy and calumny, and hate and pain. 
And that unre-st which men miscall delight, 
Can touch him not and torture not again ; 
From the contagion of the world's slow 
stain 
He is secure, and now can never mourn 
A heart grown cold, a head grown gray 
in vain; 
Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to 

burn, 
With sparklesa ashea load an unlamented 
urn. 

He lives, he wakes — 'tis Death is dead, not 
he; 
Mourn not for Adonais — Thou young 
Dawn, 
Turn all thy dew to splendor, for from 
thee 
The spirit thou lamentest is not gone; 
Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan ! 
Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and 
thou Air, 
Which like a morning veil thy scarf 
hadst thrown 
O'er theabandimcd Earth, now leave it bare 
Even to the joyous stars which smile on 
its despair ! 



He is made one with Nature: there is 
heard 
His voice iu all her music, from the 
moan 
Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet 
bird; 
He is a presence to bo felt and known 
In darkness and in light, from herb and 
stone, 
Spreading itself where'er that Power may 
move 
Which has withilrawn his being to its 
own ; 
Which wields the world with never- 
wearied love. 
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it 
j above. 

' He is a portion of the loveliness 

Which once he made more lovely : he 
doth bear 
His part, while the one Spirit's plastic 
stress 
Sweeps through the dull dense world, 

compelling there 
All new successions to the forms they wear 
Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks 
its flight 
To its own likeness, as each mass may 
boar ; 
And bursting in its beauty and its might 
From trees and beasts and men into the 
Heavens' light. 

The splendors of the firmament of time 
May be eclipsed, but are e.\tinguish'd 
not: 
Like stars to their appointed height tlioy 
climb, 
And death is a low mist which cannot 

blot 
The brightness it may veil. When lofty 
thought 
Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair. 

And love and life contend in it, for what 
Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live 

there. 
And move like winds of light on dark 
and stormy air. 

The inheritors of unfulfill'd renown 

Rose from their thrones, built beyond 
mortal thought, 



2G0 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Far in the unapparent. Cliatterton 
Rose pale; his solemn agony had not 
Yet faded from him ; Sidney, as he 
fought, 
And as he fell, and as he lived and 
loved, 
Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot, 
Arose ; and Lucan, by his death ap- 
proved : 
Oblivion as tliey rose shrank like a thing 
reproved. 

And many more, whose names on earth 
are dark, 
But whose transmitted effluence cannot 
die 
vSo long as fire outlives the parent spark, 
Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. 
"Thou art become as one of us," they 
cry; 
" It was for thee yon kiugless sphere has 
long 
Swung blind in unascended m.ajesty. 
Silent alone amid a heaven of si>ng. 
Assumed thy wingfed throne, thou Vesper 
of our throng !" 

AVho mourns for Adonais? oh come forth. 
Fond wretch ! and know thyself and 
him aright. 
Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous 
Earth ;' 
As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light 
Beyond all worlds, until its spacious 
might 
Satiate the void circumference ; then shrink 
Even to a point within our day and 
night ; 
And keep thy heart light, lest it make thee 

sink 
When hope has kindled hope, and lured 
thee to the brink. 

Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre. 
Oh, not of him, but of our joy: 'tis 
naught 
That ages, empires, and religions there 
Lie buried in the ravage they have 

wrought ; 
For such as he can lend, — they borrow not 
Glory from those who made the world their 
prey ; 
And he is gather'd to the kings of thought 



Who waged contention with their time's 

decay. 
And of the past are all that cannot pass 

away. 

Go thou to Rome — at once the paradise, 

The grave, the city, and the wilderness ; 
And where its wrecks like shatter'd moun- 
tains rise. 
And flowering weeds and fragrant copses 

dress 
The bones of Desolation's nakedness. 
Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead 

Thy footsteps to a slope of green access, 
Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead 
A light of laughing flowers along the grass 
is spread, 

And gray walls moulder round, on which 
dull Time 
Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand : 
And one keen pyramid with wedge sub- 
lime, 
Pavilioning the dust of him who plann'd 
This refuge for his memory, doth stand 
Like flame transform'd to marble : and 
beneath 
A field is spread, on which a newer band 
Have pitch'd in Heaven's smile their camp 

of death. 
Welcoming him we lose with scarce ex- 
tinguish'd breath. 

Here pause : these graves are all too young 

as yet 
To have outgrown the sorrow which con- 
sign'd 
Its charge to each ; and if the seal is set, 
Here, on one fountain of a mourning 

mind. 
Break it not thou ! too surely shalt thou 
find 
Thine own well full, if thou returnest 
home. 
Of tears and gall. From the world's 
bitter wind 
Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. 
What Adonais is, why fear we to become? 

The One remains, the many change and 
pass : 
Heaven's light for ever shines, Earth's 
shadows fly ; 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



201 



Life, like a dome of many-color'd glass, 
Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 
Until death tramples it to fragments. — 
Die, 
If thou wouUlst be with that which thou 
dost seek ! 
Follow where all is fled ! — Rome's azure 
sky, 
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words arc 

weak 
The glory they transfuse with fitting truth 
to speak. 

Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, 
my Heart? 
Thy hopes are gone before : from all 
things here 
They have dei)arted; tliou sliouldst now 
depart ! 
A light is past from the revolving year, 
And man, and woman ; and what still is 
dear 
Attracts to crush, repels to make thee 
wither. 
The soft sky smiles, — the low wind 
whispers near: 
'Tis Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither. 
No more let Life divide what Death can 
join together. 

That light whose smile kindles the Uni- 
verse, 
That Beauty in which all things work 
and move, 
That Benediction which the eclipsing 
Curse 
Of birth can quench not, that sustain- 
ing Love 
Which through the web of being blindly 
wove 
By man and beast, and earth, and air, and 
sea. 
Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors 
of 
The fire for which all tliirst, now beams 

on me, 
Consuming the last clouds of cold mor- 
tality. 

The breath whose might I have invokul in 
xinj: 
Descends on me; my spirit's bark is 
driven 



Far from the shore, far from the trembling 
throng 
Whose sails were never to the tempest 

given, 
The massy earth and sphered skies are 
riven I 
I am borne darkly, fearfully afar ; 

Whilst burning through the inmost veil 
of Heaven, 
The soul of Adonais. like a star, 
Beacons from the abode where the eternal 
are. 

Pekcy Bys-she Shklley. 



Stakzas writtex ix Dejection 
XEAR Naples. 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear, 
The waves are dancing fast and bright. 

Blue isle^ and snowy mountains wear 
The purple noon's transparent light: 
The breath of the moist air is light 

Around its unexpandcd buds; 
Like many a voice of one delight. 

The winds, the birds, the ocean-Hoods. 

The City's voice itself is soft like Soli- 
tude's. 

I see the Deep's untrampled floor 

With green and purple sea-weeds strown ; 
I see the waves upon the shore 

Like light dissolved in star-showers 
thrown : 

I sit upon the sands alone, 
The lightning of the noon-tide ocean 

Is flashing round me, and a tone 
Arises from its measured motion, 
How sweet ! did any heart now share in 
my emotion. 

.\las ! I have nor hope nor health, 
Nor peace within nor calm around, 

Nor that content surpassing wealth 
The sage in meditation found. 
And walk'd with inward glory crown'd — 

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure ; 
Ollurs I see whom these surround — 

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; 

To me that cup has been dealt in another 
measure. 

Yet now despair itself is mild 
Even as the winds and waters are ; 



262 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



I could lie down like a tired child, 
And weep away the life of care 
Which I have borne, and yet mui?t bear, 

Till death like sleep might steal on me. 
And I might feel in the warm air 

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 

Breathe o'er my dying brain its last mo- 
notony. 

Some might lament that I were cold, 

As I, when this sweet day is gone. 
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old. 

Insults with this untimely moan; 

They miglit lament — for I am one 
Whom men love not, — and yet regret, 

Unlike this day, which, when the sun 

Shall on its stainless glory set. 

Will linger, though enjoy'd, like joy in 

memory yet. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley'. 



Randolph of Roanoke. 

O INIOTHER Earth ! upon tliy lap 

Thy weary ones receiving, 
And o'er them, silent as a dream, 

Thy grassy mantle weaving, 
Fold softly in thy long embrace 

That heart so worn and broken. 
And cool its pulse of fire beneath 

Thy shadows old and oaken. 

Shut out from him the bitter word 

And serpent hiss of scorning; 
Nor let the storms of yesterday 

Disturb his quiet morning. 
Breathe over him forgetfulness 

Of all save deeds of kindness, 
And, save to smiles of grateful eyes, 

Press down his lids in blindness. 

There, where with living ear and eye 

He heard Potomac's flowing. 
And, through his tall ancestral trees, 

Saw autumn's sunset glowing. 
He sleeps, — still looking to the west, 

Beneath the dark wood shadow. 
As if he still would see the sun 

Sink down on wave and meadow. 

Bard, Sage, and Tribune ! — in himself 
All moods of mind contrasting, — • 

The tcnderest wail of human woe. 
The scorn-like lightning blasting; 



The pathos which from rival eyes 
Unwilling tears could summon, 

The stinging taunt, the fiery burst 
Of hatred scarcely human ! 

Mirth, sparkling like a diamond shower. 

From lips of lifelong sadness ; 
Clear picturings of majestic thought 

Upon a ground of madness; 
And over all romance and song 

A classic beauty throwing. 
And laurcU'd Clio at his side 

Her storied pages showing. 

All parties fear'd him : each in turn 

Beheld its schemes disjointed, 
As right or left his fatal glance 

And spectral finger pointed. 
Sworn foe of Cant, he smote it down 

With trenchant wit unsparing, 
And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand 

The robe Pretence was wearing. 

Too honest or too proud to feign 

A love he never cherish'd. 
Beyond Virginia's border-line 

His patriotism perish'd. 
While others hail'd in distant skies 

Our eagle's dusky pinion, 
He only saw the mountain bird 

Stoop o'er his Old Dominion ! 

Still through each change of fortune 
strange, 

Rack'd nerve, and l;)rain all burning, 
His loving faith in motherland 

Knew never shade of turning; 
By Britain's lakes, by Neva's wave, 

Whatever sky was o'er him. 
He heard her rivers' rushing sound. 

Her blue peaks rose before him. 

He held his slaves, yet made withal 

No false and vain pretences, 
Nor paid a lying priest to seek 

For scriptural defences. 
His harshest words of proud rebuke, 

His bitterest taunt and scorning. 
Fell fire-like on the Northern brow 

That bent to him in fawning. 

He held his slaves : yet kept the while 
His reverence for the human : 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



263 



In the dark vassals of his will 

He saw but luau and woman I 
No hunter of (jod's outraged poor 

His Roanoke valley euter'd; 
Xo trader in the souls of men 

Across his threshold ventured. 

And wlien the old and wearied man 

Lay down for his last sleeping, 
And at his side, a slave no more, 

His brother-man stood weeping, 
His latest thought, his latest breath, 

To freedom's duty giving, 
AVith failing tongue and trembling hand 

The dying blest the living. 

Oh, never bore his ancient State 

A truer son or braver ! 
None trampling with a calmer scorn 

On foreign hate or favor. 
He knew her faults, yet never stoop'd 

His proud and manly feeling 
To poor excuses of the wrong 

Or meanness of concealing. 

But none beheld with clearer eye 

The plague-.sp()t o'er her spreading, 
None heard more sure the steps of Doom 

Along her future treading. 
For her as for himself he spake, 

When, his gaunt frame upbracing. 
He traced with dying hand " Remokse!" 

And perish'd in the tracing. 

As from the grave where Henry sleeps, 

From Vernon's weei>ing willow. 
And from the grassy ])all which hides 

The sage of Mouticello, 
So from the leaf-strewn burial-stone 

Of Randolph's lowly dwelling, 
Virginia ! o'er thy land of slaves 

A warning voice is swelling ! ' 

And hark ! from thy deserted fields 

Are sadder warnings spoken. 
From quench'd hearths, where thy exiled 
sons 

Their household gods have broken. 
The curse is on thee, — wolves for men. 

And briers for corn-sheaves giving! 
Oh more than all thy dead renown 

Were now one hero living! 

Jims ("■REENLEAF WhITTIEB. 



Th£ Lout Leader. 

Just for a handful of silver he left us ; 

Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat — 
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft 
us. 
Lost all the others she lets us devote. 
They, with the gold to give, doled him 
out silver, 
So much was their's who so little allow'd. 
How all our copper had gone for his ser- 
vice ! 
Rags — were they purple, his heart had 
been proud ! 
We that had loved him so, follow'd him, 
honor'd him, 
Lived in iiis mild and magnificent eye, 
Learn'd his great language, caught his 
clear accents. 
Made him our pattern to live and to 
die! 
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for 
us. 
Burns, Shelley, were with us — they watch 
from their graves I 
He alone breaks from the van and the 
freemen ; 
He alone sinks to the rear and the 



We shall march prospering — not through 
his presence ; 
Songs may inspirit us — not from his 
lyre ; 
Deeds will be done — while he boasts his 
quiescence. 
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade 
aspire. 
Blot out his name, then — record one lost 
soul more. 
One task more declined, one more foot- 
path untrod, 
One more triumph for devils, and sorrow 
for angels. 
One wrong more to man, one more insult 
to God ! 
Life's night begins : let him never come 
back to us ! 
There would be doubt, hesitation, and 
]>ain. 
Forced jiraise on our part — the glimmer 
of twilight, 
Never glad, confident morning again ! 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Best figbt on well, for we taught him — 

strike gallantly, 
Aim at our heart ere we pierce through 

his own ; 
Then let him receive the new knowledge 

and wait us, 
Pardon'd in heaven, the first by the 

throne ! 

EOBEKT BnOVVNING. 



Charade. 

Camp-Bell. 

Come from my first, ay, come ! 

The battle-dawn is nigh ; 
And the screaming trump and the thunder- 
ing drum 

Are calling thee to die ! 
Fight as thy father fought ; 

Fall as thy father fell ; 
Thy task is tauglit ; thy shroud is 
wrought ; 

So forward and farewell ! 

Toll ye my second ! toll ! 

Fling high tlie flambeau's light, 
And sing the hymn for a ])arted soul 

Beneath the silent night ! 
The helm upon his head. 

The cross upon his breast ; 
Let the prayer be said and the tear be 
shed ; 

Now take him to his rest ! 

Call ye my whole, — go, call 

The lord of lute and lay ; 
And let him greet the sable pall 

With a noble song to-day. 
Ay, call him by his name ; 

No fitter liand may crave 
To light the flame of a soldier's fame 

On the turf of a soldier's grave ! 

WlXTHBOP Mackwoktii Pkaed. 



Drybvrgh Abbey. 

And Scott— that Ocean 'mid the stream of men ! 
That Alp, amidst aU mental greatness reared ! — 

'TwAS morn — but not the ray which falls 
the summer boughs among. 

When Beauty walks in ghidness forth, with 
all her light and song ; 



'Twas morn — ^but mist and cloud hung 
deep upon the lonely vale. 

And shadows, like the wings of death, 
were out upon the gale. 

For He whose spirit woke the dust of 

nations into life — 
Tliat o'er the waste and barren earth spread 

flowers and fruitage rife — 
Whose genius, like the sun, illumed the 

mighty realms of mind — 
Had fled for ever from the fame, love, 

friendship of mankind ! 

To wear a wreath in glory wrought his 

sjjirit swept afar. 
Beyond the soaring wing of thought, the 

liglit of moon or star ; 
To drink immortal waters, free from every 

taint of earth — 
To breathe before the shrine of life, the 

source whence worlds had birth ! 

There was wailing on the early breeze, and 

darkness in the sky. 
When with sable plume, and cloak, and 

pall, a funeral train swept by ; 
Methought — St. Mary shield us well I — 

that other forms moved there 
Than those of mortal brotherhood, the 

noble, young, and fair ! 

Was it a dream ? how oft, in sleep, we ask, 
" Can this be true ?" 

Whilst warm Imagination paints her mar- 
vels to our view ; — 

Earth's glory seems a tarnish'd crown to 
that which we behold. 

When dreams enchant our sight with 
things whose meanest garb is gold I 

Was it a dream ? — Methought the daunt- 
less Harold pass'd me by — 

The proud Fitz-Jamcs, with martial step, 
and dark intrepid eye; 

That Marniion's haughty crest was there, 
a mourner for his sake ; 

And she, — the bold, the beautiful ! — sweet 
Lady of the Lake. 

The Minstrel whose ImI lay was o'er, whose 

broken harp lay low, 
And witli him glorious Waverley, with 

glance and step of woe ; 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



2G5 



And Stuart's voice rose there, as when, 
'mid fate's disastrous war, 

He led the wild, ambitious, proud, and 
brave Vich Ian Vohr. 

Next, marvelling at his sable suit, the 

Dominie stalk'd past, 
With Bertram, Julia by his side, whose 

tears were flowing fast ; 
Guy Mannering, too, moved there, o'er- 

powcr'd by that afflicting sight ; 
And ^Icrrilics, as when she wept on 

EUangowan's height. 

Solemn and grave, Monlcbarns appear'd, 

amidst that burial line ; 
And Ochiltree leant o'er his staff, and 

mourn'd for "Auld laiig syne I" 
Slow march'd the gallant Mclntyre, whilst 

Lovel mused alone ; 
For o/ice, Miss Wardour's image left that 

bosom's faithful throne. 



With coronach, and arms reversed, forth 

came MacGregor's clan — 
Red Dougal's cry peal'd shrill and wild — 

Hob Roy's bold brow look'd wan: 
The fair Diana kiss'd her cross, and blcss'd 

its sainted ray ; 
And " Wae is me !" the Baillie sigh'd, 

" that I should see this day !" 

Next rode, in melancholy guise, with som- 
bre vest and scarf. 

Sir Edward, Laird of EUieslaw, the far-re- 
nown'd Black Dwarf; 

Upon his left, in bonnet blue, and white 
locks flowing free — 

The pious sculptor of the grave — stood 
Old Mortality! 

Balfour of Burley, Claverhouse, the Lord 

of Evanilale, 
And stately Lady Margaret, whose woe 

might naught avail ! 
Fierce Bothwell on his charger black, as 

from the conflict won ; 
And pale Habakkuk >rucklowrath, who 

cried " God's will be done I" 

And like a rose, a young white rose, that 
blooms 'mid wihlest scenes, 

Pass'd she, — the modest, eloquent, and 
virtuous Jeanie Deans ; 



And Dumbiedikes, that silent laird, with 

love too deep to smife, 
And Effie, with her noble friend, the good 

Duke of Argyle. 

With lofty brow, and bearing high, dark 

Ravenswood advanced. 
Who on the false Lord Keeper's mien with 

eye indignant glanced : — 
Whilst graceful as a lonely fawn, 'neath 

covert close and sure, 
Approach'd the beauty of all hearts — the 

Bride of Lammermoor ! 

Then Annot Lyle, the fairy queen of light 
and song, stepp'd near. 

The Knight of Ardenvohr, and he, the 
gifted Hieland Seer; 

Dalgetty, Duncan, Lord Menteith, and Ran- 
ald met my view ; 

The hapless Children of the Mist, and bold 
Mhichconnel Dhu ! 



On swept Bois-Guilbert — Front de Boeuf 

— De Bracy's plume of woe ; 
And Cffiur de Lion's crest shone near the 

valiant Ivanhoe ; 
While soft as glides a summer cloud 

Rowena closer drew. 
With beautiful Rebecca, peerless daughter 

of the Jew ! 

I saw the courtly Euphuist, with Halbert 

of the Dell, 
And, like a ray of moonlight, pass'd the 

White Maiil of Avencl ; 
Lord Morton, Douglas, Bolton, and the 

Royal Earl march'd there. 
To the slow and solemn funeral chant of 

tlie monks of Kennaiiuhair. 

And she, on whose ini]]iiial brow a god 

had set his seal. 
The glory of whose loveliness grief might 

not all conceal ; 
The loved in high and princely halls, in 

lone and lowly cots. 
Stood Mary, the illustrious, yet helpless 

Queen of Scots. 

The firm, devoted Catherine, the senti- 
mental (Jraeme, 

Lochleven, whose worn brow rcveal'd an 
early-blighted name, 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



The enthusiastic Magdalen, the pilgrim of 

that shrine, 
Whose spirit triumphs o'er the tomb and 

makes its dust divine. 

With Leicester, Lord of Kenilworth, in 
mournful robes, was seen 

The gifted, great Elizabeth, high Eng- 
land's matchless queen. 

Tressilian's wild and manly ghmce, and 
Varney's darker gaze, 

Sought Amy Kobsart's brilliant form, too 
fair for earthly praise. 

Next Noma of the Fitful-head, the wild 

Eeim-kennar, came, 
But shiver'd lay her magic wand, and dim 

her eye of flame ; 
Young Minna Troil the lofty-soul'd, whom 

Cleveland's love betray'd. 
The generous old Udaller, and Mordaunt's 

sweet island maid. 

Slow follow'd Lord Glenvarloch, first of 

Scotia's gallant names, 
With the fair, romantic Margaret, and the 

erudite King James ; 
The woo'd and wrnng'd Hermione, whose 

lord all hearts despise. 
Sarcastic Malagrowther, and the faithful 

Moniplies. 

Then stout Sir Geoflrey of the Peak, and 

Peveril swept near ; 
Stern Bridgenorth, and the fiery Duke, 

with knight and cavalier ; 
The fairest of fantastic elves, Fenella, 

glided on. 
And Alice, from whose beauteous lip the 

light of joy was gone. 

And Quentin's haughty helm flash'd there; 

Le Balafrfe's stout lance ; 
Orleans, Crevecoeur, the brave Dunois, the 

noblest knight of France; 
The wild Hayraddin, follow'd by the silent 

Jean de Troycs, 
The mournful Lady Hameline, and Isa- 

belle de Croyes. 

Pale sorrow mark'd young Tyrrell's mien, 
gi-ief dimm'd sweet Clara's eye. 

And Ronan's laird breathed many a prayer 
for days and friends gone by ; 



Oh, mourn not, pious Cargill cried ; should 

his death woe impart. 
Whose cenotaph's the universe, whose 

elegy's the heart ! 

Forth bore the noble Fairford his fascina- 
ting bride. 

The lovely Lilias, with the brave Red- 
gauntlet by her side ; 

Black Campbell, and the bold redoubted 
Maxwell met my view. 

And Wandering Willie's solemn wreath 
of dark funereal yew. 

As foes who meet upon some wild, some 

far and foreign shore, 
Wreck'd by the same tempestuous surge, 

recall past feuds no more, 
Thus prince and peasant, peer and slave, 

thus friend and foe combine. 
To pour the homage of their heart upon 

one conmion shrine. 

There Lacey, famed Cadwallon, and the 

fierce Gwenwyn march'd on. 
Whilst horn and halbert, pike and bow, 

dart, glaive, and javelin shone ; 
Sir Damian and the elegant young Eveline 

pass'd there, 
Stout Wilkin, and the hopeless Rose, with 

wild, dishevell'd hair. 

Around, in solemn grandeur, swept the 

banners of the brave. 
And deep and far the clarions waked the 

wild dirge of the glave ; 
On came the C'hami)ion of the Cross, and 

near him, like a star. 
The regal Berengaria, beauteous daughter 

of Navarre; 

The high, heroic Saladin, with proud and 

haughty mien. 
The rich and gorgeous Saracen, and the 

fiery Nazarene ; 
There Edith and her Nubian slave breathed 

many a thought divine. 
Whilst rank on rank — a glorious train — 

rode the Knights of Palestine. 

Straight follow'd Zerubbabel and Joliff'e 

of the Tower, 
Young AV^ildrake, Markham, Hazeldine, 

and the forest nymph Mayflower ; 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



267 



The democratic Cromwell, stern, resolute, 

and free, 
The knight of AVoodstock and the light 

and lovely Alice Lee. 

And there the crafty Proudfute for once 

true sorrow felt; 
Craigdallie, Chartres, and the recreant 

Conachar the Celt, 
And he whose chivalry had graced a more 

exalted birth. 
The noble-minded Henry, and the famed 

Fair Maid of Perth. 

The intrepid Anne of Geierstein, the false 
Lorraine stepp'd near; 

Proud Margaret of Anjou, and the faith- 
ful, brave De Vere ; 

There Arnold, and the King Ren6, and 
Charles the Bold had met 

The dauntless Donnerkugel and the grace- 
ful young Lizette. 

Forth rode the glorious Godfrey, by the 
gallant Hugh the Great, 

While wept the brave and beautiful their 
noble minstrel's fate; 

Then Hereward the Varangian, with 
Bertha at his side. 

The valorous Count of Paris and his Ama- 
zonian bride. 

At last, amidst that princely train, waved 

high De Walton's plume, 
Near fair Augusta's laurel-wreath, which 

Time shall ne'er consume. 
And Anthony, with quiver void, his last 

fleet arrow sped, 
Leant, mourning o'er his broken bow, and 

mused upon the dead. 

Still onward like the gathering night ad- 
vanced that funeral train — 

Like billows when the tempest sweeps 
across the shadowy main ; 

Where'er the eager gaze might reach, in 
noble ranks were seen 

Dark plume, and glittering mail and crest, 
and woman's beauteous mien ! 

A sound thrill'd through that length'uing 
host ! methought the vault was 
closed, 

Where, in his glorj' and renown, fair 
Scotia's bard reposed ! 



A sound thrill'd through that length'ning 
host ! and forth my vision fled ! 

But, ah ! that mournful dream proved true, 
— the immortal Scott was dead ! 

The vision and the voice are o'er ! their 
influence waned away. 

Like music o'er a summer lake at the gold- 
en close of day : 

The vision and the voice arc o'er ! — but 
when will be forgot 

The buried Genius of Romance — the im- 
perishable Scott ? 

CiiAKLBki Swain. 



ICUABOD. 

So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn 

Which once he wore ! 
The glory from his gray hairs gone 

For evermore ! 

Revile hira not — the tempter hath 

A snare for all ; 
And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, 

Befit his fall I 

Oh I dumb be passion's stormy rage. 

When he who might 
Have lighted up and led his age. 

Falls back in night. 

Scorn ! AVould the angels laugh, to mark 

A bright soul driven, 
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark. 

From hope and Heaven ? 

Let not the land, once proud of him. 

Insult him now ; 
Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, 

Dishouor'd brow. 

But let its humbled sons, instead, 

From sea to lake, 
A long lament, as for the dead. 

In sadness make. 

Of all we loved and honor'd, naught 

Save power remains — 
A fallen angel's ]>ride of thought, 

Still strong in chains. 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



All else is gone ; from those great eyes 

The soul has fled : 
When faith is lost, when honor dies, 

The man is dead I 

Then, pay the reverence of old days 

To his dead fame ; 
Walk backward, with averted gaze. 

And hide the shame ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



Napoleon. 

The mighty sun had just gone down 

Into the chambers of the deep, 
The ocean birds had upward flown. 

Each in his cave to sleep, 
And silent was the island shore, 

And breathless all the broad red sea, 
And motionless beside the door 

Our solitary tree. 
Our only tree, our ancient palm, 

Whose shadow sleeps our door beside. 
Partook the universal calm 

When Buonaparte died. 
An ancient man, a stately man. 

Came forth beneath the spreading tree; 
His silent thoughts I could not scan. 

His tears I needs must see. 
A trembling hand had partly cover'd 

The old man's weeping countenance. 
Yet something o'er his sorrow hover'd, 

That spake of war and France ; 
Something that spake of other days, 

When trumpets pierced the kindling air. 
And the keen eye could firmly gaze 

Through battle's crimson glare. 
Said I, " Perchance this faded hand. 

When life beat high and hope was 
young. 
By Lodi's wave, or Syria's sand. 

The bolt of death had flung. 
Young Buonaparte's battle-cry 

Perchance hath kindled this old cheek ; 
It is no shame that he should sigh — 

His heart is like to break ! 
He liath been with him young and old, 

He climb'd with him the Alpine snow, 
He heard the cannon when they roU'd 

Along the river Po. 
His soul was as a sword, to leap 

At his accustom'd leader's word : 



I love to see the old man weep — 

He knew no other lord. 
As if it were but yesternight, 

This man remembers dark Eylau; 
His dreams are of the eagle's flight 

Victorious long ago. 
The memories of worser time 

Are all as sliadows unto him ; 
Fresh stands the picture of his prime — 

The later trace is dim." 
I enter'd, and I saw him lie 

Within the chamber all alone ; 
I drew near very solemnly 

To dead Napoleon. 
He was not shrouded in a shroud, 

He lay not like the vulgar dead, 
Yet all of haughty, stern, and proud. 

From his pale brow was fled. 
He had put harness on to die ; 

The eagle star shone on his breast, 
His sword lay bare his pillow nigh, 

The sword he liked the best. 
But calm, most calm, was all his face, 

A solemn smile was on his lips. 
His eyes were closed in pensive grace, — 

A most serene eclipse ! 
Ye would have said some sainted sprite 

Had left its passionless abode, — 
Some man, whose prayer at morn and 
night 

Had duly risen to God. 
What thoughts had calm'd his dying 
breast 

(For calm he died) cannot be known ; 
Nor would I wound a warrior's rest, — 

Farewell, Napoleon! 

John Gibson Lockhart. 



TSE Return of Napoleon from 
St. Helena. 

Ho ! city of the gay ! 

• Paris ! what festal rite 

Doth call thy thronging million forth. 

All eager for tlie sight? 
Thy soldiers line the streets 

In fix'd and stern array, 
With buckled helm and bayonet, 

As on the battle-day. 



By square, and fountain side. 
Heads in dense masses rise. 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



269 



And tower and battlement and tree 

Are studded thick with eyes. 
Comes there sonic conqueror home 

In triumph from tlie fight, 
With spoil and captives in his train, 

The trophies of his might? 

The " Arc de Triomphe " glows 1 

A martial host are nigh, 
France pours in long succession forth 

Her pomp of chivalrj'. 
No chirion marks their way, 

Xo victor trump is blown ; 
Why march they on so silently, 

Told by their tread alone? 

Behold I in glittering show, 

A gorgeous ear of state ! 
The white-plumed steeds, in cloth of gold, 

Bow down beneath its weight ; 
And the noble war-horse, led 

t'aparison'd along. 
Seems fiercely for his lord to ask. 

As his red eye scans the throng. 

Who rideth on yon car? 

The incense flameth high, — 
Comes there some demigod of old ? 

No answer ! — No reply ! 
AVho rideth on yon car? — 

No shout his minions raise, 
But by a lofty chapel dome 

The muffled hero stays. 

A king is standing there, 

And with uncover'd head 
Receives him in the name of France: 

Receiveth whom ? — The dead! 
Was he not buried deep 

In islaud-cavern drear ; 
Girt by the sounding ocean surge? 

How came that sleeper here ? 

Was there no rest for him 

Beneath a peaceful pall, 
That thus he brake his stony tomb. 

Ere the strong angel's call ? 
Hark! hark! the rc(|uiem swells, 

A deep, soul-thrilling strain! 
An echo, never to be heard 

By mortal ear again. 

A requiem for the chief, 
Whose fiat millions slew, 



The soaring eagle of the Alps, 

The crush'd at Waterloo : — 
The banish'd who return'd, 

The dead who rose again. 
And rode in his shroud the billows proud 

To the sunny banks of Seine. 

They laid him there in state, 

That warrior strong and bold. 
The imperial crown, with jewels bright, 

Upon his ashes cold. 
While round those columns proud 

The blazon'd banners wave. 
That on a hundred fields he won, 

With the heart's blood of the brave; 

And sternly there kept guard 

His veterans scarr'd and old, 
Whose wounds of Lodi's cleaving bridge 

Or pur|)le Leipsic told. 
Yes, there, with arms reversed. 

Slow pacing, night and day. 
Close watch beside the coffin kept 

Those veterans grim and gray. 

A cloud is on their brow, — 

Is it sorrow for the dead ? 
Or memory of the fearful strife 

Where their country's legions fled? 
Of Borodino's blood? 

Of Beresina's wail? 
The horrors of that dire retreat, 

Which turn'd old History pale? 

A cloud is on their brow, — 

Is it sorrow for the dead ? 
Or a shuddering at tlie wintry shaft 

By Russian tempest.s sped? 
Where countless mounds of snow 

Mark'd the poor conscripts' grave. 
And, pierced by fro.st and famine, sank 

The bravest of the brave. 

A thousand trembling lamps 

The gatlier'd darkness mock. 
And velvet drapes his hearse, who died 

On bare Helena's rock ; 
And from the altar near 

A never-ceasing hymn 
Is lifted by the chanting priests 

Beside the taper dim. 

Mysterious one, and proud ! 
In the land where shadows reign, 



270 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Hast thou met the flocking ghosts of those 

Who at thy nod were slain? 
Oh, when the cry of that spectral host 

Like a rushing hlast shall be, 
What will thine answer be to them ? 

And what thy God's to thee ? 

I^YDiA Huntley Sigourney. 



Ode on the Death of the Duke 
OF Wellington. 



Bury the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation, 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty 
nation. 
Mourning when their leaders fall, 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall. 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 



Where shall we lay the man whom we 

deplore ? 
Here, in streaming London's central roar. 
Let the sound of those he wrought for. 
And the feet of those he fought for, 
Echo round his bones for evermore. 

iir. 

Lead out the pageant : sad and slow. 

As fits an universal woe. 

Let the long, long procession go, 

And let the sorrowing crowd about it 

grow, 
And let the mournful martial music blow . 
The last great Englishman is low. 



Mourn, for to us he seems the last. 
Remembering all his greatness in the 

past. 
No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
With lifted liand the gazer in the street. 
O friends, our chief state-oracle is dead : 
Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, 
The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, 
Whole in himself, a common good. 
Mourn for the man of amplest influence. 
Yet clearest of ambitious crime, 
Our greatest yet with least pretence. 



Great in council and great in war. 

Foremost captain of his time. 

Rich in saving common-sense, 

And, as the greatest only are. 

In his simplicity sublime. 

good gray head which all men knew, 

O voice from which their omens all men 

drew, 
iron nerve to true occasion true. 
Oh fall'n at length that tower of strength 
Which stood four-square to all the winds 

that blew ! 
Such was he whom we deplore. 
The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 
The great World-victor's victor will be 

seen no more. 

V. 

All is over and done : 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

England, for thy son. 

Let the bell be toll'd. 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

And render him to the mould. 

Under the cross of gold 

That shines over city and river, 

There he shall rest for ever 

Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a reverent people behold 

The towering car, the sable steeds: 

Bright let it be with his blazon'd deeds, 

Dark in its funeral fold. 

Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a deeper knell in the heart be 

knoll'd ; 
And the sound of the sorrowing anthem 

roll'd 
Through the dome of the golden cross ; 
And the volleying cannon thunder his 

loss ; 
He knew their voices of old. 
For many a time in many a clime 
His captain's ear has heard them boom 
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom : 
When he with those deep voices wrought. 
Guarding realms and kings from shame ; 
With those deep voices our dead captain 

taught 
The tyrant, and asserts his claim 
In that dread sound to the great name. 
Which he has worn so pure of blame. 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



In praise and in dispraise the same, 
A man of \vt'll-attenii)c'r'd frame. 
O civic muse, to suoli a name, 
To sucli a name for ages long. 
To such a name. 

Preserve a broad approach of fame, 
And ever-echoing avenues of song. 



VT. 

Who is he that eometh, like an honor'd 
guest, 

With banner and with music, with soldier 
and with priest. 

With a nation weeping, and breaking on 
my rest? 

Mighty seaman, this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea. 

Thine island loves thee well, thou famous 
man. 

The greatest sailor since our world be- 
gan. 

Now, to the roll of muffled drums, 

To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 

For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea : 

His foes were thine; he kept us free; 

Oh give him welcome, this is he, 

Worthy of our gorgeous rites. 

And worthy to be laid by thee ; 

For this-is England's greatest son, 

He that gain'd a hundred fights, 

Xor ever lost an English gun ; 

This is he that far away 

Against the myriads of Assaye 

Clash'd with his fierj' few and won ; 

And underneath another sun, 

Warring on a later day, 

Round afTriglited Lisbon drew 

The treble works, the vast designs 

Of his labor'd ranipart-liiies, 

Wliere he greatly stood at bay, 

Whence he issued forth anew. 

And ever great and greater grew, 

Beating from the wasted vines 

Back to France her ban<Ied swarms. 

Back to France witli countless blows. 

Til! o'er the liills her eagles flew 

Past tlie Pyrenean pines; 

FoUow'd up ill valley and glen 

With blare of bugle, clamor of men. 

Roll of cannon and cla.sh of arms. 



And England pouring on her foes. 

Such a war had such a close. 

Again their ravening eagle rose 

In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing 

wings, 
And barking for the thrones of kings ; 
Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown 
On that loud Sabbath shook the spoiler 

down ; 
A day of onsets of despair ! 
Uasli'd on every rocky square 
Their surging charges foam'd themselves 

away ; 
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; 
Tlirough the long tormented air 
Heaven Hash'd a sudden jubilant ray. 
And down we swept and charged and over- 
threw. 
So great a soldier taught us there. 
What long-enduring hearts could do 
In that world-earthquake, Waterloo ! 
Mighty seaman, tender and true. 
And pure as he from taint of craven guile, 
O savior of the silver-coasted isle, 
O shaker of the Baltic and tlie Nile, 
If aught of things that here befall 
Touch a spirit among things divine, 
If love of country move thee there at all. 
Be glad, because his bones are laid by 

thine! 
And through the centuries let a people's 

voice 
In full acclaim, 
A people's voice, 

The proof and echo of all human fame, 
A j)eople's voice, when they rejoice 
At civic revel and pomp and game, 
Attest tlieir great commander's claim 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to him. 
Eternal honor to his name. 

VII. 

.\ people's voice ! we are a people yet. 

Though all men else their nobler dreams 
forget. 

Confused by brainless mobs and lawless 
j powers ; 

1 Thank Him whoisled us here, am! roughlv 
I set 

His Briton in blown se.is and storming 
showers, 
I We have a voice, with which to pay the debt 



272 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Of boundless love and reverence and regret 
To those great men who fought, and kept 

it ours. 
And keep it ours, God, from brute con- 
trol ; 
O statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the 

soul 
Of Europe, keep our noble England whole. 
And save tlie one true seed of freedom 

sown 
Betwixt a people and their ancient throne. 
That sober freedom out of which there 

springs 
Our loyal passion for our temperate kings; 
For, saving that, ye help to save mankind 
Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, 
And drill the raw world for the march of 

mind, 
Till crowds at length be sane and crowns 

be just. 
But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 
Remember him who led your hosts ; 
He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 
Your cannons moulder on the seaward 

wall ; 
His voice is silent in your council-hall 
For ever ; and whatever tempests lower 
For ever silent ; even if they broke 
In thunder, silent ; yet remember all 
He spoke among you, and the Man who 

spoke ; 
AVho never sold the truth to serve the hour. 
Nor palter'd with eternal God for power ; 
Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow 
Through either babbling world of high and 

low; 
Whose life was work, whose language rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 
Who never spoke against a foe ; 
Whose eighty winters freeze with one re- 
buke 
All great self-seekers trampling on the 

right : 
Truth-teller was our England's Alfred 

named ; 
Truth-lover was our English Duke ; 
Whatever record leap to light 
He never shall be shamed. 

VIII. 

Lo, the leader in these glorious wars 
Now to glorious burial slowly borne. 



Follow'd by the brave of other lands, 
He, on whom from both her open hands 
Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars, 
And affluent Fortune emptied all her 

horn. 
Yea, let all good things await 
Him who cares not to be great. 
But as he saves or serves the state. 
Not once or twice in our rough island- 
story, 
The path of duty was the way to glory : 
He that walks it, only thirsting 
For the right, and learns to deaden 
Love of self, before his journey closes. 
He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting 
Into glossy purples, which outredden 
All voluptuous garden-roses. 
Not once or twice in our fair island-story, 
The path of duty was the way to glory : 
He, that ever following her commands. 
On with toil of heart and knees and hands 
Through the long gorge to the far light 

has won 
His path upward, and prevail'd, 
Shall find the toppling crags of Duty 

scaled 
Are close upon the shining table-lands 
To which our God Himself is moon and 

sun. 
Such was he: his work is doue. 
But while the races of mankind endure, 
Lot his great example stand 
Colossal, seen of every land. 
And keep the soldier firm, the statesman 

pure ; 
Till in all lands and through all human 

story 
The path of duty be the way to glory : 
And let the land whose hearths he saved 

from shame 
For nuiny and many an age proclaim 
At civic revel and pomp and game. 
And when the long-illumined cities flame. 
Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 
Eternal honor to his name. 



Peace, his triumph will be sung 

By some yet unmoulded tongue 

Far on in summers that we shall not see : 

Peace, it is a day of pain 



PERSOXAL POEMS. 



273 



For one about whose patriarchal knee 

Late the little children clung: 

O peace, it is a day of pain 

For one upon whose hand and heart and 

brain 
Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 
Ours the pain, be his the gain ! 
More than is of man's degree 
Must be with us, watching here 
At this, our great solemnity. 
Whom we see not we revere. 
yVe revere, and we refrain 
From talk of battles loud and vain. 
And brawling memories all too free 
For such a wise liuniility 
As befits a solemn fane : 
We revere, and while we hear 
The tides of Music's golden sea 
Setting toward eternity. 
Uplifted high in heart and hope are we. 
Until we doubt not that for one so true 
There must be other nobler work to do 
Than when he fought at Waterloo, 
And Victor he must ever be. 
; For though the (Jiant Ages heave the hill 
I And break the shore, and evermore 
Make and break, and work their will ; 
Though world on world in myriad myriads 

roll 
Round us, each with different powers, 
And other forms of life than ours. 
What know we greater than the soul? 
( )n Ctod and godlike men we build our trust. 
Hush, the l)ea<i March wails in the peo- 
ple's ears : 
The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs 

and tears : 
The black earth yawns: the mortal disap- 
pears ; 
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 
He is gone who seem'd so great. — 
Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 
Of the force he made his own 
Being here, and we believe him 
Something far ailvanced in state, 
And that he wears a truer crown 
Than any wreath th.it man can weave him. 
Speak no more of his renown, 
Lay your earthly fancies down. 
And in the v.ist cathedral leave him. 
God accept him, Christ receive him. 

Alfbrd Teksyson. 

18 



To THE Sister of Eli a. 

Comfort thee, thou mourner, yet a while ! 

Again shall Ella's smile 

Refresh thy heart, where heart can ache 

no more. 
What is it we deplore ? 

He leaves behind him, freed from griefs 

and years. 
Far worthier things than tears. 
The love of friends without a single foe : 
Unequall'd lot below ! 

His gentle soul, his genius, these are thine ; 
For these dost thou repine ? 
He may have left the lowly walks of men ; 
Left them he has ; what then ? 

Are not his footsteps follow'd by the eyes 
Of all the good and wise ? 
Tho' the warm day is over, yet they seek 
Upon the lofty peak 

Of his pure mind the roseate light that 

glows 
O'er death's perennial snows. 
Behold him ! from the region of the blest 
He speaks : he bids thee rest. 

Walter Savage Landor. 



Lines whitten on the Kight of 
THE soTir OF July, 1847. 

At the Close of an Unsuccessful 
Contest fok Edinburgh. 
Thf, day of tumult, strife, defeat, was o'er; 
Worn out with toil, and noise, and scorn, 
and spleen, 
I slumbcr'd, and in slumber s.iw once more 
A room in an old mansion, long unseen. 

That room, metliought, was curtain'd from 
the light ; 
Yet through the curtains shone the 
moon's cold ray 
Full on a cradle, where, in linen white. 
Sleeping life's first soft sleep, an infant lay. 

Pale flickered on the hearth the dying 

flame, 

.\nd all was silent in that ancient hall. 

Save when by fits on the low night-wind 

came 

The murmur of the distant waterfall. 



274 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



And lo ! the fairy queens who rule our 
birth 
Drew nigh to speak the new-born baby's 
doom : 
With noiseless step, which left no trace on 
earth, 
From gloom they came, and vanish'd 
into gloom. 

Not deigning on the boy a glance to cast, 
Swept careless by the gorgeous Queen of 
Gain ; 
More scornful still, the Queen of Fashion 
pass'd 
With mincing gait and sneer of cold dis- 
dain. 

The Queen of Power toss'd high her jew- 
ell'd head. 
And o'er her shoulder threw a wrathful 
frown : 
The Queen of Pleasure on the pillow shed 
Scarce one stray rose-leaf from her 
fragrant crown. 

Still Fay in long procession follow'd Fay ; 
And still the little couch remain'd un- 
blest : 
But, when those wayward sprites had 
pass'd away, 
Came One, the last, the mightiest, and 
the best. 

O glorious lady, with the eyes of light, 
And laurels clustering round thy lofty 
brow, 
Who by the cradle's side didst watch that 
night. 
Warbling a sweet, strange music, who 
wast thou ? 

" Yes, darling ; let them go ;" so ran the 
strain : 
" Yes ; let them go. Gain, Fashion, Plea- 
sure, Power, 
And all the busy elves to whose domain 
Belongs the nether sphere, the fleeting 
hour. 

'■ Without one envious sigh, one anxious 
scheme, 
The nether sphere, the fleeting hour re- 
sign, 



Mine is the world of thought, the world 
of dream, 
Mine all the past, and all the future 
mine. 

" Fortune, that lays in sport the mighty 
low, 
Age, that to penance turns the joys of 
youth. 
Shall leave untouch'd the gifts which I 
bestow, 
The sense of beauty and the thirst of 
truth. 

" Of the fair brotherhood who share my 
grace, 
I, from thy natal day, pronounce thee 
free ; 
And, if for some I keep a nobler place, 
I keep for none a happier than for thee. 

" There are who, while to vulgar eyes they 
seem 
Of all my bounties largely to partake. 
Of me as of some rival's handmaid deem. 
And court me but for Gain's, Power's, 
Fashion's sake. 

" To such, though deep their lore, though 
wide their fame. 
Shall my great mysteries be all un- 
known ; 
But thou, through good and evil, praise 
and blame, 
Wilt not thou love me for myself alone? 

"Yes, thdu wilt love me with exceeding 
love, 
And I will tenfold all that love repay. 
Still smiling, though the tender may re- 
prove. 
Still faithful, though the trusted may 
betray. 

" For aye mine emblem was, and aye shall 
be. 
The ever-during plant whose bough I 
wear. 
Brightest and greenest then when every 
tree 
That blossoms in the light of Time is 
bare. 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



275 



" In the dark hour of shame I deign'd to j Thine when, through forests breathing 



stand 
Before the frowning peers at Bacon's 
side : 
On a far shore I smoothed with tender 
hand, 
Through months of pain, the sleepless 
bed of Hyde: 

" I brought the wise and brave of ancient 
days 
To cheer the cell where Raleigh i)ined 
alone : 
I lighted Milton's darkness with the blaze 
Of the bright ranks that guard the eter- 
nal throne. 

" And even so, my child, it is my pleasure 

That thou not then alone shouldst feel 

me nigh. 

When in domestic bliss and studious 

leisure, 

Thy weeks uncounted come, uncounted 

■fly; 

" Not then alone, when myriads, closely 
press'd 
Around thy car, the shout of triumph 
raise, 
Nor when, in gilded drawing-rooms, thy 
breast 
Swells at the sweeter sound of woman's 
praise. 

"No: when on restless night dawns cheer- 
less morrow. 
When weary soul and wa.sting body 



death, thy way 
All night shall wind by many a tiger's 
lair; 

"Thine most when friends turn pale, when 
traitors Hy, 
When, hard beset, thy spirit, justly 
proud. 
For truth, peace, freedom, mercy, dares 
defy 
A sullen priesthood and a raving crowd. 

"Amidst the din of all things fell and 
vile. 
Hate's yell, and Envy's hiss, and Folly's 
bray. 
Remember me, and with an unforced 
smile 
See riches, baubles, flatterers, pa.ss away. 

"Yes, they will pass away, nor deem it 
strange ; 
They come and go, as comes and goes 
the sea ; 
And let them come and go; thou, through 
all change, 
Fix thy firm gaze on Virtue and on me.'' 
Thomas Babisgton MACAt'LAV. 



She is Far from the Land. 

She is far from the land wlierc her young 

hero sleeps, 
And lovers are round her sighing; 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and 

weeps. 



'""^' . , For her heart in his grave is lying. 

Thine am I still, in danger, sickness, sorrow, | 

In conflict, obloquy, want, exile, thine; | She sings the wild song of her dear native 

plains. 



"Thine, where on mountain-waves the 
snow-birds scream, 
Where more than Thule's winter barbs 
the breeze. 
Where scarce, through lowering clouds, 
one sickly gleam 
Lights the drear May-day of Antarctic 
seas; 

" Thine, when around thy litter's track all 
day 
White sandhills shall reflect the blind- 
ing glare ; 



Every note which he loved awaking; — 
Ah ! little they think, who delight in her 
strains, 
How the heart of the Minstrel is break- 
ing. 

He had lived for his love, for his country 
he died, 
They were all that to life had entwined 
him ; 
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be 
dried. 
Nor long will his love stay behind Kim. 



276 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Oh make her a grave where the sunbeams 
rest 
When they promise a glorious morrow ; 
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile 
from the West, 
From her own loved island of sorrow. 
Thomas JIooke. 



Kane. 

Died February 16, 1857. 
Aloft upon an old basaltic crag, 

Which, scalp'd by keen winds that de- 
fend the Pole, 
Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll 
Around the secret of the mystic zone. 
A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag 

Flutters alone. 
And underneath, upon the lifeless front 
Of that drear cliff', a simple name is 
traced ; 
Fit type of him who, famishing and 
gaunt. 
But with a rocky purpose in his soul, 
Breasted the gathering snows. 
Clung to the drifting floes. 
By want beleaguer'd, and by winter 

chased. 
Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen 
waste. 

Not many months ago we greeted him, 
Crown'd with the icy honors of the i 

North, 
Across the land his hard-won fame went 
forth. 
And Maine's deep woods were shaken 

limb by limb ; 
His own mild Keystone State, sedate and 
prim. 
Burst from decorous quiet as he came ; 
Hot Southern lips with eloquenee'aflame 
Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and 

grim, 
ProflTer'd its horny hand. The large- 
lung'd West, 

From out its giant breast, 
Yell'd its frank welcome. And from 
main to main. 

Jubilant to the sky, 
Thunder'd the mighty cry, 
Honor to Kane! 



[ In vain, in vain beneath his feet we flung 
The reddening roses! All in vain we 
j pour'd 

The golden wine, and round the shining 
board 
Sent the toast circling, till the rafters 
rung 
With the thrice-tripled honors of the 

feast ! 
Scarce the buds wilted and the voices 
ceased 
Ere the pure light that sparkled in his 

eyes, 
Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies. 
Faded and taded ! And the brave young 
heart 
That the relentless Arctic winds had 

robb'd 
Of all its vital heat, in that long quest 
For the lost captain, now within his 
breast 
More and more faintly throbb'd. 
His was the victory ; but as his grasp 
Closed on the laurel crown with eager 
clasp, 
Death launch'd a whistling dart ; 
And ere the thunders of applause were 

d(me 
His bright eyes closed for ever on the sun ! 
Too late, too late the splendid prize he won 
In the Olympic race of Science and of 

Art! 
Like to some shatter'd berg that, pale and 

lone, 
Drifts from the white North to a tropic 
zone. 
And in the burning day 
Wastes peak by peak away. 
Till on some rosy even 
It dies with sunlight blessing it; so he 
Tranquilly floated to a Southern sea, 
And melted into heaven. 



He needs no tears, who lived a noble life ; 
We will not weep for him who died so 

well, 
But we will gather round the hearth, 
and tell 
The story of his strife ; 
Such homage suits him well. 
Better than funeral pomp or passing 
bell. 



PERSOXAL POEMS. 



277 



What tale of peril and self-sacrifice ! 
Prison'd amid tlie fastnesses of ice, 

With huncrer howling o'er the wastes of 

snow I 
Night lengthening into months, the rav- 
enous floe 
Crunching the massive ships, as the white 

bear 
Crunches his prey. The insufficient share 

Of loathsome food. 
The lethargy of famine, the despair 
Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued. 
Toil done with skinny arms, and faces 
hued 
Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind 
Glimmcr'd the fading embers of a mind ! 
That awful hour, wlien through the pros- 
trate band 
Delirium stalk'd, laying his burning hand I 
Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew. 
The whispers of rebellion, faint and few 
At first, but deepening ever till they 
grew 
Into black thoughts of murder ; such the 

throng 
Of horrors bound the hero. High the song 
Should be that hymns the noble part he 

play'd ! 
Sinking himself, yet ministering aid 
To all around him. By a mighty will 
Living defiant of the wants that kill, 
Because his death would seal his com- 
rades' fate; 
Cheering with ceaseless and inventive 
skill 
Those Polar waters, dark and desolate. 
Equal to every trial, every fate. 

He stands, until Spring, tardy with re- 
lief, 
Unlocks the icy gate, 
And the pale prisoners thread the world 

once more, 
To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral 
shore 

Bearing their dying chief. 

Time was when he should gain his spurs 
of gold 
From royal hands, who woo'd the 
knightly state; 
The knell of old formalities) is toU'd, 
And the world's kuights are now self- 
consecrate. 



No grander episode doth chivalry hold 
In all its annals, back to Charlemagne, 
Than that lone vigil of unceasing 
l)ain. 
Faithfully kept through hunger and 
through cold. 
By the good Christian knight, Elisha 
K.tXE ! 

Fitz-James O'Bkien. 
*o* 

/.v Remembrance of Joseph 
Sturge. 

Ix the fair land o'erwatch'd by Ischia's 
mountains, 
Across the charmed bay 
Whose blue waves keep with Capri's silver 
fountains 
Perpetual holiday, 

A king lies dead, his wafer duly eaten. 
His gold-bought masses given ; 

And Rome's great altar smokes with gums 
to sweeten 
Her foulest gift to Heaven. 

And while all Naples thrills with mute 
thanksgiving. 
The court of England's queen 
For the dead monster, so abhorr'd while 
living, 
In mourning garb is seen. 

With a true sorrow God rebukes that feign- 
ing ; 

By lone Edgbtuston's side 
Stands a great city in the sky's sad raining. 

Bare-headed and wet-eyed ! 

Silent for once the restless hive of labor. 

Save the low funeral tread. 
Or voice of craftsman whispering to his 
neighbor 

The good deeds of the dead. 

For him no minster's chant of the im- 
mortals 
Rose from the lips of sin ; 
No mitred priest swung back the heavenly 
portals \ 

To let the white soul in. 

But Age and Sickness framed their tearful 
faces 
In the low hovel's door, 



278 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


And prayers went up from all the dark by- 


And heard with tender ear the spirit sighing 


places 


As from its prison cell, 


And Ghettos of the poor. 


Praying for pity, like the mournful crying 


The pallid toiler and the negro chattel, 


Of Jonah out of hell. 


The vagrant of the street, 


Not his the golden pen's or lip's persuasion, 


The human dice wherewith in games of 


But a fine sense of right, 


battle 


And Truth's directness, meeting each oc- 


The lords of Earth compete, 


casion 


Touch'd with a grief that needs no outward 


Straight as a line of light. 


draping, 


His ftiith and works, like streams that in- 


All swell'd the long lament, 


termingle, 


Of grateful hearts, instead of marble. 


In the same channel ran : 


shaping 


The crystal clearness of an eye kept single 


His viewless monument ! 


Shamed all the frauds of man. 


For never yet, with ritual pomp and splen- 


The very gentlest of all human natures 


dor, 


He join'd to courage strong, 


In the long heretofore. 


xVnd love outreaching unto all God's crea- 


A heart more loyal, warm, and true, and 


tures 


tender, 


With sturdy hate of wrong. 


Has England's turf closed o'er. 


Tender as woman ; manliness and meekness 


And if there fell from out her grand old 


In him were so allied 


steeples 


That they who judged him by his strength 


No crash of brazen wail. 


or weakness 


The murmurous woe of kindreds, tongues, 


Saw but a single side. 


and peoples 
Swept in on every gale. 


Men fail'd, betray'd him, but his zeal 
seeni'd nourish'd 


It came from Holstein's birchen-belted 


By failure and by fall ; 


meadows, 


Still a large faith in human-kind he cher- 


And from the tropic calms 


ish'd. 


Of Indian islands in the sun-smit shadows 


And in God's love for all. 


Of Occidental palms ; 






And now he rests : his greatness and his 


From the lock'd roadsteads of the Both- 


sweetness 


nian peasants. 


No more shall seem at strife ; 


And harbors of the Finn, 


And Death has moulded into calm com- 


Where war's worn victims saw his gentle 


])leteness 


presence 


The statue of his life. 


Come sailing, Christ-like, in, 






Where the dews glisten and the song-birds 


To seek the lost, to bu i Id the old waste places. 


warble. 


To link the hostile shores 


His dust to dust is laid. 


Of severing seas, and sow with England's 


In Nature's keeping, with no pomp of 


daisies 


marble 


The moss of Finland's moors. 


To shame his modest shade. 


Thanks for the good man's beautiful ex- 


The forges glow, the hammers all are ring- 


ample, 


ing ; 


Who in the vilest saw 


Beneath its smoky vale. 


Some sacred crypt or altar of a temple 


Hard by, the city of his love is swinging 


Still vocal with God's law ; 


Its clamorous iron flail. 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



But round his grave are quietude and 
beauty, 
And tlie sweet heaven above, — 
The fitting symbols of a life of duty 
Transfigured into love ! 

John (".keknleaf Wiiittier. 



BROWX of OSSAWATOMIE. 

John Brows of Ossawatomie spake on 

his dying day : 
" I will not have to shrive my soul a priest 

in Slavery's pay. 
But let some poor slave-mother whom I 

have striven to free, 
With her children, from the gallows-stair 

put up a prayer for me I" 

John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him 

out to die; 
And lo ! a poor slave-mother with her little 

child press'd nigh. 
Then the bold blue eye grew tender, and 

the old harsh face grew mild, 
As he stoop'd between the jeering ranks 

and kiss'd the negro's child ! 

The shadows of his stormy life that mo- 
ment fell apart ; 

And they who blamed the bloody hand for- 
gave the loving heart. 

That kiss from all its guilty means re- 
deem'd the good intent. 

And round the grisly fighter's hair the 
martyr's aureole bent ! 

Perish with him the folly that seeks 

through evil good ! 
Long live the generous purpose unstain'd 

with human blood ! 
Not the raid of midnight terror, but the 

thought wliich underlies; 
Not the borderer's j)ride of daring, but the 

Christian's sacrifice. 

Nevermore may yon Blue Ridges the 

Northern rifie hear. 
Nor see the light of blazing homes flash on 

the negro's spear. 
But let the free-wing'd angel Truth their 

guarded passes scale. 
To teach that right is more than might, 

and justice more than mail ! 



So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in 

array : 
In vain her trampling squadrons knead the 

winter snow with clay. 
She may strike the pouncing eagle, but she 

dares not harm the dove; 
And every gate she bars to Hate shall open 

wide to Love ! 

John Greenleak Wmhtier. 



Dirge for a Soldier. 

In Memory of Gen. Philip Kearney, 

Killed Sept. I, 1SG2. 

Clo.«e his eyes, his work is done ! 

What to him is friend or foeman. 
Rise of moon, or set of sun, 

Hand of man, or kiss of woman ? 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

As man may, he fought his fight, 

Proved his truth by his endeavor ; 
Let him sleep in solemn night, 
Sleep for ever and for ever. 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

Fold him in his country's stars. 

Roll the drum and fire the volley ! 
What to him are all our wars, 

What but death bemocking folly? 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he? he cannot know: 
Lay him low ! 

Leave him to God's watching eye, 

Trust him to the Hand that made him. 
Mortal love sweeps idly by : 

God alone ha-s power to aid him. 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he? he cannot know: 
Lay him low I 

Oeorob U. Bokeb. 



280 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



Dedication. 

To Idylls of the King. 

These to His memory— since he held them 

dear, 
Perchance as finding there unconsciously 
Some image of himself — I dedicate, 
I dedicate, I consecrate with tears — 
These Idylls. 

And indeed He seems to me 
Scarce other than my own ideal knight, 
" Who reverenced his conscience as his 

king; 
Whose glory was redressing human wrong; 
Who spake no slander, no, nor listen'd to 

it; 
Who loved one only, and who clave to 

her — " 
Her — over all whose realms to their last 

isle, 
Commingled with the gloom of imminent 

war. 
The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse, 
Darkening the world. We have lost him: 

he is gone: 
We know him now: all narrow jealousies 
Are silent ; and we see him as he moved. 
How modest, kindly, all-accomplish'd, 

wise. 
With what sublime repression of himself, 
And in what limits, and how tenderly ; 
Kot swaying to this faction or to that ; 
Not making his high place the lawless 

perch 
Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage- 
ground 
For pleasure; but thro' all this tract of 

years 
Wearing the white ilower of a blameless 

life. 
Before a thousand peering littlenesses. 
In that fierce light which beats upon a 

throne. 
And blackens every blot : for where is he. 
Who dares foreshadow for an only son 
A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than 

his ? 
Or how should England, dreaming of his 

sons, 
Hope more for these than some inherit- 
ance 
Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine. 



Thou noble Father of her Kings to be, 
Laborious for her people and her poor — 
Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day — 
Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste 
To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace — 
Sweet Nature gilded by the gracious gleam 
Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, 
Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince in- 
deed. 
Beyond all titles, and a household name, 
Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the Good? 

Break not, O woman's heart, but still 

endure ; 
Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure. 
Remembering all the beauty of that star 
Which shone so close beside Thee, that ye 

made 
One light together, but has pass'd, and leaves 
The Crown a lonely splendor. 

May all love. 
His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow 

Thee, 
The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee, 
The love of all Thy daughters cherish 

Thee, 
The love of all Thy people comfort Thee, 
Till God's love set Thee at his side again. 
Alfred Tennyson. 

Abraham Lincoln. 

You lay a wreath on murder'd Lincoln's 
bier. 
You, who with mocking pencil wont to 
trace. 
Broad for the self-complaisant British 
sneer. 
His length of shambling limb, his fur- 
row'd face. 

His gaunt, gnarl'd hands, his unkempt, 
bristling hair. 
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, 
His lack of all we prize as debonair. 
Of power or will to shine, of art to 
please ; 

You, whose smart pen back'd up the pen- 
cil's laugh. 
Judging each step as though the way 
were plain ; 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



281 



Reckless, so it could point its paragraph, 
Ot" chief's perplexity or people's paiu, — 

Beside this corpse, that bears for winding- 
sheet 
The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear 
anew, 
Between the mourners at his head and feet. 
Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you ? 

Yes : he had lived to shame me from my 

sneer, 

To lame my pencil and confute my pen ; 

To make me own this hind of princes peer. 

This rail-splitter, a true-born king of 

men. 

My shallow judgment I had learn'd to rue. 

Noting how to occasion's height he rose ; 

How his quaint wit made home-truth seem 

more true ; 

How, iron-like, his temper grew by 

blows ; 

How humble, yet how hopeful he could be ; 

How in good fortune and in ill the same ; 
Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he. 

Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. 

He went about his work, such work as few 
Ever had laid on head and heart and 
hand. 
As one who knows, where there's a task to 
do, 
Man's honest will must Heaven's good 
grace command ; 

Who trusts the strength will with the 
burden grow, 
That God makes instruments to work 
his will, 
If but that will we can arrive to know. 
Nor tamper with the weights of goo<l 
and ill. 

So he went forth to battle, on the side 
That he felt clear was Liberty's and 
Right's, 
As in liis i)k'asant boyhood lie had plied 
His warfare with rude Nature's thwart- 
ing mights — 

The unclear'd forest, the unbroken soil, 
The iron bark that turns the lumberer's 
axe, 



The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's 
toil, 
The prairie hiding the mazed wanderer's 
tracks. 

The ambu-sh'd Indian, and the prowling 
bear, — 
Such were the deeds that help'd his 
youth to train : 
Rough culture, but such trees large fruit 
may bear. 
If but their stocks be of right girth and 
grain. 

So he grew up, a destined work to do. 
And lived to do it; four long-suffering 
years' 
111 fate, ill feeling, ill report lived through. 
And then he heard the hisses change to 
cheers. 

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise. 
And took both with the same unwaver- 
ing mood, — 
Till, as he came on light, from darkling 
days. 
And seem'd to touch the goal from 
whore he stood, 

A felon hand, between the goal and him, 
Reach'd from behind his back, a trigger 
prest, 
And those perplex'd and patient eyes 
were dim. 
Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were 
laid to rest. 

The words of mercy were upon his lips. 
Forgiveness in his heart and on his 
pen. 
When this vile murderer brought swift 
eclipse 
To thoughts of peace on earth, good will 
to men. 

The Old World and the New, from sea to 
sea. 
Utter one voice of sympathy and 
shame. 
Sore heart, so stopp'd when it at last 
beat high ! 
Sad life, cut short just as its triumph 
came! 



2S2 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


A deed accursed ! Strokes have been 


He read aloud the book wherein 


the 


struck before 


Master 




By the assassin's hand, whereof men 


Had writ of " Little Nell." 




doubt 






If more of horror or disgrace they bore ; 


Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy, — for 


the 


But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands 


reader 




darkly out, 


Was youngest of them all, — 






But, as he read, from clustering pine 


and 


Vile hand, that brandest murder on a 


cedar 




strife, 


A silence seem'd to fiiU ; 




Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly 






striven. 


The fir trees, gathering closer in 


the 


And with the martyr's crown crownest a 


shadows. 




life 


Listen'd in every spray. 




With much to praise, little to be for- 


While the whole camp, with "Nell" on | 


given. 


English meadows. 




Tom Taylor. 


Wander'd and lost their way. 






And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertak 


en 


Dickens in Camp. 


As by some spell divine — 




Above the pines the moon was slowly 


Their cares dropp'd from them like 


the 


drifting, 


needles shaken 




The river sang below ; 


From out the gusty pine. 




The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 






Their minarets of snow. 


Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fi 
And he who wrought that spell? — 


re: 


The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor. 


Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish | 


painted 


s])ire. 




The rutldy tints of health 


Ye have one tale to tell ! 




On haggard face and form that droop'd 






and fainted 


Lost is that camp ! but let its frag 


rant 


In the fierce race for wealth ; 


story 
Blend with the breath that thrills 




Till one arose, and from his pack's scant 


With hop-vines' incense all the pensive | 


treasure 


glory 




A hoarded volume drew, 


That fills the Kentish hills. 




And cards were dropp'd from hands of 






listless leisure 


And on that grave where English oak 


and 


To hear the tale anew ; 


holly 
And laurel leaves entwine. 




And then, while round them shadows 


Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly, — | 


gather'd faster, 


This spray of Western pine ! 




And as the firelight fell, 


Feahcis Bket H.1KTE. ■ 



PART V. 



Historical Poems 




Historical Poems. 



The DESTRUcTioy of he^xacji- 

ERIB. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on 

the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple 

and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like 

stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep 

Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when sum- 
mer is green, 

That host with their banners at sunset 
were seen; 

Like the leaves of the forest when autumn 
hath blown. 

That host on the morrow lay wither'il and 
strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings 

on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he 

pass'd ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly 

and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for 

ever grew still ! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all 

wide, 
But through it there roU'd not the breath 

of his pride ; 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on 

the turf. 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating 

surf. 

And lliere lay the rider distorted and 

pale, 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on 

his mail ; 



And the tents were all silent, the banners 

alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in 

their wail ; 
And the idols are broke in the temple of 

Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by 

the sword, 

Hath melted like snow in the glance of 

the Lord ! 

Lord Byron. 

IIORATIUS. 

Lar.s Porsexa of Clusium, 

By the nine gods he swore 
That the great house of Tarquin 

Hliould slitter wrong no more. 
By the nine gods he swore it. 

And named a trysting-day. 
And bade his messengers ride forth, 
East and west and south and north, 

To summon his array. 

East and west and south and north 

The messengers ride fast. 
And tower and town and cottage 

Have heard the trumpet's blast. 
Shame on the false Etru.scan 

Who lingers in his home, 
When Porsena of Clusium 

Is on the march for Rome ! 

The horsemen and the footmen 

Are pouring in amain 
From many a stately market-place, 

From many a fruitful plain. 
From many a lonely hamlet, 

Which, hid by beech and pine, 
Like an eagle's nest hangs on the crest 

Of purple Apennine; 

2Sa 



286 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 


From lordly VoUaterrse, 


And with one voice the thirty 


Where scowls the far-famed bold 


Have their glad answer given : 


Piled by the bands of giants 


" Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena — 


For godlike kings of old; 


Go forth, beloved of heaven! 


From sea-girt Populonia, 


Go, and return in glory 


Whose sentinels descry 


To Clusium's royal dome, 


Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops 


And hang round Nurscia's altars 


Fringing the southern sky ; 


The golden shields of Rome !" 


From the proud mart of Pisse, 


And now hath every city 


Queen of the western waves, 


Sent up her tale of men ; 


Where ride Massilia's triremes, 


The foot are fourscore thousand, 


Heavy with fair-bair'd slaves ; 


The horse are thousands ten. 


From where sweet Clanis wanders 


Before the gates of Sutrium 


Through corn and vines and flowers; 


la met the great array ; 


From where Cortona lifts to heaven 


A proud man was Lars Porsena 


Her diadem of towers. 


Upon the trysting-day. 


Tall are the oaks whose acorns 


For all the Etruscan armies 


Drop in dark Auser's rill ; 


Were ranged beneath his eye, 


Fat are the stags that champ the boughs 


And many a banish'd Roman, 


Of the Ciminian hill ; 


And many a stout ally; 


Beyond all streams, Clitumnus 


And with a mighty following, 


Is to the herdsman dear ; 


To join the muster, came 


Best of all pools the fowler loves 


The Tusculan Mamilius, 


The great Volsinian mere. 


Prince of the Latian name. 


But now no stroke of woodman 


But by the yellow Tiber 


Is heard by Auser's rill ; 


Was tumult and affright ; 


No hunter tracks the stag's green path 


From all the spacious champaign 


Up the Ciminian hill ; 


To Rome men took their flight. 


Unwatch'd along Clitumnus 


A mile around the city 


Grazes the milk-white steer ; 


The throng stopp'd up the ways ; 


Unharm'd the water-fowl may dip 


A fearful sight it was to see 


In the Volsinian mere. 


Through two long nights and days. 


The harvests of Arretium, 


For aged folk on crutches. 


This year, old men shall rea]) ; 


And women great with child, 


This year, young boys in Umbro 


And mothers sobbing over babes 


Shall plunge the struggling sheep ; 


That hung to them and smiled, 


And in the vats of Luna, 


And sick men borne in litters 


This year, the must shall foam 


High on the necks of slaves, 


Bound the white feet of laughing girls 


And troops of sunburn'd husbandmen 


Whose sires have march'd to Rome. 


With reaping-hooks and staves. 


There be thirty chosen prophets, 


And droves of mules and asses 


The wisest of the land, 


Laden with skins of wine, 


Who always by Lars Porsena 


And endless flocks of goats and sheep, 


Both morn and evening stand. 


And endless herds of kine. 


Evening and morn the thirty 


And endless trains of wagons, 


Have turn'd the verses o'er. 


That creak'd beneath the weight 


Traced from the right on linen white 


Of corn-sacks and of household goods, 


By mighty seers of yore ; 


Choked every roaring gate. 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



287 



Now, from the rock Tarpeian, 

Could the wan burghers spy 
The line of blazing villages 

Red in the midnight sky. 
The fothers of the eity, 

They sat all night and day, 
For every hour some horseman came 

With tidings of dismay. 

To eastward and to westward 

Have spread the Tuscan bands, 
Ivor house, nor fence, nor dovecote 

In Crustunierium stands. 
Verbenna down to Ostia 

Hath Wiusted all the plain ; 
Astur hath storm'd Janiculum, 

And the stout guards are slain. 

I wis, in all the Senate, 

There was no heart so bold 
But sore it a<'hed, and fkst it beat, 

When that ill news wa.s told. 
Forthwith up rose the consul, 

Up rose the fathers all ; 
In haste they girded up their gown.s, 

And hii'd them to the wall. 

They held a council standing, 

liefore the river-gate ; 
Short time was there, ye may well guess. 

For musing or debate. 
Out spake the consul roundly : 

" The bridge must straight go down ; 
For, since Janiculum is lost, 

Naught else can save the town." 

Just then a scout came flying, 

All wihl witli haste and fear: 
" To arms ! to arms ! sir consul — 

Lars Porsena is here." 
On the low hills to westward 

The consul fi.x'd his eye, 
And saw the swarthy storm of dust 

Rise fast along the sky. 

And nearer fast and nearer 

Doth tlie red whirlwind come ; 
And louder still, and still more loud, 
From underneath that rolling cloud, 
Is heard the trunijiet's war-note i)roud, 

The trampling and the hum. 
And plainly and more plainly 

Now through the gloom appears, 



Far to left and far to right, 
In broken gleams of dark-blue light, 
The long array of helmets bright, 
The long array of spears. 

And i)lainly and more plainly. 

Above that glimmering line. 
Now might ye see the banners 

Of twelve fair cities shine ; 
But the banner of proud Clusium 

Wa-s highest of them all — 
The terror of the Umbrian, 

The terror of the < iaul. 

And plainly and niure plainly 

Now might the burgliers know. 
By port and vest, by horse and crest. 

Each warlike Lucumo : 
There Cilnius of Arretium 

On his fleet roan was seen ; 
And .Vstur of the fourfold shield, 
Girt with the brand none else may 

wield ; 
Tolumnius with the belt of gold, 
And dark Verbenna from the hold 

By reedy Thriisymene. 

Fast by the royal standard, 

O'crlooking all the war, 
Lars Porsena of Clusium 

Sat in his ivory car. 
By the right wheel rode Mamilius 

Prince of the Latian name ; 
And by the left false Sextus, 

That wrought the deed of shiime. 

But when the face of Sextu.s 

Was seen among the foes, 
A yell that rent the firmament 

From all the town arose. 
On the housetops was no woman 

But spat toward him and hiss'd, 
No child but scream'd out curses, 

And shook its little fist. 

But the consul's brow was sad. 

And the consul's speech was low. 
And darkly look'd he at the wall, 

And darkly at the foe : 
" Their van will be upon us 

Before the bridge goes down ; 
And if they once may win the bridge, 

What hope to save the town ?" 



288 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Then out spake brave Horatius, 


Now Roman is to Roman 


The captain of the gate : 


More hateful than a foe. 


" To every man upon this earth 


And the tribunes beard the high. 


Death conieth soon or late. 


And the fathers grin^l the low. 


And how can man die better 


As we wax hot in faction. 


Than facing fearful odds 


In battle we wax cold ; 


For the ashes of his fathers 


Wherefore men tight not as they fought 


And the temples of his gods ? 


In the brave days of old. 


" And for the tender mother 


Now while the three were tightening 


Who dandled him to rest, 


Their harness on their backs, 


And for the wife who nurses 


The consul was the foremost man 


His baby at her breast, 


To take in hand an axe ; 


And for the holy maidens 


And fathers, mix'd with commons. 


Who feed the eternal flame. 


Seized hatchet, bar, and crow. 


To save them from false Sextus 


And smote upon the planks above, 


That wrought the deed of shame ? 


And loosed the props below. 


" Hew down the bridge, sir consul, 


Meanwhile the Tuscan army, 


With all the speed ye may ; 


Right glorious to behold, 


I, with two more to help me. 


Came flashing back the noonday light. 


Will hold the foe in play. 


Rank behind rank, like surges bright 


In yon strait path a thousand 


Of a broad sea of gold. 


May well he stopp'd by three. 


Four hundred trumpets sounded 


Now who will stand on either hand. 


A peal of warlike glee. 

As that great host with measured tread. 


And keep the bridge with me ?" 


Then out spake Spurius Lartius — 


And spears advanced, and ensigns spread. 


Roll'd slowly toward the bridge's head, 


A Ramnian proud was he : 
" Lo, I will stand at thy right hand. 




M'iiere stood the dauntless three. 


And keep the bridge with thee." 
And out spake strong Herminius — 
Of Titian blood was he : 




The three stood calm and silent. 
And look'd upon the foes. 


" I will abide on thy left side, 


And a great shout of laughter 


And keep the bridge with thee." 


From all the vanguard rose : 


And forth three chiefs came spurring 


" Horatius," quoth the consul. 


Before that deep array ; 


" As thou sayest, so let it be." 


To earth they sprang, their swords they 


And straight against that great array 


drew. 


Went forth the dauntless three. 


And lifted high their shields, and flew 


For Romans in Rome's quarrel 


To win the narrow way. 


Spared neither land nor gold. 




Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life. 


Annus, from green Tifernum, 


In the brave days of old. 


Lord of the hill of vines : 




And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves 


Then none was for a party — 


Sicken in Ilva's mines ; 


Then all were for the state ; 


And Picus, long to Clusium 


Then the great man help'd the poor, 


Vassal in i)eace and war. 


And the poor man loved the great ; 


Who led to fight his Umbrian powers 


Then lands were fairly portion'd ; 


From that gray crag, where, girt with 


Then spoils were fairly sold : 


towers. 


The Romans were like brothers 


The fortress of Nequinum lowers 


In the brave days of old. 


O'er the pale waves of Nar. 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 289 


Stout Lartius hurl'd down Auiius 


Quoth he, " The she-wolf's litter 


Into the stream beneath ; 


Stand savagely at bay ; 


ITeniiinius struck at Seius, 


But will ye dare to follow, 


And clove him to the teeth ; 


If Astur clears the way ?" 


At Picus brave Horatius 




Darted one fiery thrust, 


Then, whirling up his broadsword 


And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms 


With both hands to the height, 


Clash'd iu the bloody dust. 


He rush'd against Horatius, 




And smote with all his might. 


Then Ocnus of Falerii 


With shield and blade Horatius 


Rush'd on the Roman three ; 


Right deftly turn'd the blow. 


And Lausulus of Urgo , 


The blow, though turn'd, came yet too 


The rover of the sea ; 


nigh. 


And Aruns of Yolsinium, 


It miss'd his helm, but gash'd his thigh — 


Wiio slew the great wild boar — 


The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 


The great wild boar that had his den 


To see the red blood flow. 


Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, 




And wasted fields, and slaughter'd men, 


He reel'd, and on Herminius 


Along Albinia's shore. 


He lean'd one breathing space ; 




Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds. 


Herminius smote down Aruns ; 




Lartius laid Ocnus low ; 
Right to the heart of Lausulus 


Sprang right at Astur's face. 
Through teeth, and skull, and helmet. 


Horatius sent a blow. 


So fierce a thrust he sjied. 


" Lie there," he cried, " fell pirate ! 


The good sword stood a hand-breadth out 


Behind the Tuscan's head. 


No more, agha.st and pale, 




From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark 


And the great lord of Luna 


The track of thy destroying bark. 


Fell at that deadly stroke, 


No more Campania's hinds shall fly 


As falls on Mount Alvernus 


To woods and caverns when they spy 


A thunder-smitten oak. 


Thy thrice-accursfed sail." 


Far o'er the cnushing forest 


But now no sound of laughter 


The giant arms lie spread ; 


Was heard among the foes. 


And the pale augurs, muttering low, 


A wild and wrathful clamor 


Gaze on the blasted head. 


From all the vanguard rose. 


On Astur's throat Horatius 


8ix spears' lengths from the entrance 
Halted that deep array. 


Right firmly press'd his heel, 
And thrice and four times tugg'd amain. 
Ere he wrcnch'd out the steel. 


And for a space no man came forth 


To win the narrow way. 


"And see," he cried, "the welcome, 


But, hark ! the crj- is Astur : 


Fair guests, that wait you here I 


And lo ! the ranks divide ; 


What noble Lueumo comes next 


And the great lord of Luna 


To taste our Roman cheer ?" 


Comes with his stately stride. 




Upon his ample shoulders 


But at his haughty challenge 


Clangs loud the fourfold shield, 


\ sullen murnuir ran. 


And in his hand he siujkes the brand 


Mingled with wrath, and shame, and 


Which none but he can wield. 


dread, 




Along that glittering van. 


He smiled on those bold Romans 


There lack'd not men of prowess, 


A smile serene and high ; 


Nor men of lordly race ; 


He eyed the flinching Tuscans, 


For all Etruria's noblest 


And scorn was in his eye. 
19 


Were round the fatal place. 



290 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


But all Etruria's noblest 


But when they turn'd their faces, 


Felt their hearts sink to see 


And on the farther shore 


On the earth the bloody corpses, 


Saw brave Horatius stand alone, 


In the path the dauntless three, 


They would have cross'd once more ; 


And from the ghastly entrance, 




Where those bold Romans stood. 


But with a crash like thunder 


All shrank — like boys who, unaware. 


Fell every loosen'd beam. 


Ranging the woods to start a hare, 


And, like a dam, the mighty wreck 


Come to the mouth of the dark lair 


Lay right athwart tlie stream ; 


Where, growling low, a fierce old bear 


And a long shout of triumph 


Lies amidst bones and blood. 


Rose from the walls of Rome, 




As to the highest turret-tops 


Was none who would be foremost 


Was splash'd the yellow foam. 


To lead such dire attack : 




But those behind cried " Forward !" 


And like a horse unbroken. 


And those before cried " Back !" 


When first he feels the rein. 


And backward now, and forward, 


The furious river struggled hard, 


Wavers the deep array ; 


And toss'd his tawny mane. 


And on the tossing sea of steel 


And burst the curb, and bounded. 


To and fro the standards reel 


Rejoicing to be free; 


And the victorious trumpet-peal 


And whirling down, in fierce career, 


Dies fitfully away. 


Battlement, and plank, and pier. 




Rush'd headlong to the sea. 


Yet one man for one moment 




Strode out before the crowd ; 


Alone stood brave Horatius, 


Well known was he to all the three, 


But constant still in mind — 


And they gave him greeting loud : 


Thrice thirty thousand foes before. 


"Now welcome, welcome, Sextus ! 


And the broad flood behind. 


Kow welcome to thy home ! 


"Down with him !" cried false Sextus, 


Why dost thou stay, and turn away? 


With a smile on his pale face ; 


Here lies the road to Rome." 


" Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, 


Thrice look'd he at the city ; 


" Now yield thee to our grace !" 


Thrice look'd he at the dead ; 


Round turn'd he, as not deigning 


And thrice came on in fury. 


Those craven ranks to see; 


And thrice turn'd back in dread ; 


Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, 


And, white with fear and hatred. 


To Sextus naught spake he ; 


Scowl'd at the narrow way 


But he saw on Palatinus 


Where, wallowing in a pool of blood. 


The white porch of his home ; 


The bravest Tuscans lay. 


And he spake to the noble river 


But meanwhile axe and lever 


That rolls by the towers of Rome : 


Have manfully been plied;. 




And now the bridge hangs tottering 


"0 Tiber! father Tiber! 


Above the boiling tide. 


To whom the Romans pray. 


"Come back, come back, Horatius !" 


A Roman's life, a Roman's arms. 


Loud cried the fatliers all — 


Take thou in charge this day ! " 


"Back, Lartius ! back, Herminius! 


So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed 


Back, ere the ruin fall !" 


The good sword by his side. 




And, with his harness on his back. 


Back darted Spurius Lartius ; 


Plunged headlong in the tide. 


Herminius darted back ; 




And, as they pass'd, beneath their feet 


No sound of joy or sorrow- 


They felt the timbers crack. 


Was heard from either bank. 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



201 



But friends and foes in dumb surprise, 
With parted lips and straining eyes, 

Stood gazing where he sank ; 
And when above the surges 

They saw his crest api)i'ar, 
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry. 
And even the ranks of Tuscany 

Could scarce forbear to cheer. 

But fiercely ran the current, 

Swollen higli by months of rain. 
And fast his blood was flowing ; 

And he was sore in pain. 
And hea\"y with his armor, 

And spent with changing blows; 
And oft they thought him sinking, 

But still again he rose. 

Never, I ween, did swimmer 

In such an evil case. 
Struggle through such a raging flood 

Safe to the landing-place ; 
But his limbs were borne up bravely 

By the brave heart within, 
And our good father Tiber 

Bare bravely up his chin. 

" Curse on him I" quoth false Sextus, — 

" Will not the villain drown ? 
But for this stay, ere close of day 

We should have sack'd the town !" 
"Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, 

"And bring him safe to shore; 
For such a gallant feat of arms 

Was never seen before." 

And now he feels the bottom ; 

Jsow on dry earth he stands; 
Xow round him throng the fathers 

To press his gory hands; 
And now, with shouts and clapping, 

And noise of weeping loud, 
He enters through the river-gate. 

Borne by the joyous crowd. 

They gave him of the corn-land, 

That was of public right. 
As much as two strong oxen 

Could plough from morn till night ; 
And they made a molten imago, 

And set it up on high — 
And there it stands unto this day 

To witness if I lie. 



It stands in the comitium. 

Plain for all folk to see, — 
Horatius in his harness. 

Halting upon one knee; 
And underneath is written. 

In letters all of gold, 
How valiantly he kept the bridge 

In the brave days of old. 

And still his name sounds stirring 

Unto the men of Rome, 
As the trumpet-blast that cries to them 

To charge the Volscian home ; 
And wives still pray to Juno 

For boys with hearts as bold 
As his who kept the bridge so well 

In the brave days of old. 

And in the nights of winter. 

When the cold north winds blow. 
And the long howling of the wolves 

Is heard amidst the snow ; 
When round the lonely cottage 

Roars loud the tempest's din, 
And the good logs of Algidus 

Roar louder yet within ; 

When the oldest cask is open'd. 

And the largest lamp is lit ; 
When the chestnuts glow in the embers. 

And the kid turns on the spit; 
Wlien young and old in circle 

.\round the firebrands close; 
When the girls are weaving baskets. 

And the lads are shaping bows; 

When the goodman mends his armor, 

And trims his helmet's plume ; 
When the goodwife's shuttle merrily 

Goes fliushing through the loom ; 
With weeping and with laughter 

Still is the story told. 
How well Horatius kept the bridge 

In the brave days of old. 

Thomas Babihgtos Macaui.av. 

Pericles axd aspasia. 

This was the ruler of the land 

When .\thetis was the land of fame; 

This was the light that led the band 
When each was like a living flame; 

The centre of earth's noblest ring, 

Of more than men the more than king. 



292 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Yet not by fetter, nor by spear, 
His sovereignty was lield or won ; 

Fear'd, — but alone as freemen fear, 
Loved, — but as freemen love alone ; 

He waved the sceptre o'er his kind 

By Nature's first great title — mind ! 

Resistless words were on his tongue ; 

Then eloquence first flash'd below ; 
Full arm'd to life the portent sprung — 

Minerva from the Thunderer's brow ! 
And his the sole, the sacred hand 
That shook her segis o'er the land. 

And throned immortal, by his side, 
A woman sits, with eye sublime, — 

Aspasia, all his spirit's bride ; 

But, if their solemn love were crime. 

Pity the beauty and the sage, — 

Their crime was in their darken'd age. 

He perish'd, but his wreath was won, — 
He perish'd on his height of fame ; 

Then sank the cloud on Athens' sun. 
Yet still she conquer'd in his name. 

Fill'd with his soul, she could not die ; 

Her conquest was posterity ! 

George Croly. 



Antony and Cleopatra. 

I AM dying, Egypt, dying, 

Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast, 
And the dark Plutonian shadows 

Gather on the evening blast; 
Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me, 

Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear ; 
Listen to the great heart-secrets, 

Thou, and thou alone, must hear. 

Though my scarr'd and veteran legions 

Bear their eagles high no more, 
And my wreck'd and scatter'd galleys 

Strew dark Aetiuni's fatal shore, 
Though no glittering guards surround me, 

Prompt to do their master's will, 
I must perish like a Roman, 

Die the great Triumvir still. 

Let not C.Tsar's servile minions 

Mock the lion thus laid low ; 
'Twas no foeman's arm that fell'd him, 

'Twas his own that struck the blow ; 



His who, pillow'd on thy bosom, 
Turn'd aside from glory's ray, 

His who, drunk with thy caresses. 
Madly threw a world away. 

Should the base plebeian rabble 

Dare assail my name at Rome, 
Where my noble spouse, Octavia, 

Weeps within her widow'd home. 
Seek her ; say the gods bear witness — 

Altars, augurs, circling wings — 
That her blood, with mine commingled. 

Yet shall mount the throne of kings. 

As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian, 

Glorious sorceress of the Nile, 
Light the path to Stygian horrors 

With the splendors of thy smile. 
Give the Ca?sar crowns and arches. 

Let his brow the laurel twine ; 
I can scorn the Senate's triumphs. 

Triumphing in love like thine. 

I am dying, Egypt, dying; 

Hark ! the insulting foeman's cry. 
They are coming! quick, my falchion. 

Let me front them ere I die. 
Ah ! no more amid the battle 

Shall my heart exulting swell ; 
Isis and Osiris guard thee ! 

Cleopatra, Rome, farewell ! 

William Haines Lytle. 



The Lamentation of Don 
Roderick. 

The hosts of Don Rodrigo were scatter'd 

in dismay, 
When lost was the eighth battle, nor heart 

nor hope had they ; 
He, when he saw that field was lost, and 

all his hope was flown. 
He turn'd him from his flying host, and 

took his way alone. 

His horse was bleeding, blind, and lame — 

he could no farther go ; 
Dismounted, without path or aim, the king 

stepp'd to and fro : 
It was a sight of pity to look on Roderick, 
For, sore athirst and hungry, he stagger'd 

faint and sick. 



HISTORICAL rOEMS. 



2St3 



All stain'd and strew'd with dust iitid blood, 

liko to some siiiouldcriiic; brand 
Pluck'd from the flame, Kodrij^o show'd : 

his sword was in his hand. 
Rut it was hack'd into a saw of dark and 

purple tint ; 
Ilis jewell'd mail had many a flaw, his 

helmet many a dint. 

He climb'd unto a hill-top, the highest he 

could see — 
Thence all about of that wide rout his 

last long look took he ; 
He saw his royal banners, where they lay 

drenchVl and torn. 
He heard the cry of victory, the Arab's 

shout of scorn. 

He look'd for the brave captains that led 

the hosts of ."^pain, 
r>ut all were fled except the dead, and who 

could count the slain? 
Wliere'er his eye could wander, all bloody 

was the plain, 
And, while thus he said, the tears he shed 

ran down his cheeks like rain : — 

" Last night I was the king of Spain — to- 
day no king am I ; 

Last night fair castles held my train — to- 
night where sliall I lie? 

Last night a hundred pages did serve me 
on the knee, — 

To-niglit not one I call mine own : — not 
one pertains to me. 

" Oh, luckless, luckless was the hour, and 

cursed was tlie day. 
When I was born to have the power of 

this great scniory ! 
Unhappy me that I should sec the sun go 

down to-night ! 
O Death, why now so slow art thou, why 

fearest thou to smite?" 

(From the Spanisli.) 
John (tiusoN Lockiiart. 



Harmosan, the last and boldest the invader 

to defy, 
Captive, overborne by numbers, they were 



Then exclaim"d that noble captive : " Lo, 

I perish in my thirst ; 
Give me but one drink of water, and let 

then arrive the worst !" 

In his hand he took the goblet : but a while 

the drauglit forbore. 
Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the 

foeman to explore. 

Well might then have paused the bravest 
— for around him angry foes 

With a hedge of naked weapons did that 
lonel}' man enclose. 

" But what fearest thou?" cried the calij)!!, 
" is it, friend, a secret blow ? 

Fear it not ! our gallant Moslems no such 
treacherous dealing know. 

" Thou may'st quench thy thirst securely, 
for thou shalt not die before 

Thou hast drunk that cup of water — this 
reprieve is thine — no more !" 

Quick the satrap dash'd the goblet down 
to earth with ready hand, 

And the liquid sank for ever, lost amid the 
burning sand. 

" Thou hast said that mine my life is, till 

the water of that cup 
I have drain'd ; then bid thy servants that 

spill'd water gather up !" 

For a moment stood the caliph as by doubt- 
ful pa.ssions stirr'd — 

Then exclaim'd, " For ever sacred must 
remain a monarch's word. 



Jf.tH.MOSAX. 



" Bring another cup. and straightway to 
the noble Persian give : 
Now the third and fatal conflict for the l>rink, I said before, and perish — now I 

Persian throne wius done, I bid thee drink and live 1" 

And the Moslem's fiery valor had the Kiciiaru Cuenevix Tre.scii. 

crowning victorv won. 



294 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Crescentius. 


The Vengeance of mudara. 


I look'd upon his brow ; no sign 


To the chase goes Rodrigo, with hound 


Of guilt or fear was there ; 


and with hawk; 


He stood as proud by that death-shrine 


But what game he desires is reveal'd in 


As even o'er despair 


his talk : 


He liad a power. In his eye 


"Oh, in vain have I slaughter'd the In- 


There was a quenchless energy, 


fants of Lara : 


A spirit that could dare 


There's an heir in his hall,— there's the 


The deadliest form that death could take, 


bastard Mudara — 


And dare it for the daring's sake. 


There's the son of the renegade, spawn of 




Mahoun — 


He stood, the fetters on his hand ; 


If I meet with Mudara, my spear brings 


He raised them haughtily ; 


him down." 


And had that grasp been on the brand. 




It could not wave on high 


While Rodrigo rides on in the heat of his 


With freer pride than it waved now. 


wrath , 


Around he look'd with changeless brow 


A stripling, arm'd cap-i-pie, crosses his 


On many a torture nigh ; 


path : 


The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel. 


" Good morrow, young esquire." " Good 


And, worst of all, his own red steel. 


morrow, old knight." 




" Will you ride with our party and share 


I saw him once before ; he rode 


our delight?" 


Upon a coal-black steed. 


" Speak your name, courteous stranger," 


And tens of thousands throng'd the road, 


the stripling replied ; 


And bade their warrior speed. 


"Speak your name and your lineage, ere 


His helm, his breast-plate, were of gold, 


with you I ride." 


And graved with many a dent, that told 




Of many a soldier's deed ; 


"My name is Rodrigo," thus answer'd the 


The sun shone on his sparkling mail. 


knight ; 


And danced his snow-plume on the gale. 


" Of the line of old Lara, though barr'd 




from my right, 


But now he stood chain'd and alone. 


For the kinsman of Salas proclaims for 


The headsman by his side, 


the heir 


The plume, the helm, the charger gone ; 


Of our ancestor's castles and forestries 


The sword which had defied 


fair 


The mightiest lay broken near ; 


A bastard, a renegade's offspring — Mu- 


And yet no sign or sound of fear 


dara — 


Came from that lip of pride, 


Whom I'll send, if I can, to the Infants of 


And never king's or conqueror's brow 


Lara." 


"Wore higher look than his did now. 






"I behold thee, disgrace to thy lineage! — 


He bent beneath the headsman's stroke 


with joy 


With an uncover'd eye ; 


I behold thee, thou murderer !" answer'd 


A wild shout from the numbers broke 


the boy ; 


Who throng'd to see him die. 


" The bastard you curse, you behold him 


It was a people's loud acclaim, 


in me. 


The voice of anger and of shame, 


But his brothers' avenger that bastard 


A nation's funeral cry. 


shall be! 


Rome's wail above her only son. 


Draw ! for I am the renegade's offspring. 


Her patriot, and her latest one. 


Mudara ; 


L.ET1TIA Elizabeth Lani;o.\ Maclean. 


We shall see who inherits the life-blood 




of Lara." 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 295 


" I am arm'd for the forcst-chasp, not for 


O'er thee, King! their hundred arms they 


the tifc'lit ; 


wave. 


Let me go for my shield and my sword," 


Revenge on thee iu hoarser murmurs 


cries tiie knight. 


breathe ; 


" Now the mercy you dealt to my brothers 


Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, 


of old, 


To high-born Hoel's harp, or .soft Llewel- ' 


Be the hope of that mercy the comfort you 


lyn's lay. 


hold ; 




Die, foeman to Sancha, — die, traitor to 


" Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, 


Lara '." 


That hush'd the stormy main : 


As he spake, there was blood on the spear 

of Mudara. 

(From the Spanish.) 

JOHS GiBSOM LOCKUART. 


Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : 
Mountains, ye mourn in vain 
Modred, whose magic song 
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt 
head. 
On dreary Arvon's shore tliey lie 


The Baud. 


A Pindaric Ode. 


Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale : 
Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail ; 


" Euix seize thee, ruthless King ! 


The famish'd eagle screams, and piisses 


Confusion on thy banners wait ! 


by. 


Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, 


Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, 


They mock the air with idle state. 


Dear as the light that visits these sad 


Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail. 


eyes, 


Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail 


Dear as the ruddy drops that warm iiiy 


To save thy secret soul from nightly fears. 


heart. 


From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's 


Ye died amidst your dying country's 


tears!" 


cries — 


— .Such were the sounds that o'er the 


No more I wee)). Tlicy do not sleep. 


crested pride 


On yonder cliffs, a grisly band. 


Of the lirst Edward scattcr'd wild dis- 


I see them sit ; they linger yet. 


may. 


Avengers of their native land : 


As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggj' 


With me in dreadful harmony they join. 


side 


And weave with bloody hands the tissue 


He wound with toilsome marcli his long 


of thy line. 


array. 




Stout Gio'ster stood agliast in speechless 


" Weave the warp and weave the woof, 


trance ; 
" To arms I" cried Jlortimer, and couch'd 
his quiv'ring lance. 


The winding-sheet of Edward's race: 
Give ample room iuid verge enough 
The characters of hell to trace. 




Mark the year an<l mark tlie night 


On a rock wliose haughty brow 


When Severn shall re-echo with affright 


J'rowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, 


The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof 


Robed iu the sable garb of woe. 


that ring. 


With luiggard eyes the poet stood : 


Shrieks of an agonizing king ! 


(Loose his beard and hoary hair 


She-wolf of France, witli unrelenting 


Streani'd like a meteor to tlie troubied air), 


fangs, 


And witli a master's hand and pr()]>hct's 


That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled 


fire 


mate. 


Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: 


From thee be born, who o'er thy country 


" Hark, how each giant oak and desert cave 


hangs 


Sighs to the torrent's awful voice be- 


The scourge of Heaven ! What terrors 


neath ! 


round him wait! 



29G FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 


Amazement in his van, with flight com- 


Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed 


bined, 


loom. 


And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude 


Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify 


behind. 


his doom. 


" Mighty victor, mighty lord, 


" Edward, lo ! to sudden fate 


Low on his funeral couch he lies ! 


(Weave we the woof. The thread is 


No pitying heart, no eye, aflbrd 


spun). 


A tear to grace his obsequies. 


Half of thy heart we consecrate. 


Is the sable warrior fled ? 


(The web is wove. The work is done.) 


Thy son is gone. He rests among the 


Stay, oh, stay! nor thus forlorn 


dead. 


Leave me unbless'd, unpiticd, here to 


The swarm that in thy noontide beam 


mourn : 


were born ? 


In yon bright track that fires the western 


• — Gone to salute the rising morn. 


skies 


Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr 


They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 


blows, 


But oh, what solemn scenes on Snowdon's 


While proudly riding o'er the azure 


height 


realm 


Descending slow their glittering skirts 


In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes : 


unroll ? 


Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the 


Visions of glory, spare my aching sight ! 


helm : 


Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! 


Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's 


No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail:— 


sway, 


All hail, ye genuine kings ! Britannia's 


That hush'd in grim repose expects his 


issue, hail ! 


evening prey. 






" Girt with many a baron bold 


" Fill high the sparkling bowl. 


Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; 


The rich repast prepare ; 


And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old 


Reft of a crown, he yet may share the 


In bearded majesty, ajipear. 


feast : 


In the midst a form divine ! 


Close by the regal chair 


Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line: 


Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 


Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face 


A baleful smile upon their baffled 


Attemper'd sweet to virgin grace. 


guest. 


What strings symphonious tremble in the 


Heard ye the din of battle bray. 


air, 


Lance to lance, and horse to horse ? 


What strains of vocal transport round 


Long years of havoc urge their destined 


her play ! 


course. 


Hear from the grave, great Talicssin, 


And thro' the kindred squadrons mow 


hear ; 


their way. 


They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 


Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting 


Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she 


shame. 


sings, 


With many a foul and midnight murder 


Waves in the eye of Heaven her many- 


fed, 


color'd wings. 


Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's 




fame, 


" The verse adorn again 


And spare the meek usurper's holy head. 


Fierce War and faithful Love, 


Above, below, the rose of snow. 


And Truth severe by fairy Fiction drest. 


Twined with her blushing foe, we 


In buskin'd measures move 


spread : 


Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, 


The bristled boar in infant gore 


With Horror, tyraut of the throbbing 


Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 


breast. 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



2117 



A voice as of the cherub-choir 
Gales from blooming Eden bear, 
And distant warblings lessen on my ear 
That lost in hmjr futurity expire. 
Fond impious man, thiiik'st tliou yon san- 
guine cloud 
Raised by thy breath has quench'd the 
orb of day? 
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood 
And warms the nations with redoubled 
ray. 
Enough for me : with joy I see 

The diff"'reiit doom our fates a.ssign : 
Be thine Despair and sceptred Care ; 
To triumph and to die are mine." 
— He spoke, and headlong from the moun- 
tain's height 
Deep in the roariug tide he plunged to 

endless night. 

Thomas Gkay. 

Basnovkd URX. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled — 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led — 
Welcome to your gory bed. 
Or to victorie ! 

Now's the day and now's the hour; 
See the front o' battle lower; 
See approach proud Edward's power — 
Chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave? 
Wha can till a coward's grave? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Let him turn and flee! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand or freeman fa' — 
Let him follow me! 

By oppression's woes and pains! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be free I 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe! 
Liberty's in every blow! 
Let us do, or die ! 

BOBERT BDBXS. 



A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD. 

The Moorish king rides up and down 
Through Granada's royal town ; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 

Woe is me, Albania ! 

Letters to the monarch tell 
How Alhama's city fell : 
In tlie fire the scroll he threw, 
And the messenger he slew. 

Woe is me, Albania ! 

He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, 
And through the street directs his course; 
Tlirough the street of Zacatin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 
Woe is me, Albania! 

When the Alhambra walls he gain'd, 
On the moment he ordain'd 
That the trumpet straight should sound 
With the silver clarion round. 
Woe is me, Alhania ! 

And when the hollow drums of war 
Beat the loud alarm afar, 
That the Moors of town and i)lain 
Might answer to the martial strain, 
Woe is me, Alhauui I 

Then the Moors, by this aware 
That bloody Mars recall'd them there. 
One by one, and two by two. 
To a mighty scjuadron grew. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

Out then spake an aged Jloor 
In these words the king before: 
" Wherefore call on us, O king? 
What may mean this gathering?" 
Woe is me, Alhania ! 

" Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know 
Of a most disastrous blow, 
Tiiat the Christians, stern and bold, 
Have obtain'd Alhama's hold." 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

Out then spake old Alfaijui, 
With liis beard so white to see, 
"Good king, thou art justly served. 
Good king, tliis thou hast deserved. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 



298 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


" By thee were slain, in evil hour, 


" Sires have lost their children, wives 


The Abencerrage, Granada's flower ; 


Their lords, and valiant men their lives ; 


And strangers were received by thee 


One what best his love might claim 


Of Cordova the chivalry. 


Hath lost, another wealth or fame. 


Woe is me, Alhama ! 


Woe is me, Alhama ! 


" And for this, king ! is sent 


" I lost a damsel in that hour. 


On thee a double chastisement. 


Of all the land the loveliest flower; 


Thee and thine, thy crown and realm. 


Doubloons a hundred I would pay, 

And think her ransom cheap that day." 
Woe is me, Alhanui ! 


One last wreck shall overwhelm. 


Woe is me, Alhama ! 




" He who holds no laws in awe, 




He must perish by the law ; 


And as these things the old Jloor said, 


And Granada must be won, 


They sever'd from the trunk his head ; 


And thyself with her undone." 


And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 


Woe is me, Alhama! 


'Twas carried, as the king decreed. 




Woe is me, Alhama ! 


Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes. 




The monarch's wrath began to rise. 


And men and infants therein weep 


Because he answer'd, and because 


Their loss, so heavy and so deep ; 


He spake exceeding well of laws. 


Granada's ladies, all she rears 


Woe is me, Alhama ! 


Within her walls, burst into tears. 




Woe is me, Alhama ! 


" There is no law to say such things 




As may disgust the ear of kings :" — 
Thus, snorting with his choler, said 


And from the windows o'er the walls 




The Moorish king, and doom'd him dead. 


The sable web of mourning falls; 


Woe is me, Alhama 1 


The king weeps as a woman o'er 




His loss, for it is much and sore. 


Moor Alfoqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! 


Woe is me, Alhama ! 

(From the Spanisli.) 


Though thy beard so hoary be. 


LoBD Byron. 


The king hath sent to have thee seized, 




For Albania's loss displeased. 


•o* 


Woe is me, Alhama ! 


THE LORD OF Bum AGO. 


And to fix thy head upon 


" YouE horse is faint, my King — my Lord ! 


High Alhambra's loftiest stone ; 


your gallant horse is sick — 


That this for thee should be the law. 


His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on 


And others tremble when they saw. 


his eye the film is thick ; 


Woe is me, xVlhanial 


Mount, mount on mine, oh, mount apace, 




I pray thee, mount and fly! 


" Cavalier I and man of worth ! 


Or in my arms I'll lift Your Grace — their 


Let these words of mine go forth ; 


trampling hoofs are nigh ! 


Let the Moorish monarch know, 




That to him I nothing owe : 


" My King — my King ! you're wounded 


Woe is me, ^Vlhama ! 


sore — the blood runs from your feet ; 




But only lay a hand before, and I'll lift 


" But on my soul Alhama weighs, 


you to your seat : 


And on my inmost spirit preys ; 


Mount, Juan, for they gather fast ! — I hear 


And if the king his land hath lost. 


their coming cry — 


Yet others may have lost the most. 


Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy — I'll 


Woe is me, Alhama ! 


save you though I die ! 



"Stand, noble steed ! this hour of need^ 

be gentle as a lamb : 
I'll kiss the foam from off thy mouth — thy 

master dear I am — 
Mount, Juan, mount ! whate'er betide, 

away the bridle Hing, 
And plunge the rowels in his side. — My 

horse shall save my King I 

" Xay, never speak ; my sires. Lord King, 

received their land from yours, 
And joyfully tluir blood shall spring, so 

be it thine secures : 
If I should fly, and thou, my King, be 

found among the dead, 
How could I stand 'mong gentlemen, such 

scorn on niy gray head ? 

"Castile's jiroud dames shall never point 

the finger of disdain, 
And say there's oxe that ran away when 

our good lords were slain ! — 
I leave Diego in your care — you'll fill his 

father's place : 
Strike, strike the spur, and never spare — 

God's blessing on Your (trace !" 

So spake the brave Montafiez, Butrago's 

lord was he ; 
And turn'd him to the coming host in 

steadfastness and glee ; 
He flung himself among them, as they 

came down the hill — 
He died, God wot ! but not before his 

sword had drunk its fill. 

(From the .Spanish.) 
John Gibson Lockhart. 



Maki: Way for Liberty. 

" Make way for liberty !" — he cried ; 
Made way for liberty, and died ! 

In arms the Austrian j)hahinx stood, 

.\ living wall, a human wood I 

.\ wall, where every conscious stone 

Seem'd to its kindred thousands grown ; 

A rampart all a.ssaults to bear, 

Till time to dust their frames should wear ; 

A wood, like that enchanted grove 

In which with fiends Rinaldo strove, 

Where every silent tree possess'd 

A spirit prison'd in its breast, 



Which the first stroke of coming strife 
Would startle into hideous life; 
So dense, so still, the Austrians stood, 
A living wall, a human wood ! 
Impregnable their front appears, 
All horrent with jirojected spears, 
Whose polish'd points before them shine. 
From flank to flank, one brilliant line. 
Bright as the breakers' s[>lendors run 
Along the billows, to the Sun. 

Opposed to these, a hovering band 
Contended for their native land : 
Peasants, whose new-found strength had 

broke 
From manly necks the ignoble yoke, 
And forged their fetters into swords. 
On equal terms to fight their lords : 
And wliat insurgent rage had gain'd. 
In many a mortal fray niaintain'd ; 
Marshall'd once more at Freedom's call. 
They came to conquer or to fall. 
Where he who conquer'd, he who fell. 
Was deem'd a dead or living Tell ! 
Such virtue had that patriot breathed. 
So to the soil his .soul bequeathed, 
That wheresoe'er his arrows flew. 
Heroes in his own likeness grew. 
And warriors sprang from every sod 
Which his awakening footstep trod. 

And now the work of life and death 
Hung on the passing of a breath ; 
The fire of conflict burnt within, 
The battle trembled to begin : 
Yet while the Austrians held their ground, 
Point for attack was nowhere found. 
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed. 
The unbroken line of lances blazed; 
That line 'twere suicide to meet. 
And perish at their tyrants' feet, — 
How could they rest within their graves. 
And leave their homes the homes of slaves? 
Would they not feel their eliihlren tread 
With clanging chains above their head ? 

It must not be : this day, this hour. 
Annihilates the oppressor's power; 
All .Switzerland is in the field, 
She will not fly, she cannot yield — 
She must not fall ; her better fate 
Here gives her an immortal date. 



300 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Few were the number she could boast ; 


And taking many a fort. 


But every freeman was a host, 


Furnish'd in warlike sort. 


And felt as though himself were he 


March'd toward Agincourt 


On whose sole arm hung victory. 


In happy hour — 




Skirmishing day by day 
With those that stopp'd his way. 
Where the French gen'ral lay 
With all his power. 


It did depend on one, indeed ; 


Behold him — Arnold Winkelried ! • 


There sounds not to the trump of fame 


The echo of a nobler name. 


Unmark'd, he stood amid the throng, 


Which in his height of pride, 


In rumination deep and long, 


King Henry to deride, 


Till you might see, with sudden grace, 


His ransom to provide 


The very thought come o'er his face, 


To the king sending ; 


And by the motion of his form 


Which he neglects the while, 


Anticipate the bursting storm ; 


As from a nation vile. 


And by the uplifting of his brow 


Yet, with an angry smile, 


Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. 


Their fall portending. 


But 'twas no sooner thought than done, 


And turning to his men, 


The field was in a moment won : — 


Quoth our brave Henry then : 


" Make way for Liberty !" he cried. 


Though they to one be ten, 


Then ran, with arms extended wide, 


Be not amazed ; 


As if his dearest friend to clasp ; 


Yet have we well beguu — 


Ten spears he swept within his grasp. 


Battles so bravely won 




Have ever to the sun 


" Make way for Liberty !" he cried : 


By fame been raised. 


Their keen points met from side to side ; 




He bow'd amongst them like a tree. 


And for myself, quoth he, 


And thus made way for Liberty. 


This my full rest shall be; 




England, ne'er mourn for me. 


Swift to the breach his comrades fly ; 


Nor more esteem me. 


"Make way for Liberty !" they cry. 


Victor I will remain, 


And through the Austrian phalanx dart. 


Or on this earth lie slain ; 


As rush'd the spears through Arnold's 


Never shall she sustain 


heart ; 


Loss to redeem me. 


While, instantaneous as his fall, 




Rout, ruin, panic scatter'd all: 


Poitiers and Cressy tell. 


An earthquake could not overthrow 


When most their pride did swell, 


A city with a surer blow. 


Under our swords they fell ; 


Thus Switzerland again was free : 


No less our skill is 


Thus death made way for liberty ! 


Than when our grandsire great, 


James Montgomery. 


Claiming the regal seat, 




By many a warlike feat 




Lopp'd the French lilies. 


The Ballad of Agin court. 




Fair stood the wind for France 


The duke of York so dread 


When we our sails advance, 


The eager vaward led ; 


Nor now to prove our chance 


With the main Henry sped. 


Longer will tarry ; 


Amongst his henchmen. 


But putting to the main. 


Excester had the rear — 


At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, 


A braver man not there: 


With all his martial train. 


Lord ! how hot they were 


Landed King Harry. 


On the false Frenchmen ! 





HISTORICAL POEMS. 301 


Thoy now to fight are gone ; 


Warwick in blood did wade ; 


Armor on armor shone ; 


Oxford the foe invade. 


Drum now to drum did groan — 


And cruel slaughter made, 


To hear was wonder ; 


Still as they ran up. 


That with the cries they make 


Suffolk his axe did ply ; 


The very earth did shake ; 


Beaumont and Willougliby 


Trumpet to trumpet spake, 


Bare them right doughtily. 


.Thunder to thunder. 


Ferrers and Fanhope. 


Well it thine age became, 


Upon Saint Crispin's d.ay 


noble Erpingham ! 


Fought was this noble fray. 


Which did the signal aim 


Which fame did not delay 


To our hid forces ; 


To England to carry ; 


When, from a meadow by, 


Oh, when shall Englishmen 


Like a storm suddenly, 


With such acts fill a \wn, 


The English archery 


Or England breed again 


Struck the French horses, 


Such a King Harry? 




MiciiAEi. Drayton. 


With Spanish yew so strong, 


,j. 


Arrows a cloth-yard long, 
That like to serpents stung. 




THE BALLAD OF CIIEVY-CHACE. 


Piercing the weather ; 


God prosper long our nol)le king. 


None from his fellow starts. 


Our lives and safctyes all ; 


But playing manly parts. 


A woefull hunting once there did 


And like true English hearts. 


In Chevy-Chace befall ; 


Stuck close together. 






To drive the deere with hound and home, 


When down their bows tliey threw. 


Erie Percy took his way. 


And forth tlicir bilbows drew. 


The child may rue that is unborne. 


And on the French they flew, 


The hunting of that day. 


Not one was tardy : 


The stout Erie of Northuml)erland 


Arms were from shoulders sent ; 




Scalps to the teeth were rent; 


A vow to God did make. 
His pleasure in the Scottish woods 


Down the French peasant.s went ; 


* 


Three summirs days to take; 


Our men were hardy. 






The cheefest harts in Chcvy-Ch.ace 


This while our noble king. 


To kill and bcare away. 


His broadsword bramlishing, 


These tydings to Erie Douglas came. 


Down the French host did ding. 


In Scottland where he lay : 


As to o'erwhelm it ; 




And many a deep wound lent. 


Who sent Eric Percy present word. 


His arms with blood besprent. 


He would prevent his sport. 


And many a cruel dent 


The English Erie, not fearing that. 


Bruised his helmet. 


Did to the woods resort, 




With fifteen hundred bow-men bold ; 


Glo'.ster, that duke so good, 


All chosen men of might, 


Ne.xt of the royal bloocl. 


Who knew full well in time of necde 


For famous England stood. 


To ayme their shafts aright. 


With his l)rave brother — 




Clarence, in .steel so bright, 


The gallant greyhounds .swiftly ran. 


Tliougli but a maiden knight. 


To chase the fallow decrc : 


Yet in tliat furious fight 


On llunday they began to hunt. 


Scarce such another. 


Ere daylight did appeare ; 



302 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


And long before high noone they had 

An hundred fat bucbes slaiue ; 
Then having dined, the drovyers went 
To rouze the deare againe. 


The first man that did answer make 

Was noble Percy hee ; 
Who sayd, Wee list not to declare, 

Nor shew whose men we bee. 


The bow-men muster'd on the hills, 

Well able to endure ; 
And all their rear, with speciall care, 

That day was guarded sure. 


Yet wee will spend our deerest blood, 

Thy cheefest harts to slay. 
Then Douglas swore a solempne oa,the, 

And thus in rage did say. 


The hounds ran swiftly through the woods. 

The nimble deere to take. 
That with their cryes the hills and dales 

An eccho shrill did make. 


Ere thus I will out-braved bee. 
One of us two shall dye : 

I know thee well, an erle thou art ; 
Lord Percy, soe am I. 


Lord Percy to the quarry went, 
To view the slaughter'd deere ; 

Quoth he, Erie Douglas promised 
This day to meet me heere : 


But trust me, Percy, pittye it were 
And great oilence to kill 

Any of these our guiltlesse men, 
For they have done no ill. 


But if I thought he wold not come, 

Noe longer wold I stay. 
With that, a brave younge gentleman 

Thus to the Erie did say : 


Let thou and I the battell trye, 
And set our men aside. 

Accurst bee he, Erie Percy sayd, 
By whom this is deny'd. 


Loe, yonder doth Erie Douglas come, 
His men in armour bright ; 

Full twenty hundred Scottish speres 
All marching in our sight; 


Then stept a gallant squier forth, 
Withcringtou was his name. 

Who said, I wold not have it told 
To Henry our king for shame, 


All men of pleasant Tivydale, 
Fast by the river Tweede : 

cease your sports, Erie Percy said, 
And take your bowes with speede. 


That ere my captaine fought on foote 

And I stood looking on. 
You bee two erles, sayd Witherinton, 

And I a squier alone : 


And now with me, my countrymen, 
Your courage forth advance ; 

For there was never champion yett 
In Scotland or in France, 


He doe the best that doe I may. 
While I have power to stand : 

While I have power to weeld my sword. 
He fight with heart and hand. 


That ever did on liorsebacke come, 

But if my hap it were, 
I durst encounter man for man, 

With him to break a spere. 


Our English archers bent their bowes, 
Their hearts were good and trew ; 

Att the first flight of arrowes sent, 
Full four-score Scots they slew. 


Eric Douglas on his milke- white steede, 

Most like a baron bold, 
Rode formost of his company. 

Whose armour shone like gold. 


[Yet bides Earl Douglas on the bent, 
As Chieftan stout and good. 

As valiant Captain, all unmoved 
The shock he firmly stood. 


Show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee, 

That hunt soe boldly heere, 
That, without my consent, doe chase 

And kill my fallow-deere. 


His host he parted had in three, 
As Leader ware and try'd. 

And soon his spearmen on their foes 
Bare down on every side. 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 303 


To drive the deere with hound and home. 

Douglas bade on the bent ; 
Two captaines moved with micklc might 

Their speares to shivers went. 


Who never spake more words than these, 
Fight on, my merry men all ; 

For why, my life is at an end ; 
Lord Percy sees my fall. 


Throughout the English archery 

They dealt full many a wound : 
But still our valiant Englishmen 
All firmly kept their ground : 


Then leaving liffe, Erie Percy tooke 
The dead man by the hand ; 

And said, Erie Douglas, for thy life 
Wold I had lost my land. 


And throwing strait their bows away, 
They gra.sp'd their swords so bright : 

And now sliarp blows, a heavy sliower, 
On shields and helmets light.J 


Christ! my verry hert doth bleed 
With sorrow for thy sake ; 

For sure, a more redoubted knight 
Mischance cold never take. 


They closed full fast on everye side, 
Noe slaeknes there was found ; 

And many a gallant gentleman 
Lay gasping on the ground. 


A knight amongst the Scotts there w.as. 
Which saw Erie Douglas dye, 

Who streight in wrath did vow revenge 
Upon the Lord Percye: 


Christ I it was a griefe to see, 
And likewise for to heare, 

The cries of men lying in their gore, 
And scatter'd here and there. 


Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he caird, 
Who with a speare most bright. 

Well-mounted on a gallant steed, 
Kan fiercely through the fight ; 


At last these two stout erles did meet, 
Like captaines of great might : 

Like lyons wood, they layd on lode, 
And made a cruell fight : 


And pa-st the English archers all. 
Without all dread or feare; 

And through Eric Percyes body then 
He thrust his hateful! speare ; 


They fought untill they both did sweat. 
With swords of temper'd Steele ; 

Until the blood, like drojis of rain, 
They trickling downe did feele. 


With such a vehement force and might 

He did his body gore, 
The staff ran through the other side 

A large cloth-yard, and more. 


Yeeld thee. Lord Percy, Douglas sayd ; 

In faith I will thee bringe. 
Where thou shalt high advanced bee 

By James our Scottish king: 


So thus did both these nobles dye, 
AVhose courage none could staine ; 

An English archer then perceived 
The noble erle was slainc ; 


Thy ransome I will freely give. 

And this report of thee. 
Thou art the most courageous knight 

That ever I did see. 


He had a bow bent in his hand, 
JIade of a trusty tree; 

An arrow of a cloth-yard long 
Ui> to the head drew lice : 


Noe, Douglas, quoth Erie Percy then. 

Thy proffer I doe scorne ; 
I will not yeelde to any t^cott. 

That ever yett was borne. 


Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerj-e, 

So right the shaft he sett. 
The gray goose-wing that was thereon, 

In his hart.s blood was wett. 


With that, there came an arrow keene 

Out of an ^'llglisll bow, 
Which struck Erie Douglas to the heart, 

A deepe and dcadlyc blow : 


This fight did last from break of day 

Till setting of the sun, 
For when they rung the evening bell. 

The battle scarce was done. 



30-t 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



With stout Erie Percy, there was slaiue 

yir John of Egerton, 
Sir Robert Ratcliff', and Sir John, 

Sir James that bold barren ; 

And with Sir George and stout Sir James, 
Both knights of good account, 

Good hSir Ralph Raby there was slaine. 
Whose prowesse did surmount. 

For Witheriiigton needs must I wayle 

As one in doleful dumpes, 
For when his legs were smitten off. 

He fought upon his stumpes. 

And with Erie Douglas, there was slaine 

Sir Hugh Mountgomerye, 
Sir Charles Murray, that from the feeld 

One foote wold never flee. 

Sir Charles Murray, of Ratcliff, too, 

His sisters sonne was hee ; 
Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd. 

Yet savfed cold not bee. 

And the Lord Maxwell in like case 

Did with Erie Douglas dye ; 
Of twenty hundred Scottish speres. 

Scarce fifty-five did flye. 

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, 

Went home but fifty-three ; 
The rest were slaine in Chevy-Chace, 

Under the greene woode tree. 

Next day did many widowes come. 

Their husbands to bewayle ; 
They washt their wounds in brinish teares, 

But all wold not prevayle. 

Theyr bodies, bathed in purple gore. 

They bare with them away, 
They kist them dead a thousand times. 

Ere they were cladd in clay. 

The newes was brought to Eddenborrow, 
Whore Scotlands king did raigne. 

That brave Erie Douglas suddenlye 
Was with an arrow slaine. 

heavy newes. King James did say, 
Scotland may witnesse bee, 

1 have not any cajitaine more 
Of such account as hee. 



Like tydings to King Henry came. 

Within as short a space, 
That Percy of Northumberland 

Was slaine in Chevy-Chace. 

Now God be with him, said our king, 

Sith it will noe better bee ; 
I trust I have within my realme 

Five hundred as good as he ; 

Yett shall not Scotts nor Scotland say, 

But I will vengeance take ; 
He be revenged on them all, 

For brave Erie Percyes sake. 

This vow full well the king perform'd 

After, at Humbledowne; 
In one day fifty knights were slayne, 

With lords of great renowne; 

And of the rest, of small account, 

Did many thousands dye ; 
Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace, 

Made by the Erie Percye. 

God save our king, and bless this land 
With plentye, joy, and peace ; 

And grant henceforth, that foule debate 
'Twixt noblemen may cease. 

Author Unknown. 



Edinburgh after Flodden. 

News of battle ! — news of battle ! 

Hark ! 'tis ringing down the street ; 
And the archways and the pavement 

Bear the clang of hurrying feet. 
News of battle I who hath brought it? 

News of triumph ? Who should bring 
Tidings from our noble army, 

Greetings from our gallant King ? 
All last night we watch'd the beacons 

Blazing on the hills afar. 
Each one bearing, as it kindled, 

Message of the open'd war, 
All night long the northern streamers 

Shot across the trembling sky : 
Fearful lights that never beckon 

Save when kings or heroes die. 

News of battle ? Who hath brought it ? 

All are thronging to the gate ; 
" Warder — warder I open quickly ! 

Man — is this a time to wait ?" 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



305 



And the heavy gates are open'd : 

Then a murmur long and loud, 
And a cry of I'ear and wonder 

Bursts from out the bending crowd. 
For they see in batter'd harness 

Only one hard-stricken man ; 
And his weary steed is wounded, 

And his cheek is pale and wan : 
Spearless hangs a bloody banner 

In his weak and drooping hand — 
God ! can that be Kandolph Murray, 

Captain of the city band ? 

Round him crush the people, crying, 

" Tell us all— oh, tell us true ! 
Where are they who went to battle. 

Randolph Murray, sworn to you? 
Where are they, our brothers — children ? 

Have they met the English foe ? 
Why art thou alone, unfoUow'd ? 

Is it weal or is it woe ?" 
Like a corpse the grisly warrior 

Looks from out his helm of steel ; 
But no word he speaks in answer — 

Only with his armed heel 
Chides his weary steed, and onward 

Up the city streets they ride ; 
Fathers, sisters, mothers, children, 

Shrieking, praying by his side. 
" By the God that made thee, Randolph ! 

Tell us what mischance hath come." 
Then he lifts his riven banner, 

And the asker's voice is dumb. 

The elders of the city 

Have met within their hall — 
The men whom good King James had 
charged 

To watch the tower and wall. 
" Your hands are weak with age," he said, 
" Your hearts are stout and true ; 
So bide ye in the Maiden Town, 

While others fight for you. 
My trumpet from the Border-side 

Shall send a blast so clear. 
That all who wait within the gate 

That stirring sound may hear. 
Or, if it be the will of Heaven 

That back I never come, 
And if, instead of Scottish shouts, 

Ye hear the English drum — 
Then let the warning bells ring out, 

Then gird vou to the frav, 
20 



Then man the walls like burghers stout. 
And fight while fight you may. 

'Twcre better that in fiery fiame 
The roofs should thunder down. 

Than that the foot of foreign foe 
Should trample in the town !" 

Then in came Randolph Murray, — 

His step was slow and weak. 
And, as he dotf'd his dinted helm. 

The tears ran down his cheek : 
They fell upon his corslet 

And on his mailed hand. 
As he gazed around him wistfully, 

Leaning sorely on his brand. 
And none wlio then beheld him 

But straight were smote with fear. 
For a bolder and a sterner man 

Had never couch'd a spear. 
They knew so sad a messenger 

Some ghastly news must bring ; 
And all of them were fathers. 

And their sons were with the King. 

And up then rose the Provost — 

A brave old man was he, 
Of ancient name, and knightly fame. 

And chivalrous degree. 
He ruled our city like a lord 

Who brook'd no equal here. 
And ever for the townsman's rights 

Stood up 'gainst jjrince and peer. 
And he had seen the Scottish host 

March from the borough-muir. 
With music-storm and clamorous shout. 
And all the din that thunders out 

When youth's of victory sure. 
But yet a dearer thought had he, — 

For, with a father's pride. 
He saw his last remaining son 

Go forth by Randolph's side, 
With casque on head and spur on heel, 

All keen to do and dare ; 
And proudly did that gallant boy 

Dunedin's banner bear. 
Oh, woeful now was the old man's look, 

And he spake right heavily — 
" Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings. 

However sharp they be I 
Woe is written on thy visage, 

Death is looking from thy face : 
Speak I thougii it be of overthrow — 

It cannot be disgrace !" 



300 FIRESIDE ENCYLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. 


Eight bitter was the agony 


But within the Council Chamber 


That wrung that soldier proud : 


All was silent as the grave. 


Thrice did lie strive to answer, 


Whilst the tempest of their sorrow 


And thrice he groan'd aloud. 


Shook the bosoms of the brave. 


Then he gave the riven banner 


Well indeed might they be shaken 


To the old man's shaking hand, 


With the weight of such a blow : 


Saying, " That is all I bring ye 


He was gone — their prince, their idol. 


From the bravest of the land ! 


Whom they loved and worshipp'd so ! 


Ay ! ye may look upon it — 


Like a knell of death and judgment 


It was guarded well and long 


Rung from heaven by angel hand, 


By your brothers and your children, 


Fell the words of desolation 


By the valiant and the strong. 


On the elders of the land. 


One by one they fell around it. 


Hoary heads were bow'd and trembling, 


As the archers laid them low. 


Wither'd hands were clasp'd and wrung ; 


Grimly dying, still unconquer'd, 


God had left the old and feeble, 


With their faces to the foe. 


He had ta'en away the young. 


Ay, ye may well look upon it — 




There is more than honor there, 




Else, be sure, I had not brought it 


Then the Provost he uprose. 


From the field of dark despair. 


And his lip was ashen white ; 


Never yet was royal banner 


But a flush was on his brow, 


Steep'd in such a costly dye ; 


And his eye was full of light. 


It hath lain upon a bosom 


"Thou hast spoken, Randolph Murray, 


Where no other shroud shall lie. 


Like a soldier stout and true ; 


Sirs, I charge you, keep it holy ; 


Thou hast done a deed of daring 


Keep it as a sacred thing, 


Had been perill'd but by few. 


For the stain ye see upon it 


For thou hast not shamed to face us, 


Was the life-blood of your King!" 


Nor to speak thy ghastly tale. 




Standing — thou a knight and captain — 




Here, alive within thy mail ! 


Woe, and woe, and lamentation ! 


Now, as my God shall judge me. 


What a piteous cry was there ! 


I hold it braver done, 


Widows, maidens, mothers, children. 


Than hadst thou tarried in thy place. 


Shrieking, sobbing in despair ! 


And died above my son ! 


Through the streets the death-word rushes, 


Thou needst not tell it : he is dead. 


Spreading terror, sweeping on — 


God help us all this day ! 


" Jesu Christ ! our King has fallen — 


But speak — how fought the citizens 


Great God, King James is gone ! 


Within the furious fray ? 


Holy Mother Mary, shield us. 


For, by the might of Mary ! 


Thou who erst didst lose thy Son ! 


'Twere something still to tell 


the blackest day for Scotland 


That no Scottish foot went backward 


That she ever knew before ! 


When the Royal Lion fell !" 


our King — the good, the noble, 




Shall we see him never more ? 




Woe to us, and woe to Scotland ! 


" No one fail'd him ! He is keeping 


our sons, our sons and men ! 


Royal state and semblance still; 


Surely some have 'scaped the Southron, 


Knight and noble lie around him, 


Surely some will come again !" 


Cold on Flodden's fatal hill. 


Till the oak that fell last winter 


Of the brave and gallant-hearted, 


Shall uprear its shatter'd stem — 


■\Vhom ye sent with prayers away, 


Wives and mothers of Dunedin — 


Not a single man departed 


Ye may look in vain for them ! 


From his JMonarch yesterday. 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 307 


Had you seen them, my masters I 


And the rampart's throng'd with watchers 


When the night began to fall, 


For the coming of the foe. 


And the English spearmen gather'il 


From each mountain-top a pillar 


Round a grim and ghastly wall ! 


Streams into the torpid air, 


As the wolves in winter circle 


Bearing token from the Border 


Round the leaguer on the heath, 


That the English host is there. 


So the greedy foe glared upward, 


All without is flight and terror. 


Panting still for blood and death. 


All within is woe and fear — 


But a rampart rose before them, 


God protect thee. Maiden City, 


Which the boldest dare not scale ; 


For thy latest hour is near I 


Every stone a Scottish body. 




Every step a corpse in mail ! 


No ! not yet, thou high Dunedin ! 


And behind it lay our Monarch, 


Shalt thou totter to thy fall ; 


Clenching still his shiver'd sword ; 


Though thy bravest and thy strongest 


By his side Montrose and Athole, 


Are not there to man the wall. 


At his feet a Southron lonl. 


No, not yet ! the ancient spirit 


All so thick they lay together, 


Of our fathers hath not gone ; 


When the stars lit up the sky. 


Take it to thee as a buckler 


That I knew not who were stricken. 


Better far than steel or stone. 


Or who yet rcmain'd to die. 


Oh, remember those who perish'd 


Few there were when Surrey halted. 


For thy birthright at the time 


And his wearied host withdrew; 


Wlicn to be a Scot was treason. 


None but dying men around me. 


.Vnd to side with Wallace crime! 


When the English trumpet blew. 


Have they not a voice among us. 


Then I stoop'd and took the banner. 


Whilst their hallow'd dust is here? 


As you see it, from his brea-st, 


Hear ye not a summons sounding 


And I closed our hero's eyelids, 


From each buried warrior's bier? 


And I left him to his rest. 


Up! — they say — and keep the freedom 


In the mountains growl'd the thunder, 


Which we won you long ago: 


As I leap'd the woeful wall. 


Up ! and keep our graves unsullied 


And the heavy clouds were settling 


From the insults of the foe ! 


Over Flodden, like a pall." 


Up! and if ye cannot save them. 




Come to us in blood ami fire : 




Midst the cra.sh of falling turrets 


So he ended. And the others 


Let the la.st of Scots expire ! 


Cared not any answer tiien ; 




Sitting silent, dumb with sorrow. 


Still the bells are tolling fiercely. 


Sitting anguish-struck, like men 


And the cry comes louder in : 


Who have seen the roaring torrent 


Mothers wailing for their cliildren. 


Sweep their happy liomcs away, 


Sisters fin- their slaughtcr'd kin. 


And yet linger by the margin, 


All is terror and disorder; 


Staring wildly on the sjiray. 


Till the Provost rises up, 


But, without, the maddening tunuilt 


Calm as though he had not tasted 


Waxes ever more and more. 


Of the fell and bitter cup. 


And the crowd of wailing women 


All so stately from his sorrow. 


Gather round the council-door. 


Rose the olil undaunted chief, 


Every dusky spire is ringing 


That you had not deem'd, to see him. 


With a dull an<l hoU.pw knell. 


His was more than common grief. 


And the Miserere's singing 


"Rouse ye, sirs!" he said; "we may not 


To the tolling of the bell. 


Longer mourn for what is done; 


Through the streets the burgliers hurry. 


If our King be taken from us, 


Spreading terror a.s they go ; 


We are left to guard his son. 



30S FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


We have sworn to keep the city 


On the sisters of our heroes, 


From the foe, whate'er they be, 


Whilst we bear a torch or brand ! 


And the oath that we have taken 


Up ! and rouse ye, then, my brothers, — 


Never shall be broke by me. 


But when next ye hear the bell 


Death is nearer to us, brethren. 


Sounding forth the sullen summons 


Than it seem'd to those who died. 


That may be our funeral knell. 


Figliting yesterday at Flodden, 


Once more let us meet together, 


By their lord and master's side. 


Once more see each other's face ; 


Let us meet it, then, in patience, 


Then, like men that need not tremble. 


Not in terror or in fear ; 


Go to our appointed place. 


Though our hearts are bleeding yonder, 


God, our Father, will not fail us 


Let our souls be steadfast here. 


In that last tremendous hour — 


L^p, and rouse ye ! Time is fleeting, 


If all other bulwarks crumble. 


And we yet have much to do ; 


He will be our strength and tower: 


Up ! and haste ye through the city, 


Though the ramparts rock beneath us. 


Stir the burghers stout and true ! 


And the walls go crashing down. 


Gather all our scatter'd people, 


Though the roar of conflagration 


Hing the banner out once more, — 


Bellow o'er the sinking town ; 


Randolph Murray ! do thou bear it. 


There is yet one place of shelter. 


As it erst was borne before : 


Where the foeman cannot come. 


Never Scottish heart will leave it. 


W^here the summons never sounded 


When they see their Monarch's gore ! 


Of the trumpet or the drum. 


" Let them cease that dismal knelling ! 


There again we'll meet our children, 


It is time enough to ring 


Who, on Flodden's trampled sod. 


When the fortress-strength of Scotland 
Stoops to ruin like its King. 


For their king and for their country 
Render'd up their souls to God. 


Let the bells be kept for warning. 


There shall we find rest and refuge, 


Not for terror or alarm ; 


With our dear departed brave; 


When they next are heard to thunder. 


And the ashes of the city 


Let each man and stripling arm. 


Be our universal grave !" 


William Edmondstoune Avtoun. 


Bid the women leave their wailing — 




Do they think that woeful strain, 


•«• 


From the bloody heaps of Flodden 


The Flowers of the Forest. 


Can redeem their dearest slain? 




Bid them cease, — or rather hasten 


I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milk- 


To the churches every one ; 


ing, 


There to pray to Mary Mother, 


Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day ; 


And to her anointed Son, 


But now they are moaning on ilka green 


That the thunderbolt above us 


loaning — 


May not fall in ruin yet ; 


The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede 


That in fire and blood and rapine 


away. 


Scotland's glory may not set. 


At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads 


Let them pray, — for never women 


are scorning. 


Stood in need of such a prayer! — 


Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae ; 


England's yeomen shall not find them 


Nae daffln', nae gabbin', but sighing and 


Clinging to the altars there. 


sabbing. 


No ! if we are doom'd to perish, 


Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away. 


Man and maiden, let us fall. 




And a common gulf of ruin 


In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now 


Open wide to whelm us all ! 


are jeering. 


Never shall the ruthless spoiler 


Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and 


Lay his hot insulting hand 


gray ; 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



309 



At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkcrs are 
roaming 
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to 
play ; 
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her 
dearie — 
The Flowers of the Forest are wcdcd 
away. 

Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads 
to tlu" Border! 
The English, for ance, by guile wan the 
day ; 
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye 
the foremost. 
The prime of our land, are cauld in the 
clay. 

We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe- 
milking. 
Women and bairns are heartless and 
was, 
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loan- 
ing— 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede 

away. 

Jane Elliot, 



JvjRr. 

A Ro>jG OF THE Huguenots. 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from 

whom all glories are I 
And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King 

Henry of Navarre ! 
Now let there he the merry sound of music 

and of dance. 
Through thy cornfields green, and sunny 

vines, O pleasant land of France ! 
And thou, Rochelle, our own Eochelle, 

proud city of the waters, 
Again let rapture light tlie eyes of all thy 

mourning daughters ; 
As thou Wert constant in our ills, be joyous 

in our joy, 
Ff)r colli and stiff and still are they who 

wruught thv walls annov. 



At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae ' Hurrah ! Hurrah ! a single field hath 
floeching, — turn'd the chance of war, 

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede , Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and >Ienryof 

Navarre. 

Oh, how our hearts were beating, when at 

the dawn of day 
We saw the army of the League drawn 

out in long array ; 
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its 

rebel peers, 
And Appcnzel's stout infantry, and Eg- 

mont's Flemish spears. 
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the 

curses of our land ; 
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a 

truncheon in his hand : 
And, as ^ve look'd on them, we thought of 

Seine's empurpled flood. 
And good Coligni's hoary hair alUdabbled 

with his blood ; 
And we cried unto the living God, who 

rules the fate of war, 
To fight for his own holy name, and Henry 

of Navarre. 

The King is come to marshal us, in all his 

armor drest. 
And he has bound a snow-white plume 

upon his gallant crest. 
He look'd upon his people, and a tear was 

in his eye ; 
He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance 

was stern and high. 
Right graciously he smiled on us, as roU'd 

from wing to wing, 
Down all our line, a deafening shout, 

" God save our Lord, the King !" 
" And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall 

full well he may. 
For never saw I promise yet of such a 

bloody fray. 
Press where ye see my white plume shine, 

amidst the ranks of war, 
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet 

of Navarre." 

Hurrah ! the foes arc moving. Hark to 
the mingled din. 

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, 
and roaring culverin. 



310 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint 
Andre's plain, 

Witli all the hireling chivalry of Guelders 
and Almayne. 

Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gen- 
tlemen of France, 

Charge for the golden lilies ! upon thcni 
with the lance ! 

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a 
thousand spears in rest, 

A thousand knights are pressing close be- 
hind the snow-white crest ; 

And in they burst, and on they rush'd, 
while, like a guiding star, 

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the hel- 
met of Navarre. 



Now, God be praised, the day is ours. 

Mayenne hath turn'd his rein. 
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The 

Flemish count is slain. 
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds 

before a Biscay gale ; 
The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, 

and flags, and cloven mail. 
And then we thought on vengeance, and, 

all along our van, 
" Remember St. Bartholomew !" was pass'd 

from man to man. 
But out spake gentle Henry, "No French- 
man is my foe : 
Down, down, with every foreigner, but let 

your brethren go." 
Oh! was there ever such a knight, in 

friendship or in war, 
As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the 

soldier of Navarre ? 



Eight well fought all the Frenchmen who 

fought for France to-day ; 
And many a lordly banner God gave them 

for a prey. 
But we of the religion have borne us best 

in fight ; 
And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en 

the cornet white. 
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white 

hath ta'en, 
The cornet white with crosses black, the 

tins of false Lorraine. 



Up with it high ; unfurl it wide ; that all 

the host may know 
How God hath humbled the proud house 

which wrought his Church such woe. 
Then on the ground, while trumpets sound 

their loudest point of war, 
Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for 

Henry of Navarre. 

Ho ! maidens of Vienna ; ho ! matrons of 

Lucerne ; 
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those 

who never shall return. 
Ho ! Philip, send for charity thy Mexican 

pistoles, 
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for 

thy poor spearmen's souls. 
Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look 

that your arms be bright ; 
Ho ! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep 

watch and ward to-night. 
For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our 

God hath raised the slave. 
And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and 

the valor of the brave. 
Then glory to His holy name, from whom 

all glories are ; 
And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King 

Henry of Navarre. 

Thomas B.ibisgton Macaulay. 

The Landing of the Pilgrim 
Fathers in New England. 

" Look now abroad ; — another race has fill'd 

Those populous borders ; wide the wood recedes, 
And towns shoot up. and fertile realms are till'd : 
The land is full of harvests and green meads." 

Bryant. 

The breaking waves dash'd high. 
On a stern and rock-bound coast. 

And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches toss'd ; 

And the heavy night hung dark, 

The hills and waters o'er. 
When a band of exiles moor'd their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes. 
They, the true-hearted, came ; 

Not with the roll of the stirring drums. 
And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



311 



Not as the flying come, ! And full of love, and peace, and rest — its 

In silence and in fear, — I dailv labor o'er — 

I 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom Upon that cozy creek there lay the town 



With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard, and the sea. 

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods 
rang 
To the anthem of the free. 

The ocean eagle soar'd 

From his nest by the white wave's foam, 
And the rocking pines of the forest 
roar'd — 

Tills was their welcome home. 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim band : 
Why had they come to witlier there, 

Away froiu their childhood's land? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high. 

And the liery heart of youth. 

Wliat sought they thus afar? 

Bright jewels of the mine? 
The wcaltli of seas, the sjjoils of war? 

They sought a faith's pure shrine! 

Ay, call it holy ground. 

The soil where first they trod ; 
They have left unstain'd what there they 
found — 
Freedom to worsliiii CJod. 

Fklkia Dokothka Hkmans. 



The Sack of Baltlvohe. 

TiiK summer sun is falling soft on Car- 
bery's hundred isles — 

The summer's sun is gleaming still through 
Gabriel's rough deliles — 

Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like 
a moulting bird ; 

And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean 
tide is heard : 

The hookers lie upon the beach ; the chil- 
dren cease their play ; 

The gossips leave the little inn ; the house- 
holds kneel to pray — 



of Baltimore. 

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come 

with midniglit there; 
No sound, excoj)t that throbbing wave, in 

earth, or sea, or air. 
Thema-ssive capes, and ruin'd towers, seem 

conscious of the calm ; 
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are 

breathing heavy balm. 
So still the night, these two long barques 

round Dunashad that glide 
Must trust their oars — niethinks not few — 

against the ebbing tide— 
Oh, some sweet mission of true love must 

urge them to the shore — 
They bring some lover to his bride, who 

sighs in Baltimore! 

All, all asleep within each roof along that 

rocky street, 
And these must be the lover's friends, with 

gentle gliding feet — 
A stifled ga.sp! a dreamy noise! " The roof 

is in a flame!" 
From out their beds, and lo llicir doors, 

rush maid, and sire, ami dame — 
And meet, u|)on the threslioUl stone, the 

gleaming sabre's fall, 
And o'er each black and bearded face the 

white or crimson shawl — 
The yell of "Allah" breaks above the 

prayer, and shriek, and roar — 
Oh, blessed (lod! the Algerine is lord of 

Baltimore. 

Then flung the youth his naked hand 

against the shearing sword ; 
Then sprang the mother on the brand with 

which her son was gored ; 
Then sank the grandsire on the floor, his 

graudbabes clutching wild ; 
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and 

nestled with the child; 
But see, yon )>irate strangled lies, and 

crush'd with splashing heel, 
While o'er him in an Irish hand there 

sweeps his Syrian steel — 



31: 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and 

misers yield their store, 
There's one hearth well avenged in the sack 

of Baltimore ! 

Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the 

birds begin to sing — 
They see not now the milking-maids — de- 
serted is the spring ! 
Midsummer day — this gallant^ rides from 

distant Bandon's town — 
These hookers cross'd from stormy Skull, 

that skiff from Affadown ; 
They only found the smoking walls, with 

neighbors' blood besprent. 
And on the strew'd and trampled beach 

awhile they wildly went — 
Then dash'd to sea, and pass'd Cape Cleire, 

and saw five leagues before 
The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged 

Baltimore. 

Oh ! some must tug the galley's oar, and 

some must tend the steed — 
This boy will bear a scheik's chibouk, and 

that a bey's jerreed. 
Oh ! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous 

Dardanelles ; 
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's 

sandy dells. 
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is 

chosen for the dey — 
She's safe — she's dead — she stabb'd him in 

the midst of his serai, 
And, when to die a death of fire, that noble 

maid they bore, 
She only smiled — O'DriscoU's child — she 

thought of Baltimore. 

'Tis two long years since sunk the town 

beneath that bloody band, 
And all around its tramjiled hearths a 

larger concourse stand. 
Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling 

wretch is seen — 
'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan— he who steer'd 

the Algcrine ! 
He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a 

passing jiraycr, 
For he had slain the kith and kin of many 

a hundred there — 



Some mutter'd of MacMurchadh, who 

brought the Norman o'er — 

Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in 

Baltimore. 

Thomas Osboe.ne Davis. 



The COVENANTERS' BATTLE- 

Chant. 

To battle ! to battle ! 

To slaughter and strife ! 
For a sad, broken Covenant 

We barter poor life. 
The great God of Judah 

Shall smite with our hand, 
And break down the idols 

That cumber the land. 

Uplift every voice 

In jirayer and in song ; 
Remember the battle 

Is not to the strong ; 
Lo ! the Ammonites thicken, 

And onward they come. 
To the vain noise of trumpet. 

Of cymbal, and drum. 

They haste to the onslaught. 

With hagbut and spear ; 
They lust for a banquet 

That's deathful and dear. 
Now horseman and footman 

Sweep down the hillside ; 
They come, like fierce Pharaohs, 

To die in their pride ! 

See, long plume and pennon 

Stream gay in the air! 
They are given us for slaughter, — 

Shall Ciod's people spare? 
Nay, nay ; lop them off. 

Friend, father, and son ; 
All earth is athirst till 

The good work be done. 

Brace tight every buckler. 

And lift high the sword, 
For biting must blades be 

That fight for the Lord. 
Eemember, remember. 

How saints' blood was shed, 
As free as the rain, and 

Homes desolate made! 




'A STEEI>: A STEEX) OF MATCHLESSE SPEEB. 
A SWORLJ OF MSTAL I-CSE2J-E ' 



The Cavaliers Song. 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



313 



Among them ! among them ! 

Unburied bonej* cry, 
Avenge us, or, like us, 

Faith's true martyrs die. 
Hew '. hew down tlio spoilers I 

Slay on, and spare none; 
Then shout forth in {rladaess, 

Heaven's battle is won ! 

William Motherwell. 



The CAVALIER'S Song. 

A STEED ! a steed of matchlesse speed, 

A sword of metal keene! 
All else to noble heartes is drosse, 

All else on earth is incane. 
The neighynsc of the war-horse prowde. 

The rowlinge of the drum, 
The clangor of the trumpet lowde, 

Be soundes from heaven that come; 
Antl oh the thundering presse of knightes, 

Whenas their war-cryes swell. 
May tolc from heaven an angel bright, 

And rouse a fiend from hell. 

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants 
all. 

And don your helmes amaine: 
Deathe's couriers, fame and honour, call 

Us to the field againe. 
No shrewish teares shall fill our eye 

When the sword-hilt's in our hand — 
Heart whole we'll part, and no whit 
sighe 

For the fayrest of the land ; 
Let piping swaine, and craven wight, 

Thus weepe and jiuling crye; 
Our business is like men to fight. 

And hero-like to die ! 

WiLLiAU Mother WELL. 



Naseby. 

Oh, wherefore come ye forth in triumph 
from the north, 
With your hands, and your feet, and 
your raiment all red'? 
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a 
joyous shout? 
And whence be the grapes of the wine- 
press which ye tread ? 



Oh, evil was the root, and bitter was the 
fruit. 
And crimson was the juice of the vintage 
that we trod ; 
For we trampled on the throng of the 
haughty and the strong. 
Who sate in the high places and slew 
the saints of God. 

It was about the noon of a glorious day of 
June, 
That wo saw their banners dance and 
their cuirasses shine. 
And the Man of Blood was there, with his 
long essenced hair, 
And Astley, and Sir Marmadukc, and 
Rupert of the llhine. 

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible 
and his sword, 
The general rode along us to form us for 
the fight ; 
When a murmuring sound broke out, and 
swell'd into a shout 
Among the godless horsemen upon the 
tyrant's right. 

And hark ! like the roar of the billows on 
the shore, 
The cry of battle rises along their charg- 
ing line: 
For God! for the Cause! for the Chureh ! 
for the Laws ! 
For Charles, king of England, and 
Kupert of the Rhine ! 

The furious Cferman comes, with his clar- 
ions and his drums, 
His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of 
Whitehall ; 
They are bursting on our flanks ! Grasp 
your pikes ! Close your ranks ! 
For Rupert never comes, but to conquer, 
or to fall. 

They are here — they rush on — we are bro- 
ken — we are gone — 
Our left is borne before them like stubble 
on the blast. 
O Lord, put fi)rth thy might! O Lord, de- 
fend the right ! 
Stand back to liaek, in God's name ! and 
fight it to the lust ! 



314 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Stout Skippon hath a wound — the centre 
hath given ground. 
Hark ! hark ! what means the trampling 
of horsemen on our rear ? 
Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he! 
thank God ! 'tis he, boys ! 
Bear up another minute ! Brave Oliver 
is here ! 

Their heads all stooping low, their points 
all in a row. 
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a 
deluge on the dikes. 
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of 
the accurst. 
And at a shock have scatter'd the forest 
of his pikes. 

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe 
nook to hide 
Their coward heads, predestined to rot 
on Temple Bar ; 
And he — he turns! he flies! shame on 
those cruel eyes 
That bore to look on torture, and dare 
not look on war I 

Ho, comrades ! scour the plain ; and ere ye 
strip the slain. 
First give another stab to make your 
search secure ; 
Then shake from sleeves and pockets their 
broad-pieces and lockets. 
The tokens of the wanton, the plunder 
of the poor. 

Fools ! your doublets shone with gold, and 
your hearts were gay and bold, 
When you kiss'd your lily hands to your 
lemans to-day ; 
And to-morrow shall the fox from her 
chambers in the rocks 
I^ead forth her tawny cubs to howl above 
the prey. 

Where be your tongues, that late mock'd 
at heaven, and hell, and fate? 
And the fingers that once were so busy 
with your blades ? 
Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches 
and your oaths ? 
Your stage-])lays and your sonnets, your 
diamonds and your spades? 



Down ! down ! for ever down with the 

mitre and the crown ! 
With the Belial of the court, and the 

Mammon of the Pope ! 
There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail 

in Durham's stalls; 
The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop 

rends his cope. 

And she of the seven hills shall mourn her 
children's ills. 
And tremble when she thinks on the 
edge of England's sword ; 
And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder 
when they hear 
What the hand of God hath wrought for 
the Houses and the Word ! 

Thomas Babington Macaulay. 



Oa^ tme Funeral of Charles 
THE First, 

At Night in St. George's Chapel, 

WlXDSOR. 

The castle clock had toll'd midnight. 

AVith mattock and with spade — 
And silent by the torches' light — 

His corse in earth we laid. 

The coflBn bore his name, that those 
Of other years might know, 

When earth its secrets should disclose, 
Whose bones were laid below. 

" Peace to the dead !" no children sung, 

Slow pacing up the nave ; 
No prayers were read, no knell was rung, 

As deep we dug his grave. 

We only heard the winter's wind. 

In many a sullen gust, 
As o'er the open grave inclined, 

We murmur'd, " Dust to dust!" 

A moonbeam from the arch's height 
Stream'd, as we placed the stone ; 

The long aisles started into light. 
And all the windows shone. 

We thought we saw the banners then 

That shook along the walls, 
Whilst the sad shades of mailed men 

Were gazing on the stalls. 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



315 



'Tis gone ! — Again on tombs defaced 
Sits darkness more profound ; 

Anil only by the torcli we traced 
The shadows on the ground. 

And now tlie chilling, freezing air 
Without blew long and loud ; 

Ujion our knees we breathed one prayer, 
Where he slept in his shroud. 

We laid the broken marble floor, — 

No name, no trace appears ! 
And when we closed the sounding door. 

We thought of him with tears. 

William Lisle Bowles. 



M'Hjcy THE Assault was Is- 

TENDED TO THE CiTY. 

Captaix, or colonel, or knight in arms. 

Whose chance on these defenceless doors 

may seize. 

If deed of honor did thee ever please. 

Guard them, and him within protect from 

harms. 

He can requite thee ; for he knows the 

charms 

That call fame on such gentle acts as 

these. 

And he can spread thy name o'er lands 

and seas, 

AVhatever clime the sun's bright circle 

warms. 

Lift not thy spear against the Muses' 

bower : 

The great Emathian conqueror bid .spare 

The house of Pindarus, wlien temple and 

tower 

Went to the ground ; and the repeated 

air 

Of sad Electra's poet ha'l the pciwer 

To save the Athenian walls from ruin 

bare. 

John Milton. 

Ox THE I, ATE Massacre ix 

J'JEDMONT. 

AVEXOK, Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, 
whose bones 
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains 
cold ; 



Even them who kept thy truth so pure 
of old 
When all our fathers worshipt stocks and 
stones. 

Forget not : In thy book record their 
groans 
Who were thy sheep, and in their an- 
cient fold 
Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that 
rolf'd 
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their 
moans 

The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 
To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and 
ashes sow 
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth 
sway 
The triple tyrant, that from these may 
grow 
A hundred-fold, who, liaving learnt Thy 
way, 
Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 

JouN Milton. 

The Execution of Moxtrose. 

Come hither, Evan Cameron ! 

Come, stand behind my knee — 
I hear the river roaring down 

Toward the wintry sea. 
There's shouting on the mountain-side. 

There's war within the blast — 
Old faces look upon me, 

Old forms go troo])iiig past. 
I hear tlie pibroch wailing 

Amidst the din of tight, 
And my dim spirit wakes again 

Upon the verge of night. 

'Twas I that le<I the Highland host 

Tlirough wild Lochaber's snows. 
What time the plaided clans came down 

To battle with Montrose. 
I've told thee how the Soutlirons fell 

Beneath the broad claymore, 
And how we smote the Campbell clan 

By Inverlochy's shore. 
I've told thee how we .swept Dundee, 

And tamed the Lindsays' pride; 
But never have I told thee yet 

How the great Jlarquis died. 



316 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


A traitor sold him to his foes ; — 


But onward — always onward, 


deed of deathless shame ! 


In silence and in gloom. 


I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet 


The dreary pageant labor'd, 


With one of Assynt's name — 


Till it reach'd the house of doom. 


Be it upon the mountain's side. 


Then first a woman's voice was heard 


Or yet within the glen. 


In jeer and laughter loud. 


Stand he in martial gear alone, 


And an angry cry and a hiss arose 


Or back'd by armfed men — 


From the heart of the tossing crowd : 


Face him as thou wouldst face the man 


Then, as the Grteme looked upward. 


Who wrong'd thy sire's renown ; 


He saw the ugly smile 


Remember of what blood thou art, 


Of him who sold his king for gold— 


And strike the caitiff down I 


The master-fiend Argyle ! 


They brought him to the Watergate, 


The Marquis gazed a moment, 


Hard bound with hempen span. 


And nothing did he say. 


As though they held a lion there. 


But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale, 


And not a 'fenceless man. 


And he turn'd his eyes away. 


They set him high upon a cart^ 


The painted harlot by his side, 


The hangman rode below — 


She shook through every limb, 


They drew his hands behind his back, 


For a roar like thunder swept the street. 


And bared his noble brow. 


And hands were clench'd at him ; 


Then, as a hound is slipp'd from leash, 


And a Saxon soldier cried aloud. 


They cheer'd the common throng, 


" Back, coward, from thy place ! 


And blew the note with yell and shout, 


For seven long years thou hast not dared 


And bade him pass along. 


To look him in the face." 


It would have made a brave man's heart 


Had I been there with sword in hand, 


Grow sad and sick that day. 


And fifty Camerons by. 


To watch the keen, malignant eyes 


That day through high Dunedin's street's 


Bent down on that array. 


Had peal'd the slogan-cry. 


There stood the Whig west-country lords 


Not all their troops of trampling horse. 


In balcony and bow ; 


Nor might of mailed men — 


There sat their gaunt and wither'd dames, 


Not all the rebels in the south 


And their daughters all a-row. 


Had borne us backward then ! 


And every open window 


Once more his foot on Highland heath 


Was full as full might be 


Had trod as free as air. 


With black-robed Covenanting carles. 


Or I, and all who bore my name, 


That goodly sport to see! 


Been laid around him there ! 


But when he came, though pale and wan. 


It might not be. They placed him next 


He look'd so great and high. 


Within the solemn hall. 


So noble was his manly front. 


Where once the Scottish kings were throned 


So calm his steadfast eye ; — 


Amidst their nobles all. 


The rabble rout forl)nre to shout. 


But there was dust of vulgar feet 


And each man held his breath. 


On that polluted floor, 


For well they knew the hero's soul 


And perjured traitors fill'd the place 


Was face to face with death. 


Where good men sate before. 


And then a mournful shudder 


With savage glee came Warriston 


Through all the people crept, 


To read the murderous doom ; 


And some that came to scoff at him 


And then uprose the great Montrose 


Now turu'd aside and wept. 


In the middle of the room : 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



317 



" Now, by my faith as belted knight 

And by tlic name I bear, 
And by the Itright St. Andrew's cross 

Tiiat waves above us there — 
Yea, by a greater, mightier oath — 

And oh that such sliould be ! — 
By that dark stream of royal blood 

Tliat lies 'twixt you and me — 
I have not souglit in battle-field 

A wreath of such renown, 
Xor dared I hope on my dying day 

To win the martyr's crown ! 

" There is a chamber far away 

Where sleep the good and brave, 
But a better place ye have named for me 

Than by my fathers' grave. 
For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might, 

This hand hath always striven, 
And ye raise it up for a witness still 

In the eye of earth and heaven. 
Then nail my head on yonder tower — 

Give every town a limb — 
And (iod who made shall gather them : 

I go from you to Him !" 

The morning dawn'd full darkly. 

The rain came flashing down, 
And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt 

Lit up the gloomy town ; 
The thunder crash'd across the heaven, 

The fatal hour was come ; 
Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat. 

The 'larum of the drum. 
There was madness on the earth below 

And anger in the sky. 
And young and old, and rich and poor. 

Came forth to see him die. 

Ah, God ! that ghastly gibbet I 

How dismal 'tis to see 
The great tall spectral .skeleton, 

The ladder and the tree ! 
Hark ! hark ! it is the cla.sh of arms — 

The bells begin to toll — 
" He is coming ! he is coming ! 

God's mercy on his soul !" 
One last long peal of thunder — 

The clouds are dear'd away. 
And the glorious sun once more looks down 

Amidst the dazzling day. 



" He is coming ! he is coming !" 

Like a bridegroom from his room, 
Came the hero from his prison 

To the scaffold and the doom. 
There was glory on his forehead. 

There was lustre in his eye, 
And he never walk'd to battle 

Jlore proudly than to die ; 
There was color in his visage. 

Though the cheeks of all were wan. 
And they marvell'd as they saw him pass. 

That great and goodly man ! 

He mounted up the seafl'old, 

And he turn'd him to the crowd ; 
But they dared not trust the people, 

So he might not speak aloud ; 
But he look'd upon the heavens, 

Arul they were clear and blue. 
And in the liquid ether 

The eye of God shone through. 
Yet a black and murky battlement 

Lay resting on the hill. 
As though the thunder slept within — 

All else was calm and still. 

The grim Geneva ministers 

With anxious scowl drew near. 
As you have .seen the ravens flock 

Around the dying deer. 
He would not deign them word nor sign. 

But alone he bent the knee ; 
And vcil'd his face for Christ's dear grace 

Beneath the gallows tree. 
Then radiant and serene he rose, 

And cast his cloak away : 
For he had ta'en his latest look 

Of earth and sun and day. 

A beam of light fell o'er him. 

Like a glory round the shriven. 
And he clindi'd the lofty ladder 

As it were the path to heaven. 
Then came a flash from out the cloud. 

And a stunning thunder-roll ; 
And no man dared to look aloft, 

For fear was on every soul. 
There was another heavy sound, 

A hush and then a groan ; 
And darkness swept across the .sky — 

The work of death was done ! 

William EDHO!iDSTOu.NE Avtoc.v. 



318 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



The Bonnets of Bonnie 
Dundee. 

To the lords of convention 'twas Claver- 

house who spoke, 
" Ere the king's crown shall fall there are 

crowns to be broke ; 
So let each cavalier who loves honor and 

me 
Come follow the bonnets of bonnie Dun- 
dee !" 
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 

can; 
Come saddle your horses, and call up 

your men ; 
Come open the Westport and let us 

gang free, 
And it's room for the bonnets of 
bonnie Dundee ! 

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the 

street. 
The bells are rung backward, the drums 

they are heat ; 
But the provost, douce man, said, " Just 

e'en let him be. 
The gude tnun is well quit of that de'il of 
Dundee !" 
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 

can ; 
Come saddle your horses, and call up 

your men ; 
Come open the Westport and let us 

gang free. 
And it's room for the bonnets of 
bonnie Dundee ! 

As he rode doun the sanctified bends of 

the Bow 
Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her 

pow ; 
But the young plants of grace they look'd 

cowthie and slee. 
Thinking, Luck to thy bonnet, thou bonnie 
Dundee! 
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 

can ; 
Come saddle your horses, and call up 

your men ; 
Come open the Westport and let us 

gang free, 
And it's room for the bonnets of 
bonnie Dundee ! 



With sour-featured Whigs the Grass- 
market was thrang'd 
As if half the west had set tryst to be 

hang'd ; 
There was spite in each look, there was 

fear in each ee. 
As they watch'd for the bonnets of bonnie 
Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 

can; 
Come saddle your horses, and call up 

your men ; 
Come open the Westport and let us 

gang free. 
And it's room for the bonnets of 
bonnie Dundee ! 

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and 

had spears. 
And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers; 
But they shrunk to close-heads, and the 
j causeway was free 

At the toss of the bonnet of bonnie Dun- 
dee. 
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 

can ; 
Come saddle your horses, and call up 

your men ; 
Come open the Westport and let us 

gang free. 
And it's room for the bonnets of 
bonnie Dundee ! 

He spurr'd to the foot of the proud castle 

rock. 
And with the gay Gordon he gallantly 

spoke : 
"Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak 

twa words or three. 
For the love of the bonnet of bonnie Dun- 
dee." 
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 

can ; 
Come saddle your horses, and call up 

your men ; 
Come open the Westport and let us 

gang free, 
And it's room for the bonnets of 
bonnie Dundee ! 

The Gordon demands of him which way 

he goes — 
" Where'er shall direct me the shade of 

Montrose ! 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 319 


Your Grace in short space shall hear tid- 


Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 


ings of me, 


can ; 


Or that low lies the bonnet of bonnie 


Come saddle your horses, and call uj) 


Dundee. 


your men ; 


Come fill up my cup, conic fill up my 


Come open the Westport and let us 


can ; 


gang free. 


Come saddle your horses, and ciill up 


And it's room for the bonnets of 


your men; 


bonnie Dundee ! 


Come open the Wcstport and let us 




gang free, 


He waved his proud hand, and the trump- 


And it's room for the bonnets of 


ets were blown. 


bonnie Dundee! 


The kettle-drums clash'd, and the horse- 




men rode on, 


■' There are hills beyond Pentland and 


Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermis- 


lands beyond Forth ; 


ton's lea 


If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's 


Died away tlie wild war-notes of bonnie 


chiefs in the north ; 


Dundee. 


There are wild Duniewassals three thou- 


Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 


sand times three 


can; 


Will cry ' Hoigh !' for the bonnet of bonnie 


Come saddle the horses, and call up 


Dundee. 


the men ; 


Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 


Come open your doors and let me gae 


can ; 


free. 


Come saddle your horses, and call up 


For it's up with the bonnets of bonnie 


your men; 


Dundee ! 


Come open the Wcstport and let us 


Sir Walter Scott. 


gang free, 


K>. 


And it's room for the bonnets of 


The Burial-Marcu of DuyoEK. 


bonnie Dundee I 






SorxD fife, and cry the slogan — 


" There's brass on the target of barken'd 


Let the pibroch shake tiie air 


bull-hide. 


With its wild triumphal music, 


There's steel in the scabbard that dangles 


Worthy of the freight we bear. 


beside ; 


Let the ancient hills of Scotland 


The brass shall be burnish'd, the steel 


Hear once more the battle-song 


shall flash free, 


Swell within their glens and valleys 


At a toss of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee. 


As the clansmen inarch along ! 


Come fill up my cup. come fill up my 


Never from the field of combat, 


can ; 


Never from the deadly fray. 


Come saddle your horses, and call up 


Was a nobler trophy carried 


your men ; 


Than we bring with us to-day ; 


Come open the Westport and let us 


Never since the valiant Douglas 


gang free. 


On his dauntless bosom bore 


And it's room for the bonnets of 


Good King Robert's heart — the priceless — 


bonnie Dunilce I 


To our dear Redeemer's shore ! 




Lo ! we bring with us the hero — 


" Away to the hills, to the caves, to the 


Lo ! we bring the conquering Gra;me, 


rocks ; 


Crown'd as best beseems a victor 


Ere lown an asurper I'll couch with the fox ; 


From the altar of his fame ; 


And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of 


Fresh and bleeding from the battle 


your glue, 


Whence his spirit took its flight. 


You have not seen the last of my bonnet 


iliilst the cr;ishing charge of s<piadron3, 


and me." 


And the thunder of the fight! 



320 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Strike, I say, the notes of triumph. 

As we raarcli o'er moor and lea ! 
Is there any here will venture 

To bewail our dead Dundee ? 
Let the widows of the traitors 

Weep until their eyes are dim ! 
Wail ye may full well for Scotland — 

Let none dare to mourn for him ! 
See ! above his glorious body 

Lies the royal lianner's fold — 
See ! his valiant blood is mingled 

With its crimson and its gold. 
See how calm he looks and stately, 

Like a warrior on his shield, 
Waiting till the flush of morning 

Breaks along the battle-field ! 
See — Oh never more, my comrades, 

Shall we see that falcon eye 
Redden with its inward lightning, 

As the hour of fight drew nigh ! 
Never shall we hear the voice that, 

Clearer than the trumpet's call. 
Bade us strike for King and Country, 

Bade us win the field, or fall ! 

On the heights of Killiecrankie 

Yester-morn our army lay : 
Slowly rose the mist in columns 

From the river's broken way ; 
Hoarsely roar'd the swollen torrent, 

And the pass was wrapp'd in gloom. 
When the clansmen rose together 

From their lair amidst the broom. 
Then we belted on our tartans. 

And our bonnets down we drew, 
And we felt our broadswords' edges, 

And we proved them to be true ; 
And we pray'd the prayer of soldiers. 

And we cried the gathering-cry, 
And we clasp'd the hands of kinsmen, 

And we swore to do or die ! 
Then our leader rode before us 

On his war-horse black as night — 
Well the Cameronian rebels 

Knew that charger in the fight ! — 
And a cry of exultation 

From the bearded warriors rose ; 
For we loved the house of Claver'se, 

And we thought of good Montrose. 
But he raised his hand for silence — 

" Soldiers ! I have sworn a vow : 
Ere the evening star shall glisten 

On Schehallion's loftv brow. 



Either we shall rest in triumph, 

Or another of the Griemes 
Shall have died in battle-harness 

For his Country and King James ! 
Think upon the Royal Martyr — 

Think of what his race endure — 
Think on him whom butchers murder'd 

On the field of Magus Muir : 
By his sacred blood I charge ye. 

By the ruin'd hearth and shrine — 
By the blighted hopes of Scotland, 

By your injuries and mine — • 
Strike this day as if the anvil 

Lay beneath your blows the while, 
Be they Covenanting traitors. 

Or the brood of false Argyle ! 
Strike ! and drive the trembling rebels 

Backward o'er the stormy Forth ; 
Let them tell their pale Convention 

How they fared within the North. 
Let them tell that Highland honor 

Is not to be bought nor sold. 
That we scorn their prince's anger 

As we loathe his foreign gold. 
Strike ! and when the fight is over, 

If you look in vain for me. 
Where the dead are lying thickest 

Search for him that was Dundee !" 

Loudly then the hills re-echoed 

With our answer to his call. 
But a deeper echo sounded 

In the bosoms of us all. 
For the lands of wide Breadalbane, 

Not a man who heard him speak 
Would that day have left the battle. 

Burning eye and flushing cheek 
Told the clansmen's fierce emotion, 

And they harder drew their breath ; 
For their souls were strong within them. 

Stronger than the grasp of death. 
Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet 

Sounding in the pass below, 
And the distant tramp of horses. 

And the voices of the foe ; 
Down we crouch'd amid the bracken, 

Till the Lowland ranks drew near, 
Panting like the hounds in summer, 

When they scent the stately deer. 
From the dark defile emerging, 

Next we saw the squadrons come, 
Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers 

Marching to the tuck of drum ; 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 321 


Through the scatter'd wood of birches, 


thou lion-hearted warrior ! 


O'er the broken ground and heath, 


Reck not of the after-time : 


Wound the h)ng battalion slowly. 


Honor may be deem'd dishonor, 


Till they gaiu'd the field beneath ; 


Loyalty be called a crime. 


Then we bounded from our covert. — 


Sleep in peace with kindred ashes 


Jmlge how look'd the Faxons then, 


Of the noble and the true. 


When they saw the rugged mountain 


Hands that never failed their country, 


Start to life with armfcd men ! 


Hearts that never baseness knew. 


Like a tempest down the ridges 


Sleep ! — and till the latest trumpet 


Swept the hurricane of steel, 


Wakes the dead from earth and sea, 


Rose the Slogan of ilacdonakl — 


Scotland shall not boa.st a braver 


Flash'd the broadsword of Lochiel I 


Chieftain than our own Dundee! 


Vainly sped the withering volley 


William Edmonustoine Avtoun. 


'Moiigst the foremost of our band — 


■ 0. 


On we pour'd until we met them. 


FONTENOY. 


Foot to foot, and hand to hand. 


Horse and man went down like drift- 


Thrice, at the huts of Fontcnoy,.the Eng- 


wood 


lish column fail'd. 


When the floods are black at Yule, 


And twice tlie lines of Saint Antoine the 


And tlieir carcasses are whirling 


Dutch in vain assail'd. 


In the Garry's deepest pool. 


For town and slojjc were fill'd with fort 


Horse and man went down before us — 


and flanking battery. 


Living foe there tarried none 


And well they swept the English ranks 


On the field of Killiecrankie, 


and Dutch auxiliary. 


When that stubborn tight was done ! 


As vainly, through De Harri's wood, the 




Rritish soldiers burst, 




The French artillery drove them back, di- 


And the evening star was shining 


minish'd and dispersed. 


On Schehallion's distant head, 


The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld 


When we wiped our bloody broadswords 


with anxious eye. 


And return'd to count the dead. 


And order'd up his last reserve, his latest 


There we found him gash'd and gory, 


chance to try ; 


Stretch'd upon the cumberd plain, 


On Fontenoy, on Fontcnoy, how fast his 


xVs he told us where to seek him, 


generals ride ! 


In the thickest of the slain. 


And mustering come his chosen troops, 


And a smile was on his visage, 


like clouds at eventide. 


For within his dying ear 




Peal'd the joyful note of triumph. 


Six thousand English veterans in stately 


And the clansmen's clamorous cheer: 


column tread. 


So, amidst the battle's thunder. 


Their cannon blaze in front and flank. 


Sliot, and steel, and scorching flame. 


Lord Hay is at their head; 


In the glory of his manhood 


Steady they step adowii the slope, steady 


Pass'd the spirit of the Grieme ! 


they climb the hill. 




Steady they load, steady they fire, moving 




right onward still. 


Open wide the vaults of Athol, 


Betwi.Nt the wood and Fontenoy, as through 


Where the bones of heroes rest — 


a furnace-blast, 


Open wide the hallow'd portals 


Through rampart, trench, and palisade, 


To receive another guest ! 


and bullets showering fast ; 


Last of Scots, and last of freemen — 


And on the open plain above they rose, 


Last of all that dauntless race 


and kept their course. 


Who would rather die unsullied 


With ready fire and grim resolve, that 


Than outlive the laud's disgrace ! 
21 


mock'd at hostile force: 



322 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thin- 


Thin is the English column now, and faint 


ner grow their ranks — 


their volleys grow, 


They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee 


Yet, must'ring all the strength they have. 


through Holland's ocean banks. 


they make a gallant show. 




They dress their ranks upon the hill to face 


More idly than the summer flies French 


that battle-wind, 


tirailleurs rush round ; 


Their bayonets the breakers' foam, like 


As stubble to the lava tide P'rench squad- 


rocks the men behind ; 


rons strew the ground ; 


One volley crashes from their line, when, 


Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot 


through the surging smoke. 


tore, still on they march'd and 


With empty guns clutch'd in their hands. 


fired — 


the headlong Irish broke. 


Fast, from each volley, grenadier and vol- 


On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that 


tigeur retired. 


fierce huzza : 


" Push on, my household cavalry !" King 


"Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down 


Louis madly cried : 


the Sacsauach !" 


To death they rush, but rude their shock ; 




not unavenged they died. 


Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad 


On through the camp the column trod — 


with hunger's pang, 


King Louis turns his rein : 


Right up against the English line the Irish 


"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the 


exiles sprang ; 


Irish troops remain ;" 


Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now. 


And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been 


their guns are fiU'd with gore ; 


a Waterloo, 


Through shatter'd ranks, and sever'd files. 


Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, 


and trampled flags they tore; 


vehement, and true. 


The English strove with desperate strength. 




paused, rallied, stagger'd, fled, — 


" Lord Clare," he says, " you have your 


The green hillside is matted close with 


wish, there are your Saxon foes !" 


dying and with dead. 


The Marshal almost smiles to see, so fu- 


Across the plain and far away pass'd on 


riously he goes. 


that hideous wrack. 


How fierce the look these exiles wear, 


While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon 


who're wont to be so gay ; 


their track. 


The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in 


On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in \ 


their hearts to-day — 


the sun, 


The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 


With bloody plumes the Irish stand — the 


'twas writ could dry, 


field is fought and won ! 


Their plunder'd homes, their ruiu'd 


Thomas Osborxe Davis. 


shrines, their women's parting cry, 




Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, 


Battle of Fontenoy. 


their country overthrown, — 




Each looks as if revenge for all were 


By our camp-fires rose a murmur 


staked on him alone. 


At the dawning of the day. 


On Fontenoy, on J^nteuoy, nor ever yet 


And the tread of many footsteps 


elsewhere. 


Spoke the advent of the fray ; 


Eush'd on to fight a nobler band than 


And as we took our places, 


these proud exiles were. 


Few and stern were our words. 




While some were tightening horse-girths. 


O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, 


And some were girding swords. 


halting, he commands, 




"Fix bay'nets "—" Charge ;" like moun- 


The trumpet-blast has sounded 


tain-storm rush on these fiery bands. 


Our footmen to array — 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 323 


The willing steed has boiiiulcd, 


See their shatter'd forces flying. 


Impatient for tlie fray — 


A broken, routed line — 


The green Hag is unfolded, 


See, England, what brave laurels 


While rose the cry of joy — 


For your brow to-day we twine. 


" Heaven speed dear Ireland's banner 


Oh, thrice bless'd the hour that witncss'd 


To-day at Fontenoy !" 


The Briton turn to flee 




From the chivalry of Erin 


We look'd upon that banner, 


And France's "feur de lU." 


And the memory arose 




Of our homes and perish'd kindred 


As we lay beside our camp-fires, 


Where the Lee or Shannon flows ; 


When the sun had pass'd away, 


We look'd upon that banner. 


And thought uiion our brethren 


And we swore to God on high, 


Who had perish'd in the fray, 


To smite to-day the Saxon's might — 


We pray'd to God to grant us. 


To conquer or to die. 


And then we'd die with joy, 




One day upon our own dear land 


Loud swells the charging trumpet — 
'Tis a voice from our own land — 


Like this of Fontenoy. 

Bartholomew Dowling. 


God of battles ! God of vengeance ! 


.0. 


Guide to-day the patriot's brand ; 
There are stains to wash away. 
There are memories to destroy, 


LOCHIEL'S WARXINO. 
AViZARD — LOCHIEL. 


In the best blood of the Briton 


WlZAItP. 


To-day at Fontenoy. 


LorHlEi,, Lochiel I beware of the day 




When the Lowlands shall meet thee in 


Plunge deep the fiery rowels 


battle-array ! 


In a th(msand reeking flanks — 


For a field of the dead rushes red on my 


Down, chivalry of Ireland, 


sight, 


Down on the British ranks ! 


And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in 


Now shall their serried columns 


fight. 


Beneath our sabres reel — 


They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom 


Through their ranks, then, with the war- 


and crown ; 


horse — 


Woe, woe to the riders that trample them 


Through their bosoms with the steel. 


down ! 




Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the 


With one shout for good King Louis, 


slain, 


And the fair land of the vine. 


And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to 


Like the wrathful .Vlpine tempest, 


the plain. 


We swept upon their line — 


But hark! through the fitst-flashing liglit- 


Then rang along the battle-field 


ning of war 


Triumphant our hurrah. 


What steed to the desert flies franticand far? 


And we smote them down, still cheering. 


'Tis thine, GlenuUin! whose bride shall 


" Erin, slanthagal go bragh." 


await. 




Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at 


As prized as is the blessing 


the gate. 


From an aged father's lip — 


A steed comes at morning: uo rider is 


As welcome as the haven 


there ; 


To the tenipe-st-driven ship — 


But its bridle is red with the sign of de- 


As dear as to the lover 


spair. 


The smile of gentle maid — 


Weej), .Vlbin! to death and caiitivity led — 


Is this day of long-sought vengeance 


Oh weep.' but thy tears cannot number the 


To the swords of the Brigade. 


dead ; 



32-4 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



For a merciless sword on CuUoden shall 

wave, 
Culloden that reeks with the blood of the 

brave. 

LOCHIEL. 

Go, jireach to the coward, thou death-tell- 
ing seer ! 
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, 
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering 

sight 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of 

fright. 

Wizard. 
Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to 

scorn ? 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume 

shall be torn I 
Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth 
From his home in the dark-rolling clouds 

of the north ? 
Lo ! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, 

he rode 
Companionless, bearing dcstntction 

abroad ; 
But down let him stoop from his havoc on 

high ! 
Ah! home let him speed — for the spoiler is 

nigh. 
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot 

to the blast 
Those embers, like stars from the firmament 

cast ? 
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully 

driven 
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness 

of heaven. 
Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might, 
^Vhose banners arise on the battlements' 

height, 
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and 

to burn ; 
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return! 
For the blackness of ashes shall mark 

where it stood, 
And a wild mother scream o'er her famish- 
ing brood. 

Lochiel. 
False wizard, avaunt! I have marshall'd 

my clan ; 
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms 

are one ! 



They are true to the last of their blood and 

their breath. 
And like reapers descend to the harvest of 

death. 
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to 

the shock ! 
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave 

on the rock ! 
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his 

cause, 
When Albin her claymore indignantly 

draws ; 
When her bonneted chieftains to victory 

crowd, 
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the 

proud, 
All plaided and plumed in their tartan 

array 

Wizard. 

Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day; 

For, dark and despairing, my sight I may 
seal. 

But man cannot cover what God would re- 
veal; 

'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical 
lore, 

And coming events casts their shadows be- 
fore. 

I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall 
ring 

With the bloodhounds that bark for thy 
fugitive king. 

Lo ! anointed by heaven with the vials of 
wrath. 

Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! 

Now in darkness and billows he sweeps 
from my sight: 

Rise, rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his 
flight! 

'Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd 
on the moors ; 

Culloden is lost, and my country de- 
plores. 

But where is the iron-ljound prisoner? 
where ? 

For the red eye of battle is shut in de- 
spair. 

Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish'd, 
forlorn, 

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding 
and torn ? 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



325 



All no! for a darker departure is near; 
The war-drum is uiullled and black is the 

bier; 
His death-bell is tolling. Oh ! mercy, 

dispel 
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to 

tell! 
Life flutters convulsed in his quivering 

limbs, 
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony 

swims. 
Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his 

feet, 
A\'here his heart shall be thrown ere it 

ceases to beat, 
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the 

gale 

LOCHIEL. 

Down, soothless insulter! I trust not 

the tale : 

For never shall Albin a destiny meet 

So black with dishonor, so foul with re- 
treat. 

Though my perishing ranks should be 
strew'd in their gore. 

Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf- 
beaten shore, 

Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains. 

While the kindling of life in his bosom 
remains, 

.Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, 

With his back to the field, and his feet to 
the foe I 

And, leaving in battle no blot on his 
name, 

Look proudly to heaven from the death- 
bed of fame. 

TiioM-ui Campbell. 



YOUXG A JULY. 

Kex ye aught of brave Lochiel? 

Or ken ye aught of Airly? 
They have belted on their bright broad 
swords, 

And otr and awa' wi' Charlie. 
Now bring me fire, my merry, merry men, 

.\nil bring it red and yarely — 
At mirk midnight there flasli'd a light 

O'er the topmost towers of Airly. 



What lowe is yon, quo' the gudc Lochiel, 

Which gleams so red and rarely? 
By the God of my kin, quo' young Ogilvie, 

It's my ain bonnie hame of Airly! 
Put up your sword, said the brave Lochiel, 

And calm your mood, quo' Charlie; 
Ere morning glow we'll raise a lowe 

Far brighter than bonnie Airly. 

Oh, yon fair tower's my native tower! 

Nor will it soothe my mourning, 
Were London palace, tower, and town 

As fast and brightly burning. 
It's no my hame — my father's hame. 

That reddens my cheek sae sairlie — 
But my wife, and twa sweet babes I left 

To smoor in the smoke of Airly. 

AuTUOK Unknown. 



Charlie is my Darling. 

'TwAS on a Monday morning. 

Right early in the year. 
That Charlie came to our town. 
The young Chevalier. 

An' Charlie is my darling, 
My darling, my darling, 
Charlie is my darling, 
The young Chevalier. 

As Charlie he came up the gate, 

Ilis face shone like the day ; 
I grat to see the lad come back 
That had been lang away, 

An' Charlie is my darling, 
My darling, my darling, 
Charlie is my darling. 
The young Chevalier. 

Then ilka bonnie lassie sang, 

As to the door she ran. 
Our king shall hae his nin again, 
An' Charlie is the man : 

For Charlie he's my darling, 

My darling, my darling, 
Charlie he's my darling, 
Tlie young Chevalier. 

Out owre yon moory mountain, 
An' down the craigy glen. 

Of naetliing else our lasses sing 
But Charlie an' his men. 



326 



FIRESIDE EXCYCLOP^DIA OF POETRY. 



An' Charlie he's my darling, 
My darling, my darling, 

Charlie he's my darling, 
The young Chevalier. 

Our Highland hearts are true an' leal, 

An' glow without a stain ; 
Our Highland swords are metal keen, 
An' Charlie he's our ain. 

An' Charlie he's my darling, 

Jly darling, my darling, 
Charlie he's my darling, 
The young Chevalier. 

James Hogg. 



Bonnie Prince Charlie. 

Cam ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg, 
Down by the Tummel, or banks o' the 
Garry ; 
Saw ye our lads, wi' their bonnets and 
white cockades. 
Leaving their mountains to follow 

Prince Charlie? 
Follow thee ! follow thee ! wha wadna 
follow thee ? 
Lang hast thou loved and trusted us 
fairly : 
Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna loUow 
thee, 
King o' the Highland hearts, bonny 
Prince Charlie? 

I hae but ae son, my gallant young Donald ; 

But if I had ten, they should follow 

Glengary. 

Health to M'Donnel, and gallant Clan- 

Eonald, 

For these are the men that will die for 

their Charlie! 
Follow thee ! follow thee ! wha wadna 
follow thee? 
Lang liast thou loved and trusted us 
fairly : 
Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow 
thee. 
King o' the Highland hearts, bonny 
Prince Charlie? 

I'll to Lochiel and Appin, and kneel to 
them, 
Down by Lord Murray, and Roy of 
Kildarlie ; 



Brave M'Intosh he shall fly to the field 
with them ; 
These are the lads I can trust wi' my 

Charlie ! 
Follow thee ! follow thee ! wha wadna 
follow thee? 
Lang hast thou loved and trusted us 
fairly : 
Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow 
thee. 
King o' the Highland hearts, bonny 
Prince Charlie? 

Down through the Lowlands, down wi' the 

Whigamore ! 

Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' them 

rarely ! 

Konald and Donald, drive on wi' the broad 

claymore, 

Over the necks of the foes of Prince 

Charlie! 

Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna 

follow thee? 

Lang hast thou loved and trusted us 

fairly: 

Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow 

thee. 

King o' the Highland hearts, bonny 

Prince Charlie? 

James Hogg. 



Wae'S 3ie for Prince Charliei 

A WEE bird came to our ha'-door ; 

He warbled sweet and clearly ; 
And aye the o'ercome o' his sang 

AVas " AVae's me for Prince Charlie !" 
Oh, when I heard the bonny, bonny bird. 

The tears came drapping rarely ; 
I took my bonnet aff my head. 

For weel 1 lo'ed Prince Charlie. 



Quoth I : " My bird, my bonny, bonny 
bird, 

Is that a tale ye borrow? 
Or is't some words ye've learn'd by rote, 

Or a lilt o' dool and sorrow ?" 
" Oh, no, no, no!" the wee bird sang, 

" I've flown sin' morning early ; 
But sic a day o' wind and rain ! — 

Oh, wae's me for Prince Charlie ! 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



327 



" On hills that are by right his ain 

Ho roams a lonely stranger; 
On ilka hand he's press'd by want, 

On ilka side by danger. 
Yestreen I met him in the glen, 

My heart near bursted fairly; 
For sadly changed indeed was he — 

Oh, wac's me for Prince Charlie ! 

" Dark night came on; the tempest howl'd 

Out owre the hills and valleys ; 
And where was't that your prince lay 
down, 

Whasc hame should be a palace ? 
He row'd him in a Highland plaid, 

Which cover'd him but sparely. 
And slept beneath a bush o' broom — 

Oh, wae's me for Prince Charlie!" 

But now the bird saw some red-coats, 

And he shook his wings \vi' anger: 
" Oh, this is no a land for me — 

I'll tarry here nae langer." 
A while he hover'd on the wing, 

Ere he departed fairly; 
But weel I mind the farewell strain, 

Twas " Wae's me for Prince Charlie !" 
William Glex. 

TiTE TEARS OF Scotland. 

Moriix, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn ! 
Thy SOILS, for valor long renown'd, 
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground ; 
Thy hospitable roofs no more 
Invite the stranger to the door; 
In smoky ruins sunk they lie, 
The monuments of cruelty. 

The wretched owner sees afar 
His all become the prey of war ; 
Bethinks him of his babes and wife. 
Then smites his breast, and curses life. 
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks. 
Where once t!iey fed their wanton Hocks: 
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain ; 
Thy infants perish on the plain. 

What boots it, then, in every clime. 
Through the wide-spreading waste of 

time. 
Thy martial glorj-, erown'd with praise, 
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze! 



' Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke. 
Thy neck is bended to the yoke. 
What foreign arms could never quell. 
By civil rage and rancor fell. 

The rural pipe and merry lay 
No more shall cheer the ha|ii)y day: 
No social scenes of gay delight 
Beguile the dreary winter night: 
No strains but those of sorrow flow, 
,Vnd naught be heard but sounds of woe, 
While the pale phantoms of the slain 
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain. 

O baneful cause! O fatal morn ! 
Accursed to ages yet unborn I 
The sons against their father stood, 
The parent shed his children's blood. 
Yet, when the rage of battle ceiused, 
The victor's soul was not ajipeased : 
The naked and forlorn must feel 
Devouring flames and murd'ring steel ! 

The pious mother, doom'd to death, 
Forsaken wanders o'er the heath ; 
The bleak wind whistles round her head. 
Her helpless orphans cry for bread ; 
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend. 
She views the shades of night descend ; 
And, stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies, 
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. 

While the warm blood bedews my veins. 
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns, 
Resentment of my country's fate 
Within my filial breast shall beat; 
And, si)ite of her insulting foe. 
My sympathizing verse shall flow: 
" Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn." 

Tuuns .Smollett. 



The Pompadour. 

Versailles !— Up the chestnut alley, 
All in flower, so white and pure. 

Strut the red and yellow lac(|ueys 
Of this Madame Pompadour. 

"Clear the way !" cry out the lacqueys, 
Elbowing the lame and poor 

From the chapel's stately jxirches, — 
" Way for Madame Pompadour!" 



328 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Old bent soldiers, crippled veterans, 

Sigli and hobble, sad, footsore, 
Jostled by the chariot-horses 
Of this woman — Pompadour. 

Through the levee (poet, marquis. 
Wistful for the opening door), 

With a rippling sweep of satin, 
Sail'd the queenly Pompadour. 

Sighs by dozens, as she proudly 

Glides, so confident and sure, 
AVith her fan that breaks through hal- 
berds — 

In went Madame Pompadour. 

Starving abbe, wounded marshal. 

Speculator, lean and poor, 
Cringe and shrink before the creatures 

Of this harlot Pompadour. 

" Eose in sunshine ! Summer lily !" 

Cries a poet at the door, 
Squeezed and trampled by the lacqueys 

Of the witching Pompadour. 

"Bathed in milk and fed on roses!" 
Sighs a pimp behind the door, 

Jamm'd and bullied by the courtiers 
Of this strumpet Pompadour. 

"Rose of Sharon!" chants an abbe. 
Fat and with the voice of four. 

Black silk stockings soil'd by varlets 
Of this Rahab Pompadour. 

" Neck so swan-like, — Dea certe ! 

Fit for monarchs to adore !" 
" Clear the way I" was still the echo, 

" For this Venus — Pompadour." 

Open ! — with the jar of thunder 
Fly the portals, — checks strike four ; 

With a burst of drums and tiumpets 
Come the king and Pompadour. 

Georoe Waltek Tuoknbuky. 



LOVIS XV. 

The king with all his kingly tr.ain 
Had left his Pompadour bchiud. 

And forth he rode in Senart's wood. 
The royal beasts of cliase to find. 

That day by chance the monarch mused. 
And, turning suddenly away. 



He struck alone into a patli 
That far from crowds and courtiers lay. 

He saw the pale green shadows play 

Ujion the brown untrodden earth ; 
He saw the birds around him flit 

As if he were of peasant birth ; 
He saw the trees that know no king 

But him who bears a woodland axe; 
He thought not, but he look'd about 

Like one who skill in thinking lacks. 

Then close to him a footstep fell. 

And glad of human sound was he. 
For, truth to say, he found himself 

A weight from which he fain would flee. 
But that which he would ne'er have 
guess'd 

Before liim now most plainly came ; 
The man upon his weary back 

A coflin bore of rudest frame. 

" Why, who art thou ?" exclaimed the 
king, 

" And what is that I see thee bear?" 
" I am a laborer in the wood. 

And 'tis a coffin for Pierre. 
Close by the royal hunting-lodge 

You may have often seen him toil ; 
But he will never work again, 

And I for him must dig the soil." 

The laborer ne'er had seen the king, 

And this he thought was but a man, 
Who made at first a moment's pause. 

And then anew his talk began : 
"I think I do remember now, — 

He had a dark and glancing eye. 
And I have seen his slender arm 

With wondrous blows the pickaxe ply. 

" Pray tell me, friend, what accident 

Can thus have kill'd our good Pierre ?" 
" Oh, nothing more than usual, sir. 

He died of living upon air. 
'Twas hunger kill'd the poor good man. 

Who long on empty hopes relied ; 
He could not pay gabell and tax. 

And feed his children, so he died." 

The man stopp'd short, and then went 
on, — 

" It is, you know, a common thing ; 
Our children's bread is eaten up 

By courtiers, mistresses, and king." 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



329 



The king look'd hard upon the man, 
And afterward the coffin eyed ; 

Then spurr'd to ask of Pompadour 
How came it tliat the peasants died. 

John Stebliso. 

WARREy'S ADDRESS. 

STAXnl the ground's your own, my braves 1 
Will ye give it up to slaves? 
Will ye look for greener graves? 

Hope ye mercy still? 
What's the mercy despots feel ? 
Hear it in that battle-peal! 
Eead it on yon bristling steel! 

Ask it, — ye who will. 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire? 
Will ye to your homes retire? 
Look behind you I — they're afire ! 

And, before you, see 
Who have done it I From the vale 
On they come! — and will ye quail? 
Leaden rain and iron hail 

Let their welcome be ! 

In the God of battles trust ! 

Die we may, — and die we must : 

But, oh where can dust to dust 

Be consign'd so well, 

As where Heaven its dews shall shed 

On the martyr'd patriot's bed, 

^Uid the rocks shall raise their head 

Of his deeds to tell ? 

John Piekpont. 



Paul Revere's Ride. 

Ll.STEK, my children, and you shall hear 
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy- 
five; 
Hardly a man i^s now alive 
Who remembers that famous day and 
year. 

He said to his friend, " If the British 

march 
By land or sea from the town to-night. 
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 
Of the N<irth Church tower as a signal 

light,— 
One, if by land, and two, if by sea ; 
And I on the opposite shore will be, 



Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
Through every Middlesex village and 

farm, 
For the country folk to be up and to arm." 

Then he said "Good-night," and with 

muffled oar 
Silently row'd to the Charlestown shore. 
Just as the moon rose over the bay. 
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 
The Somerset, British man-of-war ; 
A phantom ship, with each mast and 

si)ar 
Across the moon like a prison bar, 
xVnd a liuge black hulk, that was magni- 
fied 
By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile his friend, through alley and 

street. 
Wanders and watches with eager ears, 
Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the burrack-door, 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 
And the measured tread of the grenadiers 
Marching down to their boats on the 

shore. 

Then he climb'd the tower of the Old 

North Church, 
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread. 
To the belfry-chamber overhead. 
And startled the pigeons from their perch 
On the sombre rafters, that round him 

made 
5Iasses and moving shapes of shade, — 
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 
To the highest window in the wall. 
Where he paused to listen and look down 
A moment on the roofs of the town. 
And the moonlight flowing over all. 

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, 

In their night-encampment on the hill, 

Wr:i]ip'd in silence so deep and still 

That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread. 

The watchful night-wind, as it went 

Creeping along from tent to tent, 

And seeming to whisper, " All is well \" 

A moment only he feels the spell 

Of the place and the hour, and the secret 

dread 
Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 



330 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 
On a shadowy something far away, 
Where the river widens to meet the bay, — 
A line of black that bends and floats 
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride. 
Booted and spurr'd, with a heavy stride 
On the opposite shore walk'd Paul Re- 
vere. 
Now he patted his horse's side. 
Now gazed at the landscape far and near, 
Then, impetuous, stamp'd the earth, 
And turn'd and tighten'd his saddle- 
girth ; 
But mostly he watcli'd with eager search 
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, 
As it rose above the graves on the lull, 
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. 
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height 
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! 
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he 

turns. 
But lingers and gazes, till full on liis siglit 
A second lamp in the belfry burns. 

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the 

dark, 
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, 

a spark 
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and 

fleet: 
That was all ; and yet, through the gloom 

and the light. 
The fate of a nation was riding that night ; 
And the spark struck out by that steed in 

his flight 
Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 

He has left the village and mounted tlie 

steep. 
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and 

deep. 
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides, 
And under the alders that skirt its edge. 
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the 

ledge, 
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he 

rides. 

It was twelve by the village clock 
When he cross'd the bridge into Medford 
town. 



He heard the crowing of the cock, 
And the barking of the farmer's dog, 
And felt the damp of the river fog, 
That rises after the sun goes down. 

It was one by the village clock 

When he galloped into Lexington. 

He saw the giUled weathercock 

Swim in the moonlight as he pass'd, 

And the meeting-house windows, blank 

and bare. 
Gaze at him with a spectral glare. 
As if they already stood aghast 
At the bloody work they would look upon. 

It was two by the village clock 

When he came to the bridge in Concord 

town. 
He lieard the bleating of the flock. 
And the twitter of birds among the trees. 
And felt the breath of the morning breeze 
Blowing over the meadows brown. 
And one was safe and asleep in his bed 
Who at the bridge would be fir.st to fall. 
Who that day would be lying dead. 
Pierced by a British musket-ball. 

You know the rest ; in the books you liave 

read. 
How the British regulars fired and fled, — 
How the farmers gave them ball for ball. 
From behind each fence and farmyard wall. 
Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 
Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
And only pausing to fire and load. 

So through the night rode Paul Revere, 
And so through the night went his cry of 

alarm 
To every Middlesex village and farm, — 
A cry of defiance, and not of fear, 
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the 

door, 
And a word that shall echo for evermore ! 
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 
Through all our history, to the last. 
In the hour of darkness, and peril, and 

need, 
The people will waken and listen to hear 
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed. 
And the midnight message of Paul Re- 
vere. 

llENKY WaDSWOBTU LoNOFEI.LUW. 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 331 


Song of Marion's Men. 


Grave men there are by broad Santee, 


OrR band is few, but true and tried, 


Grave men with hoary hairs ; 
Their hearts arc all with Marion, 


Our leader frank and bold ; 


¥or Marion are their prayers. 


The Rritish soldier trembles 


And lovely ladies greet our band 


When Marion's name is told. 


With kindliest welcoming. 


Our fortress is the good greenwood, 


With smiles like those of summer. 


t)ur tcut the cypress tree ; 


And tears like those of spring. 


We know the forest round us, 


For them we wear these trusty arms, 




As seamen know the sea ; 


And lay them down no more 




We know its walls of thorny vines, 


Till we have driven the Briton 


Its glades of reedy grass, 


For ever from our shore. 


Its safe and silent islands 


William Cullen Bryant. 


Within the dark morass. 




Woe to the English soldiery 




That little dread us near! 


Caejiex Bellicosu.m. 


( )ii them shall light at midnight 
.-V strange and sudden fear; 


In their ragged regimentals. 


Stood the old Continentals, 


When, waking to their tents on fire, 


Yielding not. 


They gra.sp their arms in vain. 


When the grenadiers were lunging, 


And they who stand to face us 


And like hail fell the plunging 


.\re beat to earth again ; 


Cannon-shot ; 


And they who fly in terror deem 


When the files 


.V mighty host behind, 


Of the isles, 


And hear the tramp of thousands 


From the smoky night encampment, 


Upon the hollow wind. 


Bore the banner of the rampant 




Unicorn, 


Then sweet the hour that brings release 






And grummer, grummer, grummer, 
EoU'd the roll of the drummer. 


From danger and from toil : 


We talk the battle over. 


Through the morn ! 


And share the battle's spoil. 




The woodland rings with laugh and shout. 


Then with eyes to the front all. 


As if a hunt were up, 


And with guns horizontal. 


And woodland flowers are gather'd 


Stood our sires ; 


To erown the soldier's cup. 


And the balls whistled deadly, 


With merry songs we mock the wind 


And in streams flashing redly 


That in the pine-top grieves. 


Blazed the fires ; 


And slumber long and sweetly 


As the roar 


On beds of oaken leaves. 


On the shore 




Swept the strong battle-breakers 


Well knows the fair and friendly moon 


O'er the green-sodded acres 


The band that Marion leads — 


Of the plain : 


The glitter of their rifle-s. 


And louder, louder, louder. 


The scampering of their .steeds. 


Crack'd the black gunpowder, 


'Tis life to guide the fiery barb 


Crack'd amain! 


Across the niocmlight plain ; 




'Tis life to feel the night-wind 


Now like smiths at their forges 


That lifts his tossing mane. 


Work'd the red St. George's 


.V moment in the Briti.sh camp— 


Cannoneers, 


A moment — and away 


And the " villainous saltpetre" 


Back to the |)athless forest. 


Rang a fierce discordant metre 


Before the peep of day. 


Round their ears ; 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



As the swift 
Storm-di'ift 
With hot sweeping anger, 
Came the horseguards' clangor 

On our flanks ; 
Then liigher, higher, higlier, 
Buru'd tlie old-f'ashion'd flre 
Through the ranl^s ! 

Then the old-fashion'd colonel 
Gallop'd through the white infernal 

Powder-cloud ; 
And his broad sword was swinging, 
And his brazen throat was ringing 

Trumpet loud. 
Then the blue 
Bullets flew. 
And the trooper-jackets redden 
At the touch of the leaden 

Rifle-breath ; 
And rounder, rounder, rounder 
Eoar'd the iron six-pounder, 

Hurling death ! 

Guy Hu.mpheey McMaster. 



La Tricoteuse. 

The fourteenth of July had come. 

And round the guillotine 
The thieves and beggars, rank by rank, 

Moved the red flags between. 
A crimson heart, upon a pole, — 

The long nuirch had begun ; 
But still the little smiling child 

Sat knitting in the sun. 

The red caps of those men of France 

Shook like a poppy-field ; 
Three women's heads, with gory hair, 

The standard-bearers wield. 
Cursing, with song and battle-hymn, 

Five butchers dragg'd a gun ; 
Yet still the little maid sat there, 

A-knitting in the sun. 

An axe was painted on the flags, 

A broken throne and crown, 
A ragged coat, upon a lance, 

Hung in foul black shreds down. 
" More heads !" the seething rabble cry, 

And now the drums begun ; 
But still the little fair-hair'd child 

Sat knitting in the sun. 



And every time a head roU'd ofi", 

They roll like winter seas, 
And, with a tossing up of caps. 

Shouts shook the Tuileries. 
Whizz — went the heavy chopper down. 

And then the drums begun ; 
But still the little .smiling child 

Sat knitting in the sun. 

The Jacobins, ten thousand strong, 

And every man a sword ; 
The red caps, with the tricolors. 

Led on the noisy horde. 
" The Sans Culottes to-day are strong," 

The gossips say, and run ; 
But still the little maid sits there, 

A-knitting in the sun. 

Then the slow death-cart moved along ; 

And, singing patriot songs, 
A i^ale, doom'd poet bowing comes 

And cheers the swaying throngs. 
Oh, when the axe swept shining down, 

The mad drums all begun ; 
But, smiling still, the little child 

Sat knitting in the sun. 

" Le marquis," linen snowy white. 

The powder in his hair, 
Waving his scented handkerchief. 

Looks down with careless stare. 
A whirr, a chop — another head — 

Hurrah ! the work's begun ; 
But still the little child sat there, 

A-knitting in the sun. 

A stir, and through the parting crowd 

The peojile's friends are come ; 
Marat and Robespierre — " Vivat ! 

Roll thunder from the drum." 
The one a wild beast's hungry eye. 

Hair tangled — hark I a gun ! — 
The other kindly kiss'd the child 

A-knitting in the sun. 

"And why not work all night?" the child 

Said to the knitters there. 
Oh how the furies shook their sides. 

And toss'd their grizzled hair ! 
Then clapp'd a bonnet rouije on her. 

And cried, " 'Tis well begun !" 
And laugh'd to see the little child 

Knit, smiling in the sun. 

George Walter Tuornbuky. 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



333 



FRANCE: AN ODE. 

FEBRUARy, 1797. 

Ye Clouds I that far above me float and 
piiuse, 



Though dear her shores and circling 
ocean, 
Though many friendships, many youthful 
loves 
Had swoln the patriot emotion, 



Whose pathless march no mortal may ^„j „^„g ^ ^^^^^ Ugi^j ^,^^ ^u i,„. j,;,,^ 
control ! 



Ye Ocean-AVaves ! that, wheresoe'er ye 
roll. 
Yield homage only to eternal laws! 

Ye Woods ! that listen to the night- 
birds singing, 
Midway the smooth and perilous slope 
reclined, 
Save when your own imperious branches 
swinging 
Have made a solemn music of the wind ! 
Where, like a man beloved of God, 
Through glooms, which never woodman 
trod, 
How oft, pursuing fancies holy, 
My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds 
I wound. 
Inspired beyond the guess of folly, 
By each rude shape and wild unconquer- 
able sound ! 
O ye loud W^aves ! and ye Forests high ! 
And O ye Clouds that far above me 
soar'd ! 
Thou rising Sun! thou blue, rejoicing 
Sky! 
Yea, everything that is and will be 

free! 
Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be, 
W'ith what deep worship I have still adored 
The spirit of divinost Liberty. 

When France in wrath her giant limbs 
uprear'd, 
And with that oath, which smote air, 
earth, and sea, 



and groves ; 
Yet still my voice, unalter'd, sang de- 
feat 
To all that braved the tyrant-quelling 
lance, 
And shame too long delay'd and vain 
retreat ! 
For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim 
I dimm'd thy light or damp'd lliy holy 
flame ; 
But bless'd the pa'ans of delivered 
France, 
And hung my head and wept at Britain's 
name. 

"And what," I said, "though Blasphemy's 

loud scream 
W'ith that sweet music of deliverance 

strove ! 
Though all the fierce and drunken pas- 
sions wove 
A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's 

dream ! 
Ye Storms, that round the dawning east 

assembled. 
The Sun was rising, though ye hid his 

light !" 
And when to soothe my soul, that hoped 

and trembled. 
The dissonance ceased, and all seem'd 

calm and bright ; 
When Franite her front deep-scarr'd and 

gory 
Conceal'd with clustering wreaths of 

glory ; 



Stamp'd her strong foot and said she When, insupportably advancing. 



would be free. 
Bear witness for me, how I hoped and 

fear'd ! 
With what a joy my lofty gratulation 
Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band 



Her arm made mockery of the warrior's 
tramp ; 
While timid looks of fury glancing, 

I)iimestic Trea-son, crush'd beneath her 
fatal stamp, 



And when to whelm the disenchanted Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore; 



nation. 
Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand, 



Then I rej>roach'd my fears that would 
not flee ; 



The Monarchs march'd in evil day, "And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach 

.\nd Britain join'd the dire array ; her lore 



334 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



In the low huts of them that toil and 

groan ! 
And, conquering by her happiness alone, 
Shall France compel the nations to he 

free, 
Till Love and Joy look round, and call 

the Earth their own." 

Forgive me. Freedom ! oh, forgive those 
dreams ! 
I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud la- 
ment. 
From bleak Helvetia's icy cavern sent ; 
I hear thy groans U]wn her blood-stain'd 
streams ! 
Heroes, that for your peaceful country 
perish'd. 
And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain- 
snows 
With bleeding wounds ; forgive me that 
I cherish'd 
One thought that ever bless'd your cruel 
foes ! 
To scatter rage and traitoroiis guilt. 
Where Peace her jealous home had built; 
A patriot race to disinherit 

Of all that made their stormy wilds so 
dear ; 
And with inexpiable spirit 
To taint the bloodless freedom of the 
mountaineer — 
O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, 
blind. 
And patriot only in pernicious toils, 
Are these thy boasts. Champion of human 
kind ? 
To mix with Kings in the low lust of 

sway. 
Yell in the hunt, and share the murder- 
ous prey ; 
To insult the shrine of Liberty with 
spoils 
From freemen torn ; to tempt and to 
betray ? 



The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain. 
Slaves hj their own compulsion ! In 

mad game 
They burst their manacles and wear the 
name 
Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain ! 



O Liberty ! with profitless endeavor 
Have I pursued thee, many a wear}' hour ; 
But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, 
nor ever 
Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human 
power. 
Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee 
(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays 
thee), 
Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, 
And factious Blasphemy's obscener 
slaves. 
Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, 
The guide of homeless winds, and play- 
mate of the waves ! 
And there I felt thee ! — on that sea-clifl''s 
verge. 
Whose pines, scarce travell'd by the 
breeze above, 
Had made one murmur with the distant 
surge ! 
Yes, while I stood and gazed, my tem- 
ples bare, 
And shot my being through earth, sea, 
and air, 
Possessing all things with intensest 
love, 
Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



The Chronicle of the Drum. 

Part I. 

At Paris, hard by the ]Maine barriers. 

Whoever will choose to repair. 
Midst a dozen of wooden-legg'd warriors. 

May haply fall in with old Pierre. 
On the sunshiny bench of a tavern. 

He sits and he prates of old wars, 
And moistens his pipe of tobacco 

With a. drink that is named after Mars. 

The beer makes his tongue run the quicker. 

And as long as his taj) never fails, 
Thus over his favorite liquor 

Old Peter will tell his old tales. 
Says he, " In my life's ninety summers 

Strange changes and chances I've seen, — 
So here's to all gentlemen drummers 

That ever have thump'd on a skin. 

" Brought up in the art military 
For four generations we are : 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



335 



My ancestors dnimm'd for King Harry, 
The Hujuonot lad of Navarre ; 

An<l as each man in life hiis his station, 
Aeeording ii-s fortune may fix, 

While C'ond^ wa-s waving the baton, 
Jly grandsire was trolling the sticks. 

" Ah ! those were the days for commanders ! 

What glories my grandfather won. 
Ere bigots, and lackeys, and panders. 

The fortunes of France liad undone! 
In (ierniany, Flanders, and Holland, — 

What foeman resisted us then? 
No ; my grandsire was ever victorious. 

My grandsire and Jlonsieur Turenne. 

" He died, and our noble battalions 

The jade, fickle Fortune, forsook ; 
And at Blenheim, in spite of our valiance, 

The victory lay with Malbrook. 
The news it was brought to King Louis; 

C'orbleu ! hfiw His Majesty swore, 
When he heard they had taken my grand- 
sire, 

And twelve thousand gentlemen more ! 

" At Namur, Ramillies, and Malplaquet 

Were we posted, on plain or in trench ; 
Malbrook only need to attack it, 

And away from him scamper'd we 
French. 
Cheer up! 'tis no use to be glum, boys, — 

'Tis written, since fighting begun. 
That sometimes we fight and we conquer, 

And sometimes we fight and we run. 

"To fight and to run was our fate; 

Our fortune and fame had departed; 
And so perisird Louis the Great, — 

Old, lonely, and half broken-hearted. 
His coffin they pelted with mud, 

His body they tried to lay hands on ; 
And so having buried King Louis, 

They loyally served his great-grandson. 

" Ciod save the beloved King Louis ! 

(For so he was nicknamed by some). 
And now came my father to do his 

King's orders, and beat on the drum. 
My grandsire w.is dead, but his bones 

Must have shaken. I'm certain, for joy. 
To liear daddy drumming the English 

F'rom the meadows of famed Fonte- 
nov. • 



" So well did he drum in that battle. 

That the enemy show'd us their backs ; 
Corbleu ! it was pleasant to rattle 

The sticks, and to follow old 8axe ! 
We next had Soubise as a leader, 

And as luck hath its changes and fits. 
At Rossbach, in spite of dad's drumming, 

'Tis said we were beaten by Fritz. 

" And now daddy crossed the Atlantic, 

To drum for Montcalm and his men; 
Morbleu I but it makes a man frantic. 

To think wc were beaten again ! 
My daddy he cross'd the wide ocean. 

My mother brought me on her neck, 
And we came in the year fifty-seven 

To guard the good town of Quebec. 

" In the year fifty-nine came the Britons, — 

Full well I remember the day, — 
They knock'd at our gates for admittance. 

Their vessels were moor'd in our bay. 
Says our general, ' Drive me yon red-coats 

Away to the sea, whence they come !' 
So we march'd against Wolfe and his 
bull-dogs, 

We march'd at the sound of the drum. 

" I think I can see my poor mammy 

With me in her hand as she waits. 
And our regiment, slowly retreating, 

Pours back through the citadel-gates. 
Dear mammy, she looks in their faces, 

And a.sks if her husband is come. 
— He is lying all cold on the glacis. 

And will never MKire beat on the drum. 

" Come, drink, 'tis no use to be glum, boys; 

He died like a soldier — in glory ; 
Here'saglasstothehealthof all drum-boys, 

And now I'll commence my own story. 
Once more did we cross the salt ocean ; 

We came in the year eighty-one ; 
And the wrongs of my father the drummer 

Were avenged by the drummer his son. 

" In Chesapeake Bay we were landed ; 

In vain strove the British to pa.ss ; 
Rochambeau our armies commanded. 

Our ships they were led by De Gra-sse. 
Morbleu I how I rattled the drumsticks, 

The day we march'd into Yorktown ! 
Ten thousand of beef-eating British 

Their weapons we caused to lay down. 



336 



FIRES WE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



"Then homeward returning victorious, 

In peace to our country we came, 
And were thank'd for our glorious actions 

By Louis Sixteenth of the name. 
What drummer on earth could be prouder 

Than I, while I drumm'd at Versailles 
To the lovely court-ladies in powder. 

And lappets, and long satin tails ? 

" The princes that day pass'd before us. 

Our countrymen's glory and hoi^e ; 
Jlonsieur, who was learn'd in Horace, 

D' Artois, who could dance the tight-rope. 
One night we kept guard for the Queen 

At Her Majesty's opera-box, 
While the King, that majestical monarch. 

Sat filing at home at his locks. 

" Yes, I drumm'd for the fair Antoinette ; 

And so smiling she look'd, and so tender, 
Tliat our otiicers, privates, and drummers 

All vow'd they would die to defend her. 
But she cared not for us honest fellows. 

Who fought and who bled in her wars ; 
She sneer'd at our gallant Rocharabeau, 

And turn'd Lafayette out of doors. 

" Ventrebleu ! then I swore a great oath 

No more to such tyrants to kneel ; 
And so, just to kee]) u]) my di'umming, 

One day I drumm'd down the Bastile ! 
Ho, landlord ! a stoup of fresh wine ; 

Come, comrades, a bumper we'll try, 
And drink to the year eighty-nine. 

And the glorious Fourth of July ! 

'' Then bravely our cannon it thunder'd, 

As onward our patriots bore ; 
Our enemies were but a hundred, 

And we twenty thousand or more. 
They carried the news to King Louis, 

He heard it as calm as you please ; 
And like a majestical monarch. 

Kept filing his locks and his keys. 

"We show'd our republican courage. 

We storm'd and we broke the great gate 
in, 
And we murder'd the insolent governor 

For daring to keep us a-waiting. 
Lambesc and his squadrons stood Ijy ; 

They never stirr'd finger or thumb ; 
The saucy aristocrats trembled 

As they heard the republican drum. 



" Hurrah ! what a storm was a-brewing ! 

The day of our vengeance was come ; 
Through scenes of what carnage and ruin 

Did I beat on the patriot drum ! 
Let's drink to the famed tenth of August : 

At midnight I beat the tattoo, 
And woke up the pikemen of Paris 

To follow the bold Barbaroux. 

" With pikes, and with shouts, and with 
torches, 

March'd onward our dusty battalions ; 
And we girt the tall castle of Louis, 

A million of tatterdemalions ! 
We storm'd the fair gardens where tower'd 

The walls of his heritage splendid ; 
Ah, sliarae on him, craven and coward, 

That had not the heart to defend it ! 

" With the crown of his sires on his head, 

His nobles and knights by his side, 
At the foot of his ancestors' palace 

'Twere easy, methinks, to have died. 
But no ; when we burst through his bar- 
riers, 
'Mid heaps of the dying and dead. 
In vain through the chambers we sought 
liim, — 
He had turn'd like a craven and fled. 
****** 

" You all know the Place de la Concorde ? 

'Tis hard by the Tuilerie wall ; 
'Mid terraces, fountains, and .statues, 

There rises an obelisk tall. 
There rises an obelisk tall, 

All garnish'd and gilded the base is ; 
'Tis surely the gayest of all 

Our beautiful city's gay places. 

" Around it are gardens and flowers, 

And the cities of France on their 
thrones. 
Each crown'd with his circlet of flowers. 

Sits watching this biggest of stones ! 
I love to go sit in the sun there. 

The flowers and fountains to see, 
And to think of the deeds tluit were done 
there. 

In the glorious year ninety-three. 

" 'Twas here stood the Altar of Freedom, 
And though neither marble nor gilding 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



337 



Was used in those days to adorn 
Our simple republican buikliiijr, 

Corbleu! but the Mkuk Guii.i.otine 
Cared little for splendor or show, 

So you jravi' her an axe and a beam, 
And a plunk and a basket or so. 

"Awful, ami i)r(iud, and erect. 

Here sat our republican goddess ; 
Each morning her table we deck'd 

With dainty aristocrats' bodies. 
The |)eople each day flock'd around, 

As she sat at her meat and her wine: 
'Twas always the use of our luition 

To witness the .sovereign dine. 

"Young virgins with fair golden tresses. 

Old silver-hair'd prelates and priests, 
Dukes, marquises, barons, princesses, 

Were splendidly served at her feasts. 
Ventiebleu .' but we pampcr'd our ogress 

With the best that our nation could 
bring, 
And dainty she grew in her progress, 

And eall'd for the head of a king I 

"She call'd for the blood of our king, 

And straight from his prison we drew 
him ; 
And to her with shouting we led him, 

And took him, and bound him, and slew 
him. 
'The monarchs of Europe against me 

Have plotted a godless alliance; 
I'll fling them the head of King Louis,' 

She said, 'as my gage of defumce.' 

" I see him as now, for a moment. 

Away from his jailers he broke. 
And stood at the foot of the scaffold. 

And linger'd, and fain would have spoke. 
'Ho, drummer' quick! silence yon Capet,' 

Says Santerre, ' with a beat of your 
drum;' 
Lustily then did I tap it. 

And the son of St. Louis was dumb." 



Part U. 
■' Th e glorious days of September 

Saw many aristocrats fall ; 
'Tw:ls then that our pikes drunk the blood 
In the beautiful breast of Lamballe. 



I Pardi, 'twas a beautiful lady! 

I seldom have look'd on her like; 
And I drumm'd for a gallant procession 
That march'd with her head on a pike. 

"Let's show the pale head to the Queen, 

We said — she'll remember it well. 
She look'd from the bars of her prison. 

And shriek'd as she saw it, and fell. 
We set up a shout at her screaming. 

We laugh'd at the fright she had shown 
At the sight of the head of her minion; 

How she'd tremble to part with her 
own ! 

" We had taken the head of King Capet, 

We call'd for the blood of his wife; 
Undaunted she came to the scaffold, 

And bared her fair neck to the knife. 
As she felt the foul fingers that touch'd 
her, 

She shrunk, but she deign'd not to 
speak : 
She look'd with a royal disdain. 

And died with a blush on her cheek. 

" 'Twas thus that our country was saved : 

So told us the safety committee ! 
But pshaw! I've the heart of a soldier. 

All gentleness, mercy, and pity. 
I loathed to assist at such deeds. 

And my drum beat its loudest of tunes 
As we ort'ered to Justice offended 

The blood of the bloody tribunes. 

"Away with such foul recollections! 

No more of the a.xe and the block ; 
I ^aw the last fight of the sections, 

As they fell 'neath our guns at Saint 
Rock. 
Young Bonaparte led us that day ; 

When he sought the Italian frontier, 
I follow'd my gallant young captain, 

I f'ollnw'd him many a long year. 

" We came to an army in rags. 

Our general was but a boy. 
When we first saw the Austrian flags 

Flaunt proud in the fields of Savoy. 
In the glorious year ninety-six. 

We march'd to the banks of ihe Po ; 
I carried my drum and ray sticks. 

And we laid the proud Austrian low. 



338 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



" In triumph we enter'd Milan, 

We seized on the Mantuan Iceys ; 
The troops of the Emperor ran, 

And the Pope he fell down on his 
knees." — 
Pierre's comrades here called a fresh 
bottle, 

And, clubbing together their wealth, 
They drank to the Army of Italy, 

And General Bonaparte's health. 

The drummer now bared his old breast, 

And show'd us a plenty of scars. 
Rude presents that Fortune had made 
him 

In fifty victorious wars. 
" This came when I follow'd bold Kleber — 

'Twas shot by a Mameluke gun ; 
And this from an Austrian sabre. 

When the field of Marengo was won. 

" My forehead has many deep furrows, 

But this is the deepest of all ; 
A Brunswicker made it at Jena, 

Beside the fair river of Saal. 
This cross, 'twas the Emperor gave it 

(God bless him !) ; it covers a blow; 
I had it at Austerlitz fight. 

As I beat on my drum in the snow. 

" 'Twas thus that we conquer'd and fought; 

But wherefore continue the story? 
There's never a baby in France 

But has heard of our chief and our 
■glory,— 
But has heard of our chief and our fame, 

His sorrows and triumphs can tell, 
How bravely Napoleon conquer'd. 

How bravely and sadly he fell. 

'■ It makes my old heart to beat higher 

To think of the deeds that I saw ; 
I follow'd bold Key through the fire. 

And charged at the side of Murat." 
And so did old Peter continue 

His story of twenty brave years ; 
His audience follow'd with comments — 

Rude comments of curses and tears. 

He told how the Prussians in vain 
Had died i" defence of their land ; 

His audience laugli"d at the story. 
And vow'd that their captain was grand I 



He had fought the red English, he said, 

In many a battle of Spain ; 
They cursed the red English, and pray'd 

To meet them and fight them again. 

He told them how Russia was lost. 

Had winter not driven them back ; 
And his company cursed the quick frost, 

And doubly they cursed the Cossack. 
He told how the stranger arrived ; 

They wept at the tale of disgrace ; 
And they long'd but for one battle more, 

The stain of their shame to efface ! 

"Our country their hordes overrun, 

We fled to the fields of Champagne, 
And fought them, though twenty to one. 

And beat them again and again ! 
Our warrior was conquer'd at last ; 

They bade him his crown to re-sign ; 
To fate and his country he yielded 

The rights of himself and his line. 

" He came, and among us he stood. 

Around him we press'd in a throng, 
We could not regard him for weeping, 

Who had led us and loved us so long. 
' I have led you for twenty long years,' 

Napoleon said ere he went ; 
' Wherever was honor I found you. 

And with you, my sons, am content. 

" ' Though Europe against me was arm'd, 
Your chiefs and my people are true ; 

I still might have struggled with fortune, 
And bafiied all Europe with you. 

" ' But France would have suffer'd the 
while ; 

' Tis best that I suffer alone : 
I go to my place of exile. 

To write of the deeds we have done. 

" ' Be true to the king that they give you ; 

We may not embrace ere we part ; 
But, General, reach me your hand. 

And press me, I pray^ to your heart.' 

" He called for our old battle-standard ; 

One kiss to the eagle he gave. 
' Dear eagle 1' he said, ' may this kiss 

Long sound in the hearts of the brave!' 
'Twas thus that Napoleon left us ; 

Our people were weeping and mute. 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



339 



And he passed through the linos of his 
guard, 
And our drums beat the notes of salute. 



" I look'd when the drumming was o'er, 

I look'd, but our hero was gone ; 
We were destined to see him once more, 

When we fought on the mount of St. 
John. 
The Emperor rode through our file.s ; 

'Twas June, and a fair Sunday morn ; 
The lines of our warriors for miles 

Stretched wide through the Waterloo 
corn. 

" In thousands we stood on the plain ; 

The red-coats were crowning the height ; 
' Go scatter yon English,' he said ; 

' We'll sup, lads, at Brussels to-night.' 
We answer'd his voice with a shout ; 

Our eagles were bright in the sun ; 
Our drums and our cannon .spoke out, 

.\nd the thundering battle begun. 

" One charge to another succeeds, 

Like waves that a hurricane bears ; 
All day do our galloping steeds 

Dasli fierce on the enemy's squares. 
At noon we began the fell onset ; 

We charged up the Englishman's hill ; 
And madly we charged it at sunset — 

His banners were floating there still. 

" — Go to ! I will tell you no more ; 

You know how the battle was lost. 
Ho! fetch me a beaker of wine, 

And, comrades, I'll give you a toast. 
I'll give you a curse on all traitors, 

Who plotted our Emperor's niin; 
.\nd a curse on those red-coateil English, 

Whose bayonets help'd our undoing. 

" .\ curse on those British assa.ssins 

Who order'd the slaughter of Ney ; 
A curse on Sir Hudson, who tortured 

The life of our hero away. 
A curse on all Russians — I hate them — 

On all Prussian and .-Vustrian fry; 
And, oh ! but I pray we may meet them, 

And figlit them again ere I die !" 



'TwAs thus old Peter did conclude 

His chronicle with curses fit. 
He spoke the tale in accents rude. 

In ruder verse I copied it. 

Perhaps the tale a moral bears 

(All tales in time to this must come), 

The story of two hundred years 
Writ on the parchment of a drum. 

What Peter told with drum and stick 
Is endless theme for poet's pen : 

Is found in endless quartos thick. 
Enormous books by learned men. 

And ever since historian writ. 
And ever since a bard could sing. 

Doth e.ich exalt, with all liis wit. 
The noble art of murdering. 

We love to read the glorious page, 
How bold Achilles kill'd his foe. 

And Turnus, fell'd by Trojans' rage, 
Went howling to the shades below. 

How Godfrey led his red-cross knights, 
How mad Orlando slash'd and slew ; 

There's not a single bard that writes, 
But doth the glorious theme renew. 

And while in fashion picturesque 
The poet rhymes of blood and blows. 

The grave historian, at his desk. 
Describes the same in classic prose. 

Go read the works of Reverend Cox ; 

You'll duly see recorded there 
The history of the selfsame knocks 

Here roughly sung by Drummer Pierre. 

Of battles fierce and warriors big, 
He writes in phrases dull and .slow, 

And waves his cauliflower wig. 

And shouts, " St. George for Marlborow !" 

Take Doctor Southey from the shelf, 

.\n LL.D., — a peaceful man ; 
Good Lord, how doth he plume himself 

Because we beat the Corsican ! 

From first to last his page is fill'd 
With stirring tales how blows were 
struck. 

He shows how we the Frenchmen kill'd, 
And praises God for our good luck. 



340 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Some hints, 'tis true, of politics 

The doctors give, and statesman's art ; 

Pierre only bangs his drum and sticks. 
And understands the bloody part. 

He cares not what the cause may be, 
He is not nice for wrong and right ; 

But show him where's the enemy, 
He only asks to drum and fight. 

They bid hiui fight, — perhaps he wins ; 

And when he tells the story o'er, 
The honest savage brags and grins, 

And only longs to fight once more. 

But luck may change, and valor fail, 
Our drummer, Peter, meet reverse, 

And with a moral points his tale — 
The end of all such tales — a curse. 



Last year, my love, it was my hap 

Behind a grenadier to be, 
And, but he wore a hairy cap. 

No taller man, methinks, than me. 

Prince Albert and the Queen, God wot ! 

(Be blessings on the glorious pair!) 
Before us pass'd, I saw them not, 

I only saw a cap of hair. 

Your orthodox historian puts 
In foremost rank the soldier thus. 

The red-coat bully in his boots. 

That hides the march of men from us. 

He puts him there in foremost rank, 
You wonder at his cap of hair : 

You hear his sabre's cursfed clank, 
His spurs are jingling everywhere. 

Go to ! I hate him and his trade : 
Who bade us so to cringe and bend, 

And all God's peaceful people made 
To such as him subservient ? 

Tell me what find we to admire 
In epaulets and scarlet coats, 

In men because they load and fire. 
And know the art of cutting throats ? 

Ah, gentle, tender lady mine ! 

The winter wind blows cold and shrill. 
Come, fill me one more glass of wine. 

And give the silly fools their will. 



And what care we for war and wrack, 
How kings and heroes rise and fall ? 

Look yonder ; in his coffin black, 
There lies the greatest of them all ! 

To pluck him down, and keep him up. 
Died many million human souls ; 

'Tis twelve o'clock, and time to sup. 
Bid Mary heap the fire with coals. 

He captured many thousand guns ; 

He wrote " The Great " before his name ; 
And dying only left his sons 

The recollection of his shame. 

Though more than half the world was his, 
He died without a rood his own ; 

And borrow'd from his enemies 
Six foot of ground to lie upon. 

He fought a thousand glorious wars, 
And more than half the world was his. 

And somewhere, now, in yonder stars, 
Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



HOHENLINDEN. 

Ox Linden, when the sun was low. 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow. 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rajiidly. 

But Linden saw another sight 
When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array'd. 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neigh'd 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven ; 
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven ; 
And, louder than the bolts of heaven, 
Far flash'd the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow. 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn ; but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun. 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



341 



Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
Who rush to clory, or the jrrave ! 
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy ehivalry I 

Few, few shall part where many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet ; 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

Thomas Campbell. 



The Battle of the Baltic. 

Of Nelson and the North 

Sinft the glorious day's renown, 

When to battle fierce came forth 

All the might of Denmark's crown. 

And her arms along the deep proudly 

shone ; 
By each gun the lighted brand 
In a hold determined hand, 
.And the prince of all the land 
Led them on. 

Like leviathans afloat ■ 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine; 

While the sign of battle flew 

On the hifty Uritish line: 

It was ten of April morn by the chime: 

As they drifted on their path 

There was silence deep a.s death; 

And the boldest held his breath 

For a time. 

But the might of England flush'd 

To anticipate the scene ; 

And her van the fleeter rush'd 

O'er the deadly space between. 

"Hearts of oak I" our captains cried; when 

each gun 
From its adamantine lips 
Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
Like the hurricane eclipse 
Of the sun. 

.\gain I again ! again ! 
-Vnd the havoc did not slack, 
Till a feeble cheer the Dane 
To our cheering sent us back ; — 



Their shots along the deep slowly boom — 
Then ceased — and all is wail, 
As they .strike the shatter'd sail. 
Or, in conflagration pale, 
Light the gloom. 

Out spoke the victor then, 

As he hail'd them o'er the wave : 

" Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 

And we conquer but to save : 

So peace instead of death let us bring; 

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet. 

With the crews, at England's feet, 

And make submission meet 

To our king." 

Then Denmark bless'd our chief, 

That he gave her wounds repose; 

.Vnd the sounds of joy and grief 

From lier people wildly rose. 

As death withdrew his shades from the day. 

While the sun look'd smiling bright 

O'er a wide and woeful sight. 

Where the fires of funeral light 

Died away. 

Now joy. Old England, raise! 
For the tidings of thy might. 
By the festal cities' blaze, 
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; 
And yet, amidst that joy and uproar. 
Let us think of them that sleep 
Full many a fathom dee]), 
By thy wild and stormy steep, 
Elsinore ! 

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 

Once so faithful an<l so true. 

On the deck of fame that died. 

With the gallant good Riou — 

Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their 

grave I 

While the billow mournful rolls, 

.\nd the mermaid's song condoles, 

Singing glory to the souls 

Of the brave ! 

Thomas CAMrnKi.L. 



IXVIl)i:yT OF THE FJIEXCH C.DIl'. 

You know we French storni'd Ratisbon : 

A mile or so away, 
On a little mound, Napoleon 

Stood on our storming-day ; 



342 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 
Legs wide, arms lock'd behind, 

As if to balance the prone brow, 
Oppressive with its mind. 

Just as perhaps lie mused, " Jly plans 

That soar, to earth may fall. 
Let once my army-leader Lannes 

Waver at yonder wall," — 
Out 'twixt the battery -smokes there flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full galloping; nor bridle drew 

Until he reach'd the mound. 

Then off there flung in smiling joy. 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy ; 

You hardly could suspect 
(So tight he kept his lips compress'd, 

Scarce any blood came through), 
You look'd twice ere you saw liis breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

" Well," cried he, " Emperor, by God's 
grace 

We've got you Eatisbon ! 
The Marshal's in the market-place, 

And you'll be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

Where I, to heart's desire, 
rerch'd him!" The chief's eye flash'd; 
his plans 

Soar'd up again like fire. 

The chief's eye flash'd, but presently 

Softcn'd itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother eagle's eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes : 
" You're wounded !" " Nay," his soldier'.s 
pride 

Touch'd to the quick, he said, 
" I'm kill'd, sire !" And, his chief beside, 

Smiling, the boy fell dead. 

Robert Browning. 



The Contrast. 

Written under Windsor Terrace, the 
Day after the Funeral op George 
THE Third. 

I SAW him last on this terrace proud, 
Walking in health and gladness, 

Begirt with his court ; and in all the crowd 
Not a single look of sadness. 



Bright was the sun, and the leaves were 
green. 

Blithely the birds were singing ; 
The cymbal replied to the tambourine, 

And the bells were merrily ringing. 

I have stood with the crowd beside his bier, 
When not a word was spoken ; 

But every eye was dim with a tear. 
And the silence by sobs was broken. 

I have heard the earth on his coffin pour 
To the muffled drum's deep rolling. 

While the minute-gun, with its solemn 
roar, 
Drown'd the death-bells' tolling. 

The time since he walk'd in his glory thus, 
To the grave till I saw him carried. 

Was an age of the mightiest change to us. 
But to him a night unvaried. 

We have fought the fight ; from his lofty 
throne 

The foe of our land we have tumbled ; 
And it gladden'd each eye, save his alone, 

For whom that foe we humbled. 

A daughter beloved, a queen, a son, 
And a son's sole child, have perish'd , 

And sad was each heart, save only the one 
By which they were fondest cherish'd ; 

For his eyes were seal'd and his mind was 
dark. 

And he sat in his age's lateness 
Like a vision throned, as a solemn mark 

Of the frailty of human greatness ; 

His silver beard, o'er a bosom spread 

Uuvex'd by life's commotion, 
Like a yearly lengthening snow-drift shed 

On the calm of a frozen ocean. 

O'er him oblivion's waters boom'd 
As the stream of time kcjit flowing ; 

And we only heard of our king when 
doom'd 
To know that his strength was going. 

At intervals thus the waves disgorge, 

By weakness rent asunder, 
A piece of the wreck of the Royal George, 

For the people's pity and wonder. 

Horace Smitu. 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



343 



THE OLD GREXADIER'S STORY. 

(TOLDOX A BeSCH outside TIIK InVALIDES.) 

'TWAS the (lay besiilp the I'vraniids, 

It seems but au hour ago, 
That Kleber's Foot stood firm in squares, 

Returning blow for blow. 
The Jlainelukes were tossing 

Their standards to the sky, 
When I heard a child's voice say, "My 
men, 

Teach me the way to die!" 

'Twas a little drummer, with his side 

Torn terribly with shot ; 
But still he feebly beat his drum, 

As though the wound were not. 
And when the Mameluke's wild horse 

Burst with a scream and cry, 
He said, " O men of the Forty-third, 

Teach me the way to die .'" 

" My mother has got other sons. 

With stouter hearts than mine. 
But none more ready blood for France 

To pour out free as wine. 
Yet still life's sweet," the brave lad 
moan'd, 

" Fair are this earth and sky ; 
Then, comrades of the Forty-third, 

Teach me the xvay to die!" 

I saw Palenehe, of the granite heart, 

Wiping his burning eyes — 
It was by far more |)itiful 

Than mere lou<l sobs and cries. 
One bit his cartridge till his lip 

Grew black as winter sky, 
But still the boy moan'd, " Forty-third, 

Teach me the viay to die /" 

Oh never saw I sight like that ! 

The sergeant flung down flag. 
Even the titer bound his brow 

With a wet and bloody rag ; 
Then look'd at locks, and fi.x'd their 
steel, 

But never ma<le rejjly, 
Until he sobb'd out once again, 

" Teach me the wati to die /" 



Then, with a shout that flew to God, 

They strode into the fray; 
I saw their red plumes join and wave, 

But slowly melt away. 
The last who went — a wounded man — 

Bade the poor boy good-bye. 
And said, " We men of the Forty-third 

Teach you the way to die!" 



I never saw so sad a look 

As the poor youngster cast. 
When the hot smoke of cannon 

In cloud and whirhvind |>ass'd. 
Earth shook, and Heaven auswer'd : 

I watch'd his eagle-eye. 
As he faintly moan'd, " The Forty-third 

Teach me the way to die .'" 



Then, with a musket for a crutch. 

He linip'd unto the fight; 
I, with a bullet in my hip. 

Had neither strength nor might. 
But proudly beating on his drum, 

A fever in his eye, 
I heard liim moan, "The Forty-third 

Tauyht me the way to die /" 



They found him on the morrow, 

Stretch'd on a heap of dead ; 
His hand was in the grenadier's 

Who at his bidding bled. 
They hung a medal round his neck, 

And closed his dauntless eye; 
On the st<jne they cut, "The Forty- 
third ^ 

Taught him the way to die!" 



'Tis forty years from then till now — 

The grave gajjes at my feet — 
Yet, when I think of such a boy, 

I feel my old heart beat. 
And from my sleep I sometimes wake. 

Hearing a feeble cry. 
And a voice that says, " Now, Forty- 
third, 

Tench me the way to die .'" 

Georue Walter Tiiornbury. 



344 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Casabianca. 

The boy stood on the burning deck 

AV^hence all but he had fled ; 
The flame that lit the battle's wreck 

Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though child-like form. 

The flames roU'd on — he would not go 

Without his father's word ; 
That father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He call'd aloud, " Say, father, say, 

If yet my task is done?" 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

"Speak, father," once again he cried, 

" If I may yet be gone !" 
And but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames roll'd on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath. 

And in his waving hair, 
And look'd from that lone post of death 

In still, yet brave despair. 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

" My fatlier, must I stay ?" 
While o'er him fast, through sail and 
shroud. 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild. 
They wiught the flag on high, 

And stream'd above the gallant child 
Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder-sound— 
The boy! — oh, where was he? 

Ask of the winds that lar around 
With fragments strew'd the sea I — 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair. 
That well had borne their part, — 

But the noblest thing which perish"d there 
Was that young, foithful heart ! 

Felicia Dokothba Hemans. 



The Angels of Buena vista. 

Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking 

northward far away. 
O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the 

Mexican array, 
Who is losing? who is winning? are they 

far or come they near? 
Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither 

rolls the storm we hear. 

"Down the hills of Angostura still the 

storm of battle rolls ; 
Blood is flowing, men are dying ; God have 

mercy on their souls !" 
Who is losing? who is winning? — "Over 

hill and over plain, 
I see but smoke of cannon clouding through 

the mountain-rain." 

Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, 
Ximena, look once more. 

"Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling 
darkly as before, 

Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend 
and foeman, foot and horse. 

Like some wild and trouliled torrent sweep- 
ing down its mountain-course." 

Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah ! the 

smoke has roU'd away ; 
And I see the Northern rifles gleaming 

down the ranks of gray. 
Hark ! that sudden blast of bugles ! there 

the troop of Minon wheels ; 
There the Northern horses thunder, with 

the cannon at their heels. 

" Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat 

and now advance ! 
Kight against the blazing cannon shivers 

Puebhi's charging lance ! 
Down they go, the brave young riders; 

horse and foot together fall : 
Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through 

them ploughs the Northern ball." 

Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling 

fast and frightful on : 
Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has 

lost, and who has won? 
"Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe 

together fall. 
O'er the dying rush the living; pray, ray 

sisters, for them all ! 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



34.-> 



" Lo ! the wind the smoke is lifting : 

Blessed Motlier, save my brain I 
I can see the wounded crawling slowly out 

from heaps of slain. 
Now they stajrircr, 1)1 ind and bleeding; now 

they tall, and strive to rise.; 
Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest 

they die before our eyes! 

" O my heart's love ! O my dear one ! lay 

thy poor head on my knee: 
Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? 

Canst thou hear me? canst thou 

see? 
() my husband, brave and gentle! O my 

Bernal, look once more 
On the blessed cross before thee I Mercy I 

mercy ! all is o'er!" 

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena ; lay thy 

dear one down to rest ; 
Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the 

cro.ss upon his breast; 
Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his 

funeral masses said ; 
To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living 

ask thy aid. 

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and 

young, a soldier lay, 
Torn with shot and pierced with lances, 

bleeding slow his life away ; 
But, as tenderly before him the lorn 

Ximena knelt, 
She saw the Northern eagle shining on his 

pistol-belt. 

With a stifled cry of horror straight she 

turn'd away her head : 
Vith a sad and bitter feeling look'd she 

back upon her dead ; 
Bit sheheard the youth's low moaning, and 

his struggling breath of pain, 
.Vn> she raised the cooling water to his 

parching lips again. 

WhisjcT'd low tlie dying soldier, press'd 
cr haml and faintly smiled: 

Was tht pitying face his mother's? did 
sk watch beside her child ? 



All his stranger words with meaning her 
woman's heart supi>lied ; 

With lur kiss upon his forehead, "Moth- 
er I" murmur'd he and died ! 

" A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who 
led thee forth. 

From some gentle sad-eyed mother, weep- 
ing, lonely, in the North !" 

Spake the mournful Me.xie woman, a.s she 
laid him with her dead, 

And turn'd to soothe the living, and bind 
the wounds which bled. 

I.,ook forth once iftore, Ximena! "Like a 
cloud before tlie wind 

Kolls the battle down the mountains, leav- 
ing blood and death behind ; 

Ah ! they plead in vain for mercy ; in the 
dust the wounded strive ; 

Hide your faces, holy angels ! O thou 
Christ of God, forgive !" 

Sink, O night, among thy mountains! let 
the cool gray shadows fall ; 

Dying brothers, fighting demons, droji thy 
curtain over all ! 

Through the thickening winter twilight, 
wide apart the battle roll'd. 

In its sheath the sabre rested, and the can- 
non's lips grew cold. 

But the noble Mexic women still their 

holy ta.sk pursued. 
Through that long, dark night of sorrow, 

worn and faint and lacking food ; 
Over weak and sufl'ering brothers, with a 

tender care they hung. 
And the dying foenian bless'd them in a 

strange and Northern tongue. 

Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil 

world of ours ; 
Upward, through its blood and ashes, 

spring afresh the Eden flfiwers ; 
From its smoking hell of battle. Love and 

Pity send their prayer. 
And still thy white-wing'd angels hover 

dimly in our air. 

John Gkeexleaf Wiiittiee. 



34G 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. 



Marco Bozzaris. 

At midnight, in his guarded tent, 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance 
bent, 
Should tremble at his power : 
In dreams, through camp and court, he 

bore 
The trophies of a conqueror ; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard. 
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring. 
Then press'd that monarch's throne — a 

king; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 
As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band. 
True as the steel of their tried blades. 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian's thousands stood, 
There had the glad earth drunk their 
blood. 

On old Platfea's day ; 
And now there breathed that haunted 

air 
The sons of sires who conquer'd there, 
With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 

As quick, as far, as they. 

An hour pass'd on — the Turk awoke : 

That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke, to hear his sentries shriek, 

" To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the 
Greek !" 
He woke, to die 'midst flame, and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke. 

And death-shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud ; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band : 
" Strike, till the last arm'd foe expires ; 
Strike, for your altars and your fires ; 
Strike, for the green graves of your sires ; 

God and your native land !" 

They fought, like brave men, long and 
well ; 
They piled that ground with Moslem 
.slain ; 
They conquer'd — but Bozzaris fell, 
Bleedins at every vein. 



His few surviving comrades saw 

His smile when rang their proud hurrah, 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close 
Calmly, as to a night's repose, 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal chamber. Death, 

Come to the mother's, when she feels. 
For the first time, her first-born's breath ; 

C'ome when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence are broke, 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
C'ome in consumption's ghastly form. 
The earthquake-shock, the ocean-storm ; 
Come when the heart beats high and 
warm, 

With banquet-song, and dance and 
wine ; 
And thou art terrible — the tear. 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 

Of agony, are thine. 

But t© the hero, wlien his sword 

Has won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word. 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Come, when his task of fame is wrought. 
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought, 

Come in her crowning hour, and then 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to prison'd men ; 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land ; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world-seeking Genoese, 
When the land-wind, from woods of palm. 
And orange-groves, and fields of balm, 

Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 

Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time. 
Rest thee — there is no prouder grave. 

Even in her own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral weeds for thee. 

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its 'lume, 
Like torn branch from death's leaflss tree. 
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 

The heartless luxurv of the torb. 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 



347 



But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved, and for a 8eiL-<on gone ; 
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 
Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; 
For thee slie rings the birtli-day bells, 
Of thee her babes' first lis])ing tells; 
For thine her evening prayer is said 
At palace couch and cottage bed ; 
Her soldier, closing with the foe, 
Gives, for thy sake, a deadlier blow ; 
His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him, the joy of her young years. 
Thinks of thy fate, and cliecks her tears; 

And she, the mother of thy hoys, 
Thougli in her eye and faded cheek 
Is read the grief she will not speak, 

The memory of her buried joys, 
And even she who gave thee birth, 
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth. 

Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; 
For thou art Freedom's now, aiul Fame's, 
One of the few, the immortal names 

That were not born to die. 

Fitz-<;beese Halleck. 



Monterey. 

We were not many — we who stood 

Before the iron sleet that day ; 
Yet many a gallant spirit would 
Give half his years if but he could 
Have with us been at Monterey. 

Xow here, now there, the shot it hail'd 
In deadly drifts of fiery spray. 

Yet not a single soldier quail'd 

When wounded comrades round them 
wail'd 
Their dying shout at Monterey. 

.\nd on — still on our column kept 
Through walls of flame its withering 
way ; 
Where fell the dead, the living stept. 
Still charging on the guns which swept 
The slijjpcry streets of Monterey. 

The foe himself reeoil'd aghast. 

When, striking where he strongest lay, 
We swoop'd his flanking batteries past. 
And liraving full their murderous blast, 
Storm'd home the towers of Monterey. 



Our banners on those turrets wave, 

And there our evening bugles play ; 
Where orange-boughs above their grave 
Keep green the memory of the brave 
Wlio fought and fell at Monterey. 

We are not many — we who press'd 

lieside the brave who fell that day — 
Hut who of us has not confoss'd 
He'd rather share their warrior rest 
Than not have been at Monterey? 

Charles Fenno Hoff.han. 



ox the extinctiox of the 
Venetian Republic. 

OxfE did she hold the gorgeous East in 
fee ; 

And was the safeguard of the West : the 
worth 

Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 

Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. 

She was a Maiden City, briglit and free ; 

No guile seduced, no force could vio- 
late; 

And, when She took unto herself a 
Mate, 

She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 

And what if she had seen those glories 
fade. 

Those titles vanish, and that strength de- 
cay ; 

Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 

When her long life hath reach'd its final 
day : 

Men are we, and must grieve when even 
the Shade 

Of that which once was great is pass'd 

away. 

William Wordsworth. 



The Charge of the light Bri- 
gade. 

Haj.f a league, half a league. 

Half a league onward. 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
" Forward, the Light Brigade ! 
Charge for the guns!" he said: 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 



348 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJUDIA OF POETRY. 


" Forward, the Light Brigade !" 


Barbara Frietchie. 


Was tliere a man dismay'd? 


Up from the meadows rich with corn. 


Not though the soldier Iinew 
Some one had blunder'd : 


Clear in the cool September morn. 


Their's not to make reply, 


The cluster'd spires of Frederick .stand 


Their's not to reason why. 


Green-wall'd by the hills of Maryland. 


Their's but to do and die : 




Into the valley of Death 


Eound about them orchards sweep. 


Eode the six hundred. 


Apple and peach tree fruited deep. 




Fair as the garden of the Lord 


Cannon to right of them, 


To the eyes of the famish'd rebel horde, 


Cannon to left of them, 




Cannon in front of them 


On that pleasant morn of the early fall 


Volley'd and thunder'd ; 


When Lee march'd over the mountain- 


Storm'd at with shot and shell, 


wall,— 


Boldly they rode and well. 


Over the mountains winding down. 


Into the jaws of Death, 


Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 


Into the mouth of Hell 




Eode the six hundred : 


Forty flags with their silver stars. 




Forty flags with their crimson bars. 


Flash'd all their sabres bare, 




Flash'd as they turn'd in air. 


Flapp'd in the morning wind: the sun 


Sabring the gunners there. 


Of noon lo<ik'd down, and saw not one. 


Charging an ariny, while 


Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
Bow'd with her fourscore years and ten ; 


All the world wonder'd : 


Plunged in the battery-smoke. 


Eight through the line they broke ; 


Bravest of .all in Frederick town, 


Cossack and Eussian 


She took up the flag the men haul'd 


Eeel'd from the sabre-stroke 


down ; 


Shatter'd and sunder'd. 




Then they rode back, but not^ 


In her attic window the staff she set, 


Not the six hundred. 


To show that one heart was loyal yet. 


Cannon to right of them. 


Up the street came the rebel tread. 


Cannon to left of them. 


Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 


Cannon behind them 




Volley'd and thunder'd ; 


Under his slouch'd hat left and right 


Storm'd at with shot and shell, 


He glanced: the old flag met his sight. 


While horse and hero fell. 


"Halt!" — the dust-brown ranks stood fast. 


They that had fought so well 


"Fire!"— out blazed the rifle-blast. 


Came through the jaws of Death 




Back from the mouth of Hell, 


It shiver'd the window, pane and sash; 


All that was left of them, 


It rent the banner with seam and gash. 


Left of six hundred. 






Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff' 


When can their glory fade? 


Dame Barbara snatch'd the silken scarf. 


Oh, the wild charge they made ! 




All the world wonder'd. 


She lean'd far out on the window-sill. 


Honor the charge they made ! 


And shook it forth with a royal will. 


Honor the Light Brigade, 




Noble six hundred ! 


"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head. 


Alfred Tennyson. 


But sjiare your country's flag," she said. 



HISTORICAL POEMS. 349 


A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 


But there is a road from Winchester town. 


Over the face of the leader came ; 


A good broad highway leading down ; 




And there, through the flush of the morn- 


The nobler nature witliin him stirrM 
To life at that woman's deed and word : 


ing light, 
A steed a« black as the steeds of night 


'■ Wlu) touches a hair of yon gray head 


Wa.s seen to pa.ss, as with eagle flight, 


Dies like a dog ! March on !" he said. 


As if he knew the terrible need : 




He stretch'd away witli his utmost speed; 


All day long through Frederick street 


Hills rose and fell ; but his heart was gay, 


Sounded the tread of marching feet. 


With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 


All day long that free flag tost 


Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thun- 


Over the heads of the rebel host. 


dering south. 


1 


The dust, like smoke from the cannon's 


Ever its torn folds rose and fell 


mouth. 


On the loyal winds that loved it well ; 




Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster 


And through the hill-gaps sunset light 


and fa.ster. 


Shone over it with a warm good-night. 


Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 




The heart of the steed and the heart of the 


Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, 


master 


And the rebel rides on his raids no more. 


Were beating like prisoners a-ssaulting 


Honor to her ! and let a tear 


their walls, 


Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 


Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; 




Every nerve of the charger was strain'd 


Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 


to full play. 


Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! 


With Sheridan only ten miles away. 


Peace and order and beauty draw 


Under his spurning feet, the road 


Round thy symbol of light and law ; 


Like an arrowy Alpine river flow'd 




.\nd the landscape sped away behind 


And ever the stars above look down 


Like an ocean flyitig before the wind ; 


On thy stars below in Frederick town I 


And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace 


Joii.v Gree.nleaf Whittier. 


ire. 




Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire. 


SHESiVAyn' Ride. 


But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire ; 




He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring 


Up from the south, at break of day. 


fray. 


Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 


With Sheridan only five miles away. 


The affrighted air with a sluidder bore, 




Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's 


The first that the general saw were the 


door. 


groups 


The terrible grumble, and rumble, a:id 


Of stragglers, and then the retreating 


roar. 


troops ; 


Telling the battle was on once more, 


What was done? what to do'? a glance 


.\nd .Sheridau twenty miles away. 


told him both. 




Then striking his spurs with a terrible 


And wider still those billows of war 


oath. 


Tliunder'd along the horizon's bar; 


He da-sh'd down t!ie line, 'mid a storm of 


And louder yet into Winchester roll'd 


huzzas. 


The roar of that red sea uncontroll'd. 


And the wave of retreat check'd its course 


Making the blood of the listener cold. 


there, because 


As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray. 


The sight of the master compell'd it to 


And Sheridan twenty miles away. 


pause. 



350 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



With foam .'ind with dust the bhick charger 

was gray ; 
By the flash of his eye, and the red nos- 
tril's jilay 
He seeni'd to the whole great army to say, 
" I have brought you Sheridan all the way 
From Winchester down, to save the day." 

Hurrah ! hurrah for Sheridan I 
Hurrah ! hurrah for horse and man ! 
And when their statues are placed on high. 
Under the dome of the Union sky, 
The American soldier's Temple of Fame, 
There with the glorious general's name 
Be it said, in letters both bold and bright : 

" Here is the steed that saved the day 
By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 

From Winchester — twenty miles away!" 
Thomas Buchanan Read. 



ffisTonr. 

Thou chronicle of crimes! I read no 

more — 
For I am one who willingly would love 
His fellow-kind O gentle poesy. 
Receive me from the court's polluted 

scenes, 
From dungeon horrors, from the fields of 

war. 
Receive me to your haunts, — that I may 

nurse 
My nature's better feelings, for my soul 
Sickens at man's misdeeds ! 

I spake — when lo ! 
She stood before me iu her majesty, 



Clio, the strong-eyed muse. Upon her 

brow 
Sate a calm anger. Go, young man, she 

cried. 
Sigh among myrtle bowers, and let thy 

soul 
Effuse itself in strains so sorrowful sweet, 
That love-sick maids may weep upon thy 

page 
In most delicious sorrow. Oh shame ! 

shame ! 
Was it for this I waken'd thy young 

mind ? 
Was it for this I made thy swelling heart 
Throb at the deeds of Greece, and thy 

boy's eye 
So kindle when that glorious Spartan 

died? 
Boy! boy! deceive me not! what if the 

tale 
Of murder'd millions strike a chilling 

p:ing, 
What if Tiberius in his island stews, 
And Philip at his beads, alike inspire 
Strong anger and contempt; hast thou 

not risen 
With nobler feelings ? with a deeper love 
For freedom ? Yes — most righteously thy 

soul 
Loathes the black history of human crimes 
And human misery ! let that spirit fill 
Thy song, and it shall teach thee, boy ! to 

raise 
Strains such as Cato might have deign'd 

to hear. 
As Sidney in his hall of bliss may love. 
Robert Southey. 



PART vr. 



Poems of Patriotism. 



Poems of Patriotism. 



TffE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 

On, say, can you see by the dawn's early 

light 
AVhat so proudly we hail'd at the twi- 
light's last gleaming^ 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars 

through the perilous fight, 
O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so 

gallantly streaming? 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs 

bursting in air. 
Gave proof through the night that our flag 

was still there ; 
Oh, say, docs that star-spangled banner yet 

wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of 

the brave ? 



On that shore, dimly seen through the 

mists of the deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread 

silence reposes, 
What is that which the breeze, o'er the 

towering steep. 
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now 

discloses? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's 

first beam. 
In full glory reflected, now shines on the 

stream ; 
'Tia the star-spangled banner; oh, long 

may it wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of 

the brave I 



And where is that band who so vauntingly 
swore 
That the havoc of war and the battle's 
confusion 
23 



A home and a country should leave us no 

more ? 
Their blood has wash'd out their foul 

footsteps' pollution. 
No refuge could save the hireling and 

slave 
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of 

the grave ; 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph 

doth wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of 

the brave. 

Oh, thus be it ever, when freemen shall 

stand 
Between their loved homes and the war's 

desolation ! 
Blest with victory and peace, may the 

heaven-rescued land 
Praise the Power that hath made and 

preserved us a nation. 
Then conquer we must, for our cause it is 

just ; 
And this be our motto : " In God is our 

trust ;" 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph 

shall wave 

O'er the land of the free, and the home of 

the brave. 

Francis Scott Key. 



The American Flag. 

When Freedom from her mountain-height 

Unfurl'd her standard to the air. 
She tore the azure robe of night. 

And set the stars of glory there ; 
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies. 
And striped its jiure celestial white 
With streakings of the morning light; 

3.')3 



354 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Then from his mansion in the sun 


For ever float that standard sheet ! 


She call'd her eagle-bearer down, 


Where breathes the foe but falls before 


And gave into his mighty liand 


us. 


The symbol of her chosen land. 


With freedom's soil beneath our feet, 




And freedom's banner streaming o'er us ? 


Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 


Joseph Rodman Drake. 


Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 




To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, 




And see the lightning lances driven, 


America. 


When strive the warriors of the storm, 




And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven — 


My country, 'tis of thee, 


Child of the sun ! to thee 'tis given 


Sweet land of liberty. 


To guard the banner of the free, 


Of thee I sing ; 


To hover in the sulphur-smoke. 


Land where my fathers died. 


To ward away the battle-stroke. 


Land of the pilgrim's pride. 


And bid its blendings shine afar, 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 


From every mountain-side 
Let freedom ring. 


The harbingers of victory ! 






My native country, thee — 


Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly. 


Land of the noble, free — 


The sign of hope and trium2)h high, 


Thy name I love ; 


When speaks the signal trumpet-tone, 


I love thy rocks and rills, 


And the long line comes gleaming on ; 


Thy woods and templed hills ; 


Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 


My heart with rapture thrills 


Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet. 


Like that above. 


Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 




To where thy sky-born glories burn. 


Let music swell the breeze, 


And as his springing steps advance 


And ring from all the trees 


Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 


Sweet freedom's song : 


And when the cannon-mouthings loud 


Let mortal tongues awake ; 


Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud. 


Let all that breathe partake ; 


And gory sabres rise and fall 


Let rocks their silence break, — 


Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall. 


The sound prolong. 


Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 




And cowering foes shall sink beneath 


Our fathers' God, to Thee, 


Each gallant arm that strikes below 


Author of liberty. 


That lovely messenger of death. 


To Thee we sing ; 




Long may our land be bright 


Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 


With freedom's holy light; 


Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 


Protect us by Thy might. 


When death, careering on the gale. 


Great God, our King. 


Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 


Samuel F. Smith. 


And frighted waves rush wildly back 




Before the broadside's reeling rack. 




Each dying wanderer of the sea 


Battle- Hymn of the Republic. 


Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 




And smile to see thy splendors fly 


Mine eyes have seen the glory of the 


In triumph o'er his closing eye. 


coming of the Lord : 




He is trampling out the vintage where the 


Flag of the free heart's hope and home I 


grapes of wrath are stored ; 


By angel hands to valor given ; 


He hath loosed the fateful lightning of 


Thy stars have lit the welkin dome. 


His terrible swift sword : 


And all thy hues were born in heaven. 


His truth is marching on. 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



355 



I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a 

hundred circling camps ; 
They have builded Him an altar in the 

evening dews and damps ; 
I can read His righteous sentence by the 

dim and flaring lamps : 

His day is marching on. 

1 have read a fiery gospel writ in burnish'd 

rows of steel : 
" As ye deal with my contemners, so witli 

you my grace shall deal ; 
Let the Hero, born of wonum, crush the 

serpent with his heel, 

Since God is marching on." 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that 

shall never call retreat; 
He is sifting out the hearts of men before 

His judgment-seat : 
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! be 

jubilant, my feet ! 

Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born 

across the sea. 
With a glory in His bosom tliat trans- 
figures you and me : 
As He died to make men holy, let us die to 
make men free, 

While God is marching on. 

Julia Ward Howe. 



Rule, rritanxia. 

When Britain first, at Heaven's com- 
mand, 
Arose from out the azure main, 
This was the charter of the land. 

And guardian angels sang this strain : 
Kule. Britannia, rule the waves ; 
Britons never will be slaves. 

The nations, not so blest as thee. 

Must in their turns to tyrants fall ; 
While thou shalt flourish, great and free, 
The dread and envy of them all : 

Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; 
Britons never will be slaves. 

Still more majestic shalt thou rise, 
More dreadful from each foreign stroke: 



As the loud blast that tears the skies 
Serves but to root thy native oak : 

Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; 
Britons never will be slaves. 

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; 
All their atteniiHs to bend thee down 
AVill but arouse thy generous tiame. 
But work their woe, and thy renown. 
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; 
Britons never will be slaves. 

To thee belongs the rural reign ; 

Thy cities shall with coinmerce shine : 
All thine shall be the subject main. 
And every shore it circles, thine: 

Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; 
Britons never will be slaves. 

The Mases, still with Freedom found, 

Shall to thy happy coast repair; 
Blest isle! with matchless beauty crown'd, 
And manly hearts to guard the fair: 

Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; 
Britons never will be slaves. 

J.lMUj TlIOUSON. 



GOD S.l VK Till-: KI.XG. 

God save our gracious king! 
Long live our noble king ! 

God save the king! 
Send liim victorious, 
Happy and glorious. 
Long to reign over us — 

God save the king I 

O Lord our God, arise ! 
Scatter his enemies, 

.\nd make them fall. 
Confound their i)olitics. 
Frustrate their knavish tricks; 
On him our hopes we fix, 

God save us all ! 

Thy choicest gifts in store 
On him be pleaded to pour; 

Long may he reign. 
May he defend our laws. 
And ever give us cause. 
To sing with heart and voice — 

God save the king! 

He.vbv Cakky. 



356 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



MEN OF England. 

Men of England ! who inherit 

Rights that cost your sires their 
blood ! 
Men whose undegenerate spirit 

Has been proved on field and flood ! — 

By the foes you've fouglit uncounted, 
By the glorious deeds you've done, 

Trophies captured — breaches mounted- 
Navies conquer'd — kingdoms won ! 

Yet, remember, England gathers 
. Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, 
If the freedom of your fathers 
Glow not in your hearts the same. 

What are monuments of bravery 
Where no public virtues bloom? • 

What avail, in lands of slavery, 
Trophied temples, arch and tomb? 

Pageants ! — Let the world revere us 
For our people's rights and laws, 

And the breasts of civic heroes 
Bared in Freedom's holy cause. 

Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, 
Sidney's matchless shade is yours, — 

Martyrs in heroic story, 

Worth a hundred Agincourts ! 

We're the sons of sires that baffled 
Crown'd and mitred tyranny; — ■ 

They defied the field and scaffold 
For their birthrights — so will we! 

Thomas Campbell. 



Ye Mariners of England. 

Ye Mariners of England 

That guard our native seas ! 

Whose flag has braved, a thousand 

years. 
The battle and the breeze ! 
Your glorious standard launch again 
To match another foe : 
And sweep through the deep, 
While the stormy winds do blow ; 
While the battle rages loud and long 
And the storinv winds do blow. 



The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave — 

For the deck it was their field of fame. 

And Ocean was their grave : 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 

Your manly hearts shall glow, 

As ye sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks. 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves. 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak 

She quells the floods below — 

As they roar on the shore. 

When the stormy winds do blow ; 

When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the .stormy winds do blow. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn ; 

Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name. 

When the storm has ceased to blow ; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more. 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 

Thomas Campbell. 



Sonnet. 

On a Distant View op England. 

An! from mine eyes the tears unbidden 
start, 
As thee, my country, and the long-lost 

sight 
Of thy own cliffs, that lift their summits 
white 
Above the wave, once more my beating 

heart 
With eager hope and filial transport 
hails! 
Scenes of my youth, reviving gales ye 

bring. 
As when erewhile the tuneful morn of 
spring 
Joyous awoke amidst your blooming vales, 



PUEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



&57 



And fiU'd with fragrance every painted ; Count the rocks of the Spey, count the 



I 



plain : 
Fled are those hours, and all the joys 

they gave! 
Yet still 1 gaze, and count each rising 

wave 
That bears me nearer to your haunts 

again ; 
If haply, 'mid those woods and vales so 

fair, 

Stranger to Peace, I yet may meet her 

there. 

William Lisle Bowles. 



The Broadswords of Scotland. 

Now there's peace on the shore, now 

there's calm on the sea. 
Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords 

kept us free. 
Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, 
and Dundee. 
Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland ! 
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords ! 

Old Sir Ralph Abercromby, the good and 

the brave — 
Let him flee from our board, let him sleep 

with the slave. 
Whose libation conies slow while wc honor 
his grave. 
Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland ! 
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords I 

Though he died not, like him, amid 

victory's roar. 
Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud 

on the shore. 
Not the less we remember the spirit of 
Moore. 
Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland ! 
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords ! 

Yea, a place with the fallen the living 

shall claim ; 
We'll entwine in one wreath every glori- 
ous name, 
The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and 
the Graham, 
All the broadswords of old Scotland ! 
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords I 



groves of the Forth, 
Count the stars in the clear, cloudless 

heaven of the north ; 
Then go blazon their numbers, their names, 
and thoir worth, 
All the broadswords of old Scotland ! 
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords! 

The highest in splendor, the humblest in 

place. 
Stand united in glory, as kindred in race. 
For the private is brother in blood to His 
Grace. 
Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland ! 
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords ! 

Then sacred to each and to all let it be. 
Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords 

kept us free. 
Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, 
and Dundee. 
Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland ! 
And oh, the old Scottish broadswords! 
John Gibson Lockiiart. 



HAME, HAME, HAME! 

Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain would 

be! 
Oh hame, liame, hame, to my ain countrie ! 
When the flower is i' the bud and the Iraf 

is on the tree. 
The lark shall sing me hame to my ain 

countrie. 
Hame, hame, hame ! oh hame I fain 

would he I 
Oh hame, hame, hame, to my ain 

countrie ! ' 

The green leaf o' loyaltie's beginning now 
to fa' ; 

The bonnie white rose, it is withering an' 
a': 

But we'll water it wi' the bluid of usurp- 
ing tyrannic. 

And fresh it shall blaw in my ain countrie! 
Hame, liaiiie, hame ! oh haine I fain 

would be I 
Oh hame, hame, hame, to my ain 
countrie ! 



358 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Oh there's nocht now frae ruin my countrie 

can save, 
But the keys o' kind Heaven to open the 

grave, 
Tliat a' the noble martyrs who died for 

loyaltie 
May rise again and fight for their ain 

countrie. 
Hame, hanie, hame ! oh hame I fain 

would be ! 
Qh hame, hame, hame, to my ain 

countrie ! 

The great now are gone wha attempted to 

save. 
The green grass is growing abune their 

grave ; 
Yet the sun through tlie mist seems to 

promise to me, 
" I'll shine on ye yet in your ain counti ie." 
Hame, hame, hame ! oh hame I fain 

would be ! 

Oh hame, hame, hame, to my ain 

countrie ! 

Allan CvNNiNriHAM. 

Mr AlJV COUNTREE. 

The sun rises bright in France, 

And fair sets he ; 
But he has tint the blythe blink he had 

In my ain eountree. 
Oh gladness comes to many. 

But sorrow comes to me. 
As I look o'er the wide ocean 

To my ain eountree. 

Oh it's nae my ain ruin 

That saddens aye my e'e, 
But the love I left in Galloway, 

Wi' bonnie bairnies three. 
My hamely hearth burnt bonnie, 

An' smiled my foir Marie: 
I've left my heart behind me 

In my ain eountree. 

The bud comes back to summer. 

And the blossom to the bee ; 
But I'll win back — oh never. 

To my ain eountree. 
I'm leal to the high heaven, 

Which will be leal to me, 
An' there I'll meet ye a' sune 

Frae my ain eountree. 

Alla.n Cunningham. 



My Hearts in the Highlands. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is 

not here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the 

deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the 

roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the 

North, 
The birthplace of valor, the country of 

worth : 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd 

with snow ; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys 

below ; 
Farewell to the forests and wild-banging 

woods ; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring 

floods. 
Jly heart's in the Highlands, my heart is 

not here, 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the 

deer. 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the 

roe. 
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I 

go- 

Robert Burns. 

Border Ballad. 

Maech, march Ettrick and Teviotdale, 
Why the de'il dinna ye march forward in 
order ? 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, 
All the blue bonnets are bound for the 
border. 

Many a banner spread. 
Flutters above your head, 
Many a crest that is famous in story. , 
Mount and make ready, then. 
Sons of the mountain-glen, 
Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish 
glory. 

Come from the hills where your hirsels are 
grazing, 
Come from the glen of the buck and the 
■ roe; 



Come to the crag where the beacon is 

blazing, 

Come with the buckler, the lance, and 

the bow. 

Trumpets are soundinff. 

War-steeds are bounding, 

Stand to your arms and march in good 

order, 

England shall many a day 

Tell of tiie bloody IVay, 

When the blue bonnets came over the 

border. 

Sir Walter Scott. 

Pibroch of Doxuil Dhu. 

PiBKOCH of Donuil Dhu, 

Pibroch of Donuil, 
AVake thy wild voice anew, 

Summon Clan-Conuil. 
Come away, come away, 

Hark to the summons ! 
Come in your war-array, 

Gentles and commons. 

Come from the deep glen, and 

From mountain so rocky. 
The war-pipe and pennon 

Arc at Inverlochy. 
Come every hill-plaid, and 

True heart that wears one, 
Come every steel blade, and 

Strong hand that bears one. 

Leave untended the herd. 

The flock without shelter; 
Leave the corpse unintcrr'd. 

The bride at the altar ; 
Le.ive the deer, leave the steer, 

Leave nets and barges : 
Come with your fighting gear, 

Broadswords and targes 

Come as the winds come, when 

Forests are rended ; 
Come as the waves come, when 

Navies are stranded : 
Faster come, faster come. 

Faster and faster, 
Chief, vassal, page, and groom, 

Tenant and master. 

Fast they come, fast they come; 
See how they gather ! 



Wide waves the eagle plume, 

Blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 

Forward each man set ! 
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Knell for the onset! 

SiK Walter Scott 



The Exile of Erix. 

There came to the beach a poor exile of 

Erin, 
The dew on his thin robe was heavv and 

chill ; 
For his country he sigh'd when at twiliglit 

repairing 
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. 
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad de- 
votion, 
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the 

ocean, 
Where once, in the fervor of youth's warm 

emotion. 
He .sung the bold anthem of Erin go 

bragh. 

Sad is my fate I said the heart-broken 
stranger, 
The wild deer and wolf to a covert can 
flee; 
But I have no refuge from famine and 
danger, 
A home and a country remain not to me. 
Never again, in the green sunny bowers. 
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend 

the sweet hours. 
Or cover my harp with the wild Avoven 
flowers. 
And strike to the numbers of Erin go 
bragh. 

Erin, my country ! though sad and for- 
saken. 
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore. 
But, alas.' in a far foreign land I awaken, 
And sigh for the friends who can meet 
me no more I 
Oh, cruel Fate ! wilt thou never replace me 
In a mansion of peace, where no perils 

can clijLse me? 
Never again shall my brothers embrace me? 
They died to defend me, or live to de- 
plore ! 



360 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



Where is my eabin-door, fast by the wild- 
wood ? 
Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its 
fall? 

Where is the mother that look'd on my 
childhood, 
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer 
than all? 

Oh, my sad heart, long abandon'd by 
pleasure, 

Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? 

Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall with- 
out measure. 
But rapture and beauty they cannot re- 
call. 

Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing, 
One dying wish my lone bosom can 
draw ; 
Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his bless- 
ing; 
Land of ray forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! 
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her 

motion. 
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the 

ocean ! 
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud 
with devotion, 
Erin mavouriiiu I Erin go bragh ! 

Thomas Campbell. 



Song of the Greek poet. 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 

Where burningSappho loved and sung,— 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 

Where Delos rose, and Pha?bus sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet ; 
But all except their sun is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse. 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 

Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds which echo further west 

Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." 

The mountains look on Marathon, 
And Marathon looks on the sea; 

And musing there an hour alone, 
I dream'd that Greece might still be free ; 

For standing on the Persians' grave, 

I could not deem mvself a slave. 



A king sate on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; 

And ships by thousands lay below. 
And men in nations, — all were his! 

He counted them at break of day, — 

And when the sun set, where were they ? 

And where are they? and where art thou. 
My country ? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now, — 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine. 

Degenerate into hands like mine? 

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame. 
Though link'd among a fetter'd race, ' 

To feel at least a patriot's shame. 
E'en as I sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks a blush, — for Greece a tear. 

Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? 

Must we but blush ? — our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred, grant but three 
To make a new Thermopylte ! 

What, silent still? and silent all? 

Ah no ! the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 

And an.swer, " Let one living head, 
But one, arise, — we come, we come !" 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain, — in vain ; strike other chords; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. 

And shed the blood of Scio's viue ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call. 
How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave, — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

We will not think of themes like these ! 
It made Anacreon's song divine; 

He served — but served Polycrates, — 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



361 



The lyriiiit of the Chersonese 

Was tVeeJom's best and bravest friend ; 
That tyraut was Miltiades! 

Oh that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rock and Parga's shore 
Exists the remnant of a line, 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
And there perhaps some seed is sown 
The Heracloidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks, — 
They have a king who buys and sells. 

In native swords and native ranks 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 

But Turkish force and Latin fraud 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade, — 
I see their glorious black eyes shine; 

But, gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

I'lare me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

Jlay hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
There, swan-like, let nie sing and die. 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine, — 

Diuih down yon cup of Samian wine ! 

LoKD Byron. 



.1 Court Lady. 

Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes 

with purple were dark. 
Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a red and 

restless spark. 

Never was lady of Milan nobler in name 

and in race; 
Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the 

face. 



She stood in the early morning, and said 

to her maidens, " Bring 
That .silken robe made ready to wear at 

the court of the king. 

" Bring me the clasps of diamond, Inciil, 

clear of the mote. 
Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp 

me the small at the throat. 

" Diamonds to fasten the hair, and dia- 
monds to fasten the sleeves. 

Laces to drop from their rays, like a pow- 
der of snow from the eaves." 

Gorgeous she entered the sutdight, which 
gather'd her up in a flame. 

While straight in her open carriage she 
to the hospital came. 

In she went at the door, and gazing from 

end to end, 
" Many and low are the pallets, but each 

is the place of a friend." 

Up she pass'd through the wards, and 

stood at a young man's bed : 
Bloody the band on his brow, and livid 

the droop of his head. 

" Art thou a Lombard, my brother? Happy 

art thou," she cried. 
And smiled like Italy on him : he dream'd 

in her face and died. 

Pale with his passing soul, she went on 

still to a second : 
He was a grave hard man, whose years by 
I dungeons were reckon'd. 

Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in 
his life were sorer. 
j "Art thou a Romagnole?" Her eyes 
I drove the lightnings before her. 

" Austrian and priest had join'd to double 

and tighten the cord 
Able to bind thee, O strong one, — free by 

the stroke of a sword. 



Never was lady on earth more true as "Now be grave for the rest of us, using 
woman and wife, I the life overcast 

Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder To ripen our wine of the present Itoo 
in manners and life. i new) in glooms of the past." 



362 FIRESIDE Eh-CYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. 


Down she stepp'd to a pallet where lay a 


Holding his cold rough hands, — " Well, oh. 


face like a girl's, 


well have ye done 


Young, and pathetic with dying, — a deep 


In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not 


black hole in the curls. 


be noble alone." 


"Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and 


Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to 


seest thou, dreaming in pain. 


her feet with a spring, — 


Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching 


" That was a Piedmontese ! and this is the 


the list of the slain?" 


Court of the King." 




Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 


Kind as a mother herself, she touch'd his 




cheeks with her hands : 




" Blessed is she who has borne thee, 


The Harp that Once through 


although she should weep as she 


Tara's Halls. 


stands." 






The harp that once through Tara's halls 


On she pass'd to a Frenchman, his arm 


The soul of music shed, 


carried off by a ball : 


Now Kangs as mute on Tara's walls 


Kneeling, . . ."0 more than my brother ! 


As if that soul were fled. 


how shall I thank thee for all? 


So sleeps the pride of former days. 




So glory's thrill is o'er. 


" Each of the heroes around us has fought 


And hearts that once beat high for praise. 


for his land and line. 


Now feel that pulse no more. 


But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate 




of a wrong not thine. 


No more to chiefs and ladies bright 




The harp of Tara swells ; 


" Happy are all free peoples, too strong to 


The chord alone that breaks at night 


be dispossess'd : 


Its tale of ruin tells. 


But blessed are those among nations who 


Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes. 


dare to be strong for the rest !" 


The only throb she gives 




Is when some heart indignant breaks. 


Ever she pass'd on her way, and came to a 


To show that still she lives. 


couch where pined 


Thomas JIoore. 


One with a face from Venetia, white with 




a hope out of mind. 


*o* 


Long she stood and gazed, and twice she 


The Ex TIE'S Song. 


tried at the name. 


Oh, why left I my hame ? 


But two great crystal tears were all that 


Why did I cross the deep ? 


falter'd and came. 


Oh, why left I the land 




Where my forefathers sleep ? 


Only a tear for Venice'? — she turn'd as in 


I sigh for Scotia's shore, 


passion and loss, 


And I gaze across the sea. 


And stoop'd to his forehead and kiss'd it, 


But I canna get a blink 


as if she were kissing the cross. 


0' my ain countree I 




Faint witli that strain of heart, she moved 




on then to another. 


The palm tree waveth high, 


Stern and strong in his death. " And 
dost thou sutfer, my brother?" 


And fair the myrtle springs ; 


And to the Indian maid 




The bulbul sweetly sings ; 


Holding his hands in hers: — "Out of the 


But I dinna see the broom 


Piedmont lion 


Wi' its tassels on the lea, 


Cometh the sweetness of freedom ! sweet- 


Nor hear the lintie's sang 


est to live or to die on." 


0' my ain countree ! 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



363 



Oh, here no Sabbath bell 

Awakes the Sabbath morn, 
Nor song of reapers heard 

Amang the yellow corn . 
For the tyrant's voice is here, 

And the wail of slaverie ; 
But the sun of Freedom shines 

In my ain countree I 

There's a hope for every woe, 

And a balm for every |)ain. 
But the first joys o' our heart 

Come never back again. 
There's a track upon the deep, 

And a path across the sea ; 
But the weary ne'er return 

To their ain countree ! 

ROUERT GiLFlLLAN 



How Sleep the Brave. 

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest 
By all their Country's wishes blest! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould. 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung, 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung: 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay, 
And Freedom shall a while repair 
To dwell a weeping hermit there! 

William Collins. 



,Lv Ode. 

In Imitation or Alcsus. 

What constitutes a state? 
Not high-raised battlement or labor'd 
mound, 
Thick wall or moated gate; 
Not cities proud with spires and turrets 
crown'd ; 
Not bays and broad-arm'd ports, 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navie-s 
ride ; 
Not starr'd and spangled court.*, 
Where low-brow'd baseness wafta perfume 
to pride. 



No : men, high-minded men, 
With powers as far above dull brutes en- 
dued 
In forest, brake, or den, 
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles 
rude. 
Men who their duties know. 
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare 
maintain. 
Prevent the long-aim'd blow. 
And crush the tyrant while they rend the 
chain : 
These constitute a state ; 
And sovereign Law, that state's collected 
will. 
O'er thrones and globes elate 
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. 

Smit by her sacred frown, 
The fiend Dissension like a vapor sinks. 

And e'en the all-dazzling Crown 
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding 
shrinks. 

Such was this heaven-loved isle. 
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ! 

No more shall Freedom smile? 
Shall Britons languish, and be men no 
more ? 
Since all must life resign. 
Those sweet rewards which decorate the 
brave 
'Tis folly to decline, 
And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 
Sir William Jones. 



Love titou thy Lasd. 

Love thou thy land, with love far-brought 
From out the storied Past, and used 
Within the Present, but transfused 

Thro' future time by ]>ower of thought. 

True love turn'd round on fixfed poles, 
Love, that endures not .sordid ends, 
For English natures, freemen, friends, 

Thy brothers and immortal souls. 

But pamper not a hasty time, 
Nor feed with crude imaginings 
The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings, 

That every sophister can lime. 



3G4 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Deliver not the tasks of might 
To weakness, neither hide the ray 
From those, not blind, who wait for day, 

Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 

Make knowledge circle with the winds, 
But let her herald, Reverence, fly 
Before her to whatever sky 

Bear seed of men and growth of minds. 

Watch what main currents draw the years, 
Cut Prejudice against the grain ; 
But gentle words are always gain ; 

Regard the weakness of thy peers. 

Nor toil for title, plafo, or touch 
Of pension, neither count on praise; 
It grows to guerdon after-days ; 

Nor deal in watchwords overmuch ; 

Not clinging to some ancient saw. 
Not master'd by some modern term. 
Not swift nor slow to change, but firm ; 

And in its season bring the law. 

That from Discussion's lip may fall 

With Life, that, working strongly, 

binds — 
Set in all lights by many minds, 

To close the interests of all. 

For Nature also, cold and warm. 
And moist and dry, devising long. 
Thro' many agfuts making strong, 

Matures the individual form. 

Meet is it changes should control 
Our being, lest we rust in ease. 
We all are changed by still degrees, 

All but the basis of the soul. 

So let the change which comes be free 
To ingroove itself with that which flies. 
And work, a joint of state, that plies 

Its office, moved with sympathy. 

A saying, hard to shape in act: 
For all the past of Time reveals 
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, 

AVherever Thought hath wedded Fact. 

Even now we hear with inward strife 
A motion toiling in the gloom, 
The Spirit of the years to come 

Yearning to mix himself with Life. 



A slow-develop'd strength awaits 
Completion in a painful school ; 
Phantoms of other forms of rule, 

New Majesties of mighty 8tates, — 

The warders of the growing hour. 
But vague in va])or, hard to mark , 
And round them .sea and air are dark 

With great contrivances of power. 

Of many changes, aptly joined. 
Is bodied forth the second whole. 
Regard gradation, lest the soul 

Of Discord race the rising wind ; 

A wind to puff your idol-fires. 
And heap their ashes on the head, 
To shame the boast so often made, 

That we are wiser than our sires. 

Oh, yet if Nature's evil star 

Drive men in manhood, as in youth, 
To follow flying steps of Truth 

Across the brazen bridge of war, — 

If New and Old, disastrous feud. 
Must ever shock, like arnifed foes. 
And this be true, till Time shall close, 

That Principles are rain'd in blood ; 

Not yet the wise of heart would cease 
To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt. 
But with his hand against the hilt. 

Would pace the troubled land like Peace; 

Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, 

Would serve his kind in deed and word. 
Certain, if knowledge bi'ing the sword. 

That knowledge takes the sword away — 

Would love the gleams of good that broke 
From either .side, nor veil his eyes , 
And if some dreadful need should rise 

Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke: 

To-morrow yet would reap to-day. 
As w-e bear blossom of the dead ; 
Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed 

Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



PART VII, 



Legendary 



Ballad Poetry. 




TiEGE:NDARY AND 


Ballad Poetry. 


Sir Patrick Spens. 


When that the lords o' Noroway 


The king sits in Dunfermline town, 


Began aloud to say : 


Drinking the blude-red wine : 


" Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud 


" Oil where will I get a skeely skipper 


And a' our queenis fee." 


To sail this ship of mine ?" 


" Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud ! 


Oh up and spake an eldern knight, 


Fu' loud I hear ye lie! 


Sat at the king's right knee : 


" For I hae brought as much white monie 


" Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor 


As gane my men and me,— 


That ever sail'd the sea." 


And I hae brought a half-fou o' gude red 


Our king has written a braid letter, 


goud 


And seal'd it with his hand, 


Out owre the sea wi' me. 


And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 


" Make. ready, make ready, my merry men 


Was walking on the strand. 


a'! " 


" To Noroway, to Noroway, 


Our gude ship sails the morn." 


To Noroway o'er the faem ; 


" Now, ever alake I my master dear, 


The king's daughter of Noroway, 


I fear a deadly storm ! 


! 'Tis thou maun bring her hame !" 

i 


"I saw the new moon, late yestreen. 


1 

The first word that Sir Patrick read, 


Wi' the auld moon in her arm ; 


Sae loud, loud luul;h^d he ; 


And if we gang to sea, master, 


The neist word that Sir Patrick read, 


I fear we'll come to harm*' 


The tear blinded his e'e. 


They hadna sail'd a league, a league. 


" Oh wha is this has done this deed, 


A league, but barely three, 


And tauld the king o' me, 


When the lift grew dark, and the wind 


To send us out at this time of the year. 


blew loud. 


To sail upon the sea'' 


And gurly grew the sea: 


" Pe't wind or woet, be't hail or sleet, 


The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, 


Our sliij) maun sail the faem ; 


It was sic a deadly storm ; 


The king's daughter of Noroway, 


And the waves cam o'er the broken ship 


'Tis we must fetch her hame." 


Till a' her sides were torn. 


They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn 


" Oh where will I get a gude sailor 


Wi' a' the speed they may; 


To take my helm in hand. 


They hae landed in Noroway 


Till I get up to the tall topmast 


Upon a Wodensday. 


To see if I can spy land?" 


They hadna been a week, a week 


" Oh here am 1, a sailor gude, 


In Noroway, but twae, 


To take the helm in hand, 




367 



868 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Till you go up to the tall topmast, — 
But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." 

He hadna gane a step, a step, 

A step, but barely ane, 
When a boult flew out of our goodly ship, 

And the salt sea it came in. 

" Gae fetch a web o' the silken elaith, 

Another o' the twine. 
And wap them into our ship's side. 

And let nae the sea come in." 

They fetch'd a web o' the silken claith. 

Another o' the twine, 
And they wapp'd them round that gude 
ship's side, 

— But still the sea came in. 

Oh laith, laith were our gude Scots lords 
To weet their cork-heel'd shoon ! 

But lang or a' the play was play'd, 
They wat their hats aboon. 

And mony was the feather-bed 

That float'd on the faem ; 
And mony was the gude lord's son 

That never niair cam hame. 

The ladyes wrang their fingers white, — 

The maidens tore their hair ; 
A' for the sake of their true loves, — 

For them they'll see nae mair. 

Oh lang, lang may the ladyes sit, 
AVi' their fans into their hand. 

Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 
Come sailing to the strand ! 

And lang, lang may the maidens sit, 
Wi' their goud kaims in their hair, 

A' waiting for their ain dear loves, — 
For them they'll see nae mair. 

Half owre, half owre to Aberdour 

'Tis fifty fathoms deep, 
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens 

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 

Author Unknown. 



The Heir of Linne. 
Part Fie.st. 

Lithe and listen, gentlemen, 
To sing a song I will beginne: 

It is of a lord of faire Scotland, 
Which was the unthriftv heire of Linne. 



His father was a right good lord, 
His mother a lady of high degree; 

But they, alas ! were dead, him froe, 
And he lov'd keeping companie. 

To spend the daye with merry cheare. 
To drink and revell every night, 

To card and dice from eve to morne, 
It was, I ween, his hearts delighte. 

To ride, to runne, to rant, to roare. 
To ahvaye spend and never spare, 

I wott, an' it were the king himselfe, 
Of gold and fee he mote be bare. 

Soe fares the unthrifty Lord of Linne 
Till all his gold is gone and spent ; 

And he maun sell his landes so broad, 
His house, and landes, and all his rent. 

His father had a keen stewilrde. 

And John o' the Scales was callfed hee: 

But John is become a gentel-man. 
And John has gott both gold and fee. 

Sayes, Welcome, welcome, Lord of Linne, 
Let naught disturb thy merry cheere ; 

Ilf thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad. 
Good store of gold He give thee heere. 

My gold is gone, my money is spent ; 

My lande nowe take it unto thee: 
Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales, 

And thine for aye my lande shall bee. 

Then John he did him to record draw, 
And John he cast him a gods-pennie; 

But for every pounde that John agreed. 
The lande, I wis, was well worth three. 

He told him the gold upon the horde. 

He was riglit glad his land to winne; 
The gold is thine, the land is mine, 

And now He be the Lord of Linne. 

Thus he hath sold his land soe broad. 

Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne. 
All but a poore and lonesome lodge. 



For soe he to his father bight. 

My Sonne, when I am gonne, sayd hee, 
Then thou wilt spend thy lande so broad. 

And thou wilt spend thy gold so free ; 



LEGEXDAIiV AXD BALLAD POETRY. 



369 



But sweare me nowe upon the roode, 
That lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend ; 

For when all the world doth I'rown on 
thee, 
Thou there shall find a faithful friend. 

The heire of Linne is full of golde: 
And come with me, my friends, sayd 
hee, 

Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make, 
And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee. 

They ranted, drank, and merrj- made, 
Till all his gold it waxed thinne; 

And then his friendes they slunk away ; 
They left the unthrifty heire of Linne. 

He had never a penny left in his purse, 

Never a penny left hut three, 
And one was brass, another was lead. 

And another it was white money. 

Nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne, 
Nowe well-adaye, and woe is mee, 

For when I was the Lord of Linne, 
I never wanted gold nor fee. 

But many a trustye friend have I, 
And why shold I feel dole or care? 

He borrow of them all by turnes, 
Soe need I not be never bare. 

But one, I wis, was not at home ; 

Another had payd his gold away ; 
Another call'd him thriftless loone. 

And bade him sharpely wend his way. 

Now well-aday, sayd the heire of Linne, 
Now well-aday, and woe is me ; 

For when I had my landea so broad. 
On me they liv'd right merrilee. 

To beg my bread from door to door, 
I wis, it were a brenning shame; 

To rob and steal it were a sinne : 
To worke my limbs I cannot frame. 

Now He away to lonesome lodge. 
For there my father bade me wend : 

When all the world should frown on mee 
I there shold find a trusty friend. 

Part Second. 

Away then hyed the heire of Linne 
O'er hill and holt, and moor and fenne, 
24 



Untill he came to lonesome lodge. 
That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne. 

Ho looki^'d up, he look^(l downe, 
In hope some comfort for to winne: 

But bare and lothly were the walk's. 
Here's sorry cheare, quo' the heire of 
Linne. 

The little windowe dim and darke 
Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe; 

No shimmering sunn here ever shone, 
No halesome breeze here ever blew. 

No chair, ne table he mote spyc. 

No cheerful hearth, ne welcome bed, 

Naught save a rope with renning noose, 
Tliat dangling hung up o'er his head. 

And over it in broad lett&rs. 
These words were written so plain to 
see: 
" Ah ! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine 
all 
And brought thyself to penurie ? 

"All this my boding mind misgave, 
I therefore left this trusty friend : 

Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace, 
And all thy shame and sorrows end." 

Sorely shent wi' this rebuke. 

Sorely .shent was the heire of Linne; 

His heart, I wis, was near to brast 

With guilt and sorrowe, shame and 
sinne. 

Never a word spake the heire of Linne, 
Never a word he spake but three : 

"This is a trusty frien<l indeed, 
And is right welcome unto mee." 

Then round his necke the corde he drewe. 
And sprang aloft with his bodle : 

When lo I the ceiling burst in twaine, 
.\nd to the ground come tumbling hee. 

Astonyed lay the heire of Linne, 
Ne knewe if he were live or dead : 

At length he look'd, and sawe a bille. 
And in it a key of gold so redd. 

He took the bill, and lookt it on. 
Strait good comfort found lie there : 

Itt told hin\ of a hole in the wall. 
In which there stood three chests in-fere. 



Two were full of the beaten golde, 
The third was full of white monfey ; 

And over them in broad letters 
These words were written so plaine to 
see: 

" Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere ; 

Amend thy life and follies past; 
For but thou amend thee of thy life, 

That rope must be thy end at last." 

And let it bee, sayd the heire of Linne ; 

And let it bee, but if I amend : 
For here I will make mine avow. 

This reade shall guide me to the end. 

Away then went with a merry cheare, 
Away then went the heire of Linne ; 

I wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne, 
Till John o' the Scales house he did 



And when he came to John o' the Scales, 
Upp at the sjieere then looked bee ; 

There sate three lords upon a rowe. 
Were drinking of the wine so free. 

And John himselfe sate at the bord-head. 
Because now Lord of Linne was bee. 

I pray thee, he said, good John o' the 
Scales, 
One forty pence for to lend mee. 

Away, away, thou thriftless loone ; 

Away, away, this may not bee : 
For Christs curse on my head, he sayd, 

If ever I trust thee one pennie. 

Then bespake the heir of Linne, 
To John o' the Scales wife then spake 
bee : 

Madame, some almes on me bestowe, 
I pray for sweet saint Charitle. 

Away, away, thou thriftless loone, 

I sweare thou gettest no almes of mee ; 

For if we should hang any losel heere. 
The first we wold begin with thee. 

Then bespake a good fellowe, 

Which sat at John o' the Scales his 
bord ; 
Sayd, Turn againe, thou heire of Linne ; 

Some time thou wast a well good lord : 



Some time a good fellow thou hast been. 
And sparedst not thy gold and fee ; 

Therefore He lend thee forty pence, 
And other forty if need bee. 

And ever I pray thee, John o' the Scales, 
To let him sit in thy comp.anie : 

For well I wot thou hadst his land. 
And a good bargain it was to thee. 

Up then spake him John o' the Scales, 
All wood he answer'd him againe : 

Now Christs curse on my head, he sayd, 
But I did lose by that bargiline. 

And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne, 
Before these lords so faire and free, 

Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape. 
By a hundred markes, than I had it of 
• thee. 

I drawe you to record, lords, he said. 

With that he cast him a gods-pennie : 
Now by my fay, sayd the heire of Linne, 

And here, good John, is thy money. 

And he puU'd forth three bagges of gold. 
And layd them down upon the bord : 

All woe begone was John o' the Scales, 
Soe shent he cold say never a word. 

He told him forth the good red gold, 
He told it forth mickle dinne. 

The gold is thine, the land is mine, 
And now Ime againe the Lord of Linne. 

Sayes, Have thou here, thou good fell6we, 
Forty pence thou didst lend mee : 

Now I am againe the Lord of Linne, 
And forty pounds I will give thee. 

He make thee keeper of my forrest. 
Both of the wild dcere and the tame ; 

For but I reward thy bounteous heart, 
I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame. 

Now welladay ! sayth Joan o' the Scales : 
Now welladay ! and woe is my life ! 

Yesterday I was Lady of Linne, 

Now Lne but John o' the Scales his wife. 

Now fare thee well, sayd the heire of Linne ; 

Farewell now, John o' the Scales, said hee : 
Christs curse light on me, if ever again 

I bring my lauds in jen])ardy. 

.-VuTjiou Unknown. 



LEGENDARY' AXD BALLAD POETRY. 



nn 



/SKIPPER IRESOTS RWE. 

Of all the rides since the birtli of time, 
Told in story or sung in rhyme, — 
On Apuleius's Golden Ass, 
Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass. 
Witch astride of a human back, 
Islam's prophet on Al Borak, — 
The strangest ride that ever was sped 
Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead ! 

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a 
a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Body of turkey, head of owl. 
Wings a-droop like a rain'd-on fowl, 
Feather'd and ruffled in every part, 
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. 
Scores of women, old and young, 
Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, 
Push'd and pull'd up the rocky lane, 
Shouting and singing the shrill refrain : 
" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a 
corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead!" 

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, 
Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, 
Wild-eyed, free-limb'd, such as chase 
Bacchus round some antique vase, 
Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, 
Loose of kerchief and loose of hair. 
With conch-shells blowing and fish-horn's 

twang. 
Over and over the Maenads sang : 

" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a 
corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead !" 

Small pity for liim ! — He sail'd away 
From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay, — 
Sail'd away from a sinking wreck. 
With his own town's-people on her deck! 
" Lay by ! lay by !" they call'd to him. 
Back he answer'd, "Sink or swim ! 
Brag of your catch of fish again!" 
And off he sail'd through the fog and 
rain ! 



Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a 
cart 
By the women of Marblehead! 

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur 
That wreck shall lie for evermore. 
Mother and sister, wife and maid, 
Look'd from the rocks of Marblche.id 
Over the moaning and rainy sea, — 
Look'd for the coming that might not be! 
What did the winds and sea-birds say 
Of the cruel captain who sail'd away? — 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a 
cart 
By the women of JIarblehcad ! 

Through the street, on either side, 
Up flew windows, doors swung wide ; 
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, 
Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. 
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-liound, 
Hulks of old sai'ors run aground. 
Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane. 
And crack'd with curses the hoarse re- 
frain : 
" Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a 
corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead !" 

Sweetly along the Salem road 
Bloom of orchard and lilac show'd. 
Little the wicked skipper knew 
Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. 
Riding there in his sorry trim, 
Like an Indian idol glum and grim. 
Scarcely he seem'd the sound to hear 
Of voices shouting far and near: 

"Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a 
corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead I" 

" Hear me, neighbors !" at last he cried, — 
" What to me is this noisy ride? 
What is the siianie that clothes the skin 
To the nameless horror that lives within"? 
Waking or sleejjing, I see a wreck 
And hear a cry from a reeling deck ! 



372 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Hate me and curse me, — I only dread 
The hand of God and the face of the 
dead!" 
Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard 

heart, 
Tarr'd and feather'd and carried in a 
cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea 
Said, "God has touch'd him ! — why should 

we?" 
Said an old wife mourning her only son, 
" Cut the rogue's tether and let him run !" 
So with soft relentings and rude excuse. 
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, 
And gave him a cloak to hide him in, 
And left him alone with his shame and 
sin. 
Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarr'd and feather'd and carried In a 
cart 
By the women of Marblehead. 

John Greenleap Whittier. 



How THEY Brought the Good 
News from Ghent to Aix. 



'Twas moonset at starting ; but while we 

drew near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight 

dawn'd clear; 
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to 

see ; 
At Diiffeld, 'twas morning as plain as 

could be ; 
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard 

the half-chime. 
So Joris broke silence with, " Yet there is 

time !" 



At Aerschot, up leap'd of a sudden the 

sun. 
And against him the cattle stood black 

every one. 
To stare through the mist at us galloping 

past. 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at 

last. 
With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze, as some bluflT river headland its 

spray. 



And his low head and crest, just one sharp 

, . , -r . , ear bent back 

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Jons, and t^ . i ^i ^i • i . i ^^ 

*^' ' I For my voice, and the other prick d out on 

' Ills trtiflc * 

I gallop'd, Dirck gallop'd, we sallop'd all ' , , 7 'i i i • ^ n- 

\ b I 1 B r I j^jji^ QQg eyes black intelligence, — ever 

that glance 



three ; 
" Good speed !" cried the watch, as the 

gate-bolts undrew ; 
" Speed !" echo'd the wall to us galloping 

through ; 
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to 

rest, 
And into the midnight we gallop'd 

abreast. 

Not a word to each other ; we kept the 

great pace 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never 

changing our place ; 
I turn'd in my saddle and made its girths 

tight, 
Then shorten'd each stirrup, and set the 

pique right, 
Rebuckled the check-strap, chain'd slacker 

the bit, 
Nor gallop'd less steadily Eoland a whit. 



O'er its white edge at me, his own master, 

askance ! 
And the thick heavy spume flakes which 

aye and anon 
His fierce lips shook upward in galloping 

on. 



By Hasselt, Dirck groan'd ; and cried 

Joris, " Stay spur ! 
Your Roos gallop'd bravely, the fault's not 

in her ; 
We'll remember at Aix — " for one heard 

the quick wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretch'd neck, and 

staggering knees. 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the 

flank, 
As down on her haunches she shudder'd 

and sank. 



LEGENDARY AKD BALLAD POETRY. 



373 



So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in 

the sky ; 
The broad sun above laugh'd a pitiless 

laugh, 
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright 

stubble like clialT; 
Till over by Dalhoni a dome-spire sprang 

white, 
And " Gallop," gasp'd Joris, " for Aix is 

in sight ! 

"How they'll greet us!"— and all in a 

moment his roan 
Koll'd neck and croup over, lay dead as a 

stone ; 
And there was my Roland to bear the 

whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix 

from her late, 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to 

the brim, 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' 

rim. 

Then I cast loose my buff coat, each hol- 
ster let fall, 

Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt 
and all, 

Stood up in the stirrup, lean'd, patted his 
ear, 

Call'd my Roland his pet-name, my horse 
without i)cer; 

Clapp'd my hands, laugh'd and sang, any 
noise, bad or good. 

Till at length into Aix Roland gallop'd 
and stood. 

And all I remember is, friends flocking 
round 

As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on 
the ground, 

And no voice but was praising this Roland 
of mine. 

As I pour'd down his throat our last meas- 
ure of wine, 

^Vhich (tlie burgesses voted by common 
consent) 

Was no more than his due who brought 
good news from Ghent. 

KuUEKT Brow.m.nu. 



The Lamentation for Celin. 

.Vt the gate of old Granada, when all its 

bolts are barr'd. 
At twilight, at the Vega-gate, there is a 

trampling heard ; 
There is a trampling heard, as of horses 

treading slow. 
And a weeping voice of women, and a 

heavy sound of woe. 
What tower is fallen? what star is set? 

what chief come these bewailing? 
" A tower is fallen ! a star is .set !— Alas ! 

alas for Celin!" 

Three times they knock, three times they 

cry, — and wide the doors they throw ; 

Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they 

go; 

In gloomy lines they mustering stand 

beneath the hollow porch, 
Each horseman grasping in his hand a 

black and flaming torch ; 
Wet is each eye as they go by, and all 

around is wailing, — 
For all have heard the misery, — "Alas! 

alas for Celin !" 

Ilim yesterday a Moor did slay, of Bencer- 

raje's blood, — 
'Twas at the solemn jousting, — around the 

nobles stood ; 
The nobles of the land were by, and ladies 

bright and fair 
Look'd from their latticed windows, the 

haughty siglit to share : 
But now tlic nobles all lament, — the ladies 

are bewailing, — 
For he was Granada's darling knight, — 

" Alas ! alas for Celin !" 

Before him ride his vassals, in order two 

by two. 
With .o-shes on their turbans spread, most 

pitiful to view ; 
Behind iiim his four sisters, each wrapp'd 

in sable veil, 
Between the tambour's dismal strokes take 

up their doleful tale; 
When stops the mutUed drum, ye hear 

their brotherless bewailing. 
And all tlie i)eopIe, far and near, cry, — 

" Alas ! alas for Celin !" 



374 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Oh, lovely lies he on the bier, above the 

purple pall, 
The flower of all Granada's youth, the 

loveliest of them all ; 
His dark, dark eyes are closfed, his rosy lip 

is pale, 
The crust of blood lies black and dim upon 

his burnish'd mail ; 
And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks 

in upon their wailing, — 
Its sound is like no earthly sound, — " Alas! 

alas for Celin !" 

The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, — 
the Moor stands at his door; 

One maid is wringing of her hands, and 
one is weeping sore ; 

Down to the dust men bow their heads, 
and ashes black they strew 

Upon their broider'd garments, of crim- 
son, green, and blue; 

Before each gate the bier stands still, — 
then bursts the loud bewailing. 

From door and lattice, high and low, — 
"Alas! alas for Celin !" 

An old, old woman cometh forth when she 

hears the people cry, — 
Her hair is white as silver, like horn her 

glazfed eye ; 
'Twas she that nursed him at her breast, — 

that nursed him long ago : 
She knows not wliom they all lament, but 

soon she well shall know! 
With one deep shriek, she through doth 

break, when her ears receive their 

wailing, — 
" Let me kiss my Celin, ere I die! — Alas! 

alas for Celin !" 

(From the Spanish.) 
John Gibson Lockuart. 



The Wandering Jew. 

Whex as in faire Jerusalem 

Our Saviour Christ did live, 
And for the sins of all the worlde 

His own deare life did give ; 
The wicked Jewes with scoffes and scornes 

Did dailye him molest, 
That never till he left his life, 

Our Saviour could not rest. 



When they had crown'd his head with 

thornes. 

And scourged him to disgrace, 
In scornfuU sort they led him forthe 

Unto his dying place. 
Where thousand thousands in the streete 

Beheld him passe along. 
Yet not one gentle heart was there, 

That pity'd this his wrong. 

Both old and young revilfed him, 

As in the streete he wente, 
And naught he found but churlish tauntes, 

By every ones consente : 
His owne deare crosse he bore himselfe, 

A burthen far too great. 
Which made him in the streete to fainte, 

With blood and water sweat. 

Being weary thus, he sought for rest, 

To ease his burthen'd soule. 
Upon a stone ; the which a wretch 

Did churlishly controule ; 
And sayd, Awaye, thou King of Jewes, 

Thou slialt not rest thee here ; 
Pass on ; thy execution-place 

Thou seest novve draweth neare. 

And thereupon he thrust him thence ; 

At which our Saviour sayd, 
I sure will rest, but thou shalt walke, 

And have no journey stay'd. 
With that this cursfed shoemaker. 

For ofiering Christ this wrong, 
Left wife and children, house and all, 

And went from thence along. 

Where after he had scene the bloude 

Of Jesus Christ thus shed. 
And to the crosse his bodye nail'd, 

Awaye with speed he fled, 
Without returning backe againe 

Unto his dwelling-place. 
And wandred up and downe the worlde. 

A runnagate most base. 

No resting could he finde at all, 

No ease, nor hearts content ; 
No house, nor home, nor biding-place : 

But wandring forth he went 
From towne to towne in foreigne landes, 

With grievfed conscience still. 
Repenting for the heinous guilt 

Of his fore-passfed ill. 



LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 



375 



Thus after some fewe ages past 

In waiulrinsr up and tlowne ; 
He niiuh ajrain tlesireii to see 

Jcrusalenis rrnowne, 
But finding it all rjuite destroyd, 

He wandred thence with woe, 
Our Saviours wordes, which he had spoke, 

To verifie and showe. 

" I'll rest, sayd hee, but thou shalt walke." 

So doth this wandrinjr Jew 
From place to place, but cannot rest 

For seeing countries newe ; 
Declaring still the power of Him, 

Whereas he comes or goes. 
And of all things done in the east, 

Since Christ his death he showes. 

The world he liath still compast round 

And scene those nations strange. 
That hearing of the name of Christ, 

Their idol gods doe change : 
To whom he hath told wondrous thinges 

Of time forepast, and gone. 
And to the princes of the worlde 

Declares his cause of moane : 

Desiring still to be dissolved, 

And yeild his mortal breath ; 
But if the Lord hath thus decreed, 

He shall not yet see death. 
For neither lookes he old nor young. 

But as he did those times, 
When Christ did suffer on the crosse 

For mortal! sinners crimes. 

He hath past through many a foreigne 
place, 

Arabia, Egypt, Africa, 
Grccia, Syria, and great Thrace, 

And throughout all Hungaria, 
Where Paul and Peter preached Christ, 

Those blest apostles deare ; 
There he hath told our Saviours wordes, 

In countries far and neare. 

And lately in Bohemia, 

With many a German towne ; 
And now in Flanders, as 'tis thought, 

He wandrctli up ami downe : 
Where learned men with him conferre 

Of those his lingering dayes, 
And wonder much to heare him tell 

His journeyes, and his wayea. 



If people give this Jew an almes. 

The most that lie will take 
Is not above a groat a time : 

Wliicli lie, for Jesus' sake. 
Will kindlye give unto the poore, 

And thereof make no spare. 
Affirming still that Jesus Christ 

Of him hath dailye care. 

He ne'er was scene to laugh nor smile, 

But weepe and make great moane ; 
Lamenting still his miseries, 

And dayes forepast and gone : 
If he heare any one blaspheme. 

Or take (xod's name in vaine. 
He telles them that they crucitie 

Their Saviour Christe agaiue. 

If you had scene his death, saith he, 

As these mine eyes have done, 
Ten tliousand thousand limes would yea 

His torments think upon : 
And sufl'er for his sake all paine 

Of torments, and all woes. 
These are his wordes and eke his life 

Whereas he comes or goes. 

Author Unknown. 



The Dream of Eugene Araxt. 

'TwAS in the prime of summer-time, 

An evening calm and cool. 
And four-and-twenty happy boys 

Came bounding out of school : 
There were some that ran and some that 
leapt, 

Like troutlets in a pool. 

Away they sped with gamesome minds. 

And souls untouch'd by sin; 
To a level mead they came, and there 

They drave the wickets in : 
Pleasantly shone the setting sun 

Over the town of Lynn. 

Like sportive deer they coursed about, 

An<l shouted as they ran, — 
Turning to mirth all things of earth 

As only boyhood can ; 
But the Usher sat remote from all, 

A melancholv man! 



? 



376 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



His hat was off, his vest apart, 
To catch Heaven's blessed breeze ; 

For a burning thought was in his brow, 
And his bosom ill at ease : 

So he lean'd his head on his hands, and 
read 
The book between his knees. 

Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er, 

Nor ever glanced aside, 
For the peace of his soul he read that 
book 

In the golden eventide: 
Much study had made him very lean, 

And pale, and leaden-eyed. 

At last he shut the ponderous tome, 

With a fast and fervent grasp 
He strain'd the dusky covers close, 

And fixed the brazen hasp : 
"O God! could I so close my mind, 

And clasp it with a clasp!" 

Then leaping on his feet upright, 
Some moody turns he took, — 

Now up the mead, then dow-n the mead, 
And past a shady nook, — 

And, lo ! he saw a little boy 
That pored upon a book. 

" My gentle lad, what is't you read- 
Romance or fairy fable? 

Or is it some historic page. 

Of kings and crowns unstable?" 

The young boy gave an upward glance, — 
" It is ' The Death of Abel.' " 

The Usher took six hasty strides, 

As smit with sudden pain, — 
Six hasty strides beyond the place, 

Then slowly back again, 
And down he sat beside the lad, 

And talk'd with him of Cain ; 

And, long since then, of bloody men, 

Whose deeds tradition saves. 
Of lonely folk cut off unseen, 

And hid in sudden graves, 
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, 

And murders done in caves ; 

And how the sprites of injured men 
Shriek upward from the sod, — 



Ay, how the ghostly hand will point 

To show the burial clod, 
And unknown facts of guilty acts 

Are seen in dreams from God ! 

He told how murderers walk the earth. 

Beneath the curse of Cain, 
With crimson clouds before their eyes. 

And flames about their brain : 
For blood has left upon their souls 

Its everlasting stain. 

"And well," quoth he, " I know for truth. 
Their pangs must be extreme ; 

Woe, woe, unutterable woe. 
Who spill life's sacred stream ! 

For why ? Methought, last night I wrought 
A murder in a dieam. 

"One that h.ad never done me wrong, 

A feeble man and old ; 
I led him to a lonely field, 

The moon shone clear and cold : 
Now here, said I, this man shall die, 

And I will have his gold ! 

" Two sudden blows with ragged stick. 

And one with a heavy stone, 
One hurried gash with a hasty knife, — 

And then the deed was done : 
There was nothing lying at my foot 

But lifeless flesh and bone ! 

" Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, 

That could not do me ill. 
And yet I fear'd him all the more. 

For lying there so still ; 
There was a manhood in his look 

That murder could not kill ! 

" And lo ! the universal air 
Seem'd lit with ghastly flame; 

Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes 
Were looking down in blame : 

I took the dead man by his hand. 
And call'd upon his name ! 

" O God ! it made me quake to see 

Such sense within the slain ; 
But when I touch'd the lifeless clay, 

The blood gush'd out amain ! 
For every clot, a burning spot 

Was scorching in my brain ! 



LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 



377 



" Jly lioad was liko an ardent coal, 

My heart as solid ico ; 
My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, 

Was at the Devil's price: 
A di)zcn times I groati'd ; the dead 

Had never groan'd but twice ! 

" And now, from forth the frowning sky. 
From the heavens' topmost height, 

I heard a voice — the awful voice 
Of the blood-avenging Sprite : — 

' Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead 
And hide it from my sight 1' 

" I took the dreary body up, 

And cast it in a stream, — 
A sluggish water, black as ink. 

The depth was so extreme : — 
My gentle Boy, remember this 

Is nothing but a dream ! 

" Down went the corse with a hollow 
plunge. 

And vanish'd in the pool ; 
Anon I cleansed my bloody hands. 

And wash'd my forehead cool, 
And sat among the urchins young. 

That evening in the school. 

" Oh, Heaven ! to think of tiieir white 
souls, 

And mine so black and grim ! 
I could not share in childish prayer. 

Nor join in Evening Hymn : 
Like a Devil of tlie Pit I seem'd, 

'Mid holy Cherubim ! 

" And peace went with them, one and all, 
And each calm pillow s[iread ; 

But Guilt was my grim Clianiberlain 
That lighted me to bed ; 

And drew my midnight curtains round, 
AVith fingers bloody red ! 

" All night I lay in agony. 

In anguish dark and deep; 
My fever'd eyes I dared not close, 

But stared aghast at Sleep: 
For Sin had render'd unto her 

Tlie keys of Hell to keep ! 

" All night I lay in agony. 

From weary cliime to chime. 
With one besetting, horrid hint, 

That rack'd me all the time ; 



A mighty yearning, like the first 
Fierce impulse unto crime ! 

" One stern, tyrannic thought, that made 

All other thoughts its slave ; 
Stronger and stronger every pulse 

Did that temptation crave, — 
Still urging me to go and see 

The dead man in his grave ! 

" Heavily I rose up, as soon 

As light was in the sky. 
And sought the black accursed pool 

With a wild misgiving eye; 
And I saw the Dead in the river bed, 

For the faithless stream was dry. 

" Merrily rose the lark, and shook 

The dewdrop from its wing ; 
But I never mark'd its morning ilight, 

I never heard it sing : 
For I was stooping once .again 

Under the horrid thing. 

" With breathless speed, like a soul in 
ch.ise, 

I took him up and ran ; — 
There was no time to dig a grave 

Before the day began : 
In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, 

I hid the murder'd man ! 

" And all that day.I re.id in school. 
But my thought w:is other where ; 

As soon as the midday task was done, 
In secret I was there : 

And a mighty wind had swept the leaves. 
And still the corse was hare! 

" Then down I cast me on my face. 

And first began to wee]i. 
For I knew my secret then was one 

That earth refused to keep : 
Or land or .sea, though he should be 

Ten thousand fathoms deep. 

" So wills the fierce avenging Sprite, 

Till l)lood for lilood atones! 
Ay, though he's buried in a cave. 

And trwiden down with stones, 
And years have rotteil off hisilesh, — 

The world shall see his bones ! 

" O God ! that horrid, horrid dream 
Besets me now awake I 



378 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Again — again, with dizzy brain, 

The liunian life I talce ; 
And my right red hand grows raging hot, 

Like Cranmer's at the stal>:e. 

" And still no peace for the restless clay, 

Will wave or mould allow ; 
The horrid thing pursues my soul, — 

It stands before me now !" 
Tlie fearful boy look'd up and saw 

Huge drops upon his brow. 

That very night, while gentle sleep 

The urchin eyelids kiss'd, 
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, 

Through the cold and heavy mist ; 
And Eugene Aram walk'd between, 

With gyves upon his wrist. 

Thomas Hood. 

The inchcape Rock. 

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea. 
The ship was still as she could be ; 
Her sails from heaven received no motion, 
Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

AVithout either sign or sound of their 

shock 
The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock ; 
So little they rose, so little they fell, 
They did not move the Inchcape Bell. 

The holy Abbot of Aberbrothok 

Had placed that bell on the Inchcape 

Rock ■, 
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, 
And over the waves its warning rung. 

When the rock was hid by the surges' 

swell, 
The mariners heard the warning bell. 
And then they knew the perilous rock. 
And bless'd the Abbot of Aberbrothok. 

The sun in heaven was shining gay, 
All things were joyful on that day; 
The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd 

round. 
And there was joyaunce in their sound. 

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen 
A darker speck on the ocean green ; 
Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck, 
And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck. 



He felt the cheering power of spring, 
It made him whistle, it made him sing, 
His heart was mirthful to excess, 
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. 

His eye was on the Inchcape float ; 
Quoth he, " My men, put out the boat. 
And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 
And I'll plaguetheAbbotof Aberbrothok." 

The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row. 
And to the Inchcape Rock they go; 
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat. 
And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float. 

Down sank the bell with a gurgling sound. 
The bubliles rose and burst around ; 
Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to 

the rock 
Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." 

Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away. 
He scour'd the seas for many a day, 
And now, grown rich with plunder'd store, 
He steers his course for Scotland's shore. 

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky. 
They cannot see the sun on high ; 
The wind hath blown a gale all day. 
At evening it hath died away. 

On the deck the Rover takes his stand ; 
So dark it is they see no land. 
Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon. 
For there is the dawn of the rising moon." 

" Canst hear," said one, " the breakers 

roar? 
For methinks we should be near the shore." 
" Now, where we are I cannot tell. 
But I wish I could hear the Inchcape 

Bell." 

They hear no sound, the swell is strong. 
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift 

along. 
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering 

shock, — 
" Death ! it is the Inchcape Rock." 

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair. 
He cursed himself in his despair ; 
The waves rush in on every side. 
The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 



LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 



379 



But, even in his dying fear, 
One dreadful sound eould the Rover hear, 
A sound as if, with the Inehcape Hell, 
The Devil helow was ringing liis knell. 

KuUbKT SOUTHEV. 



CUMNOR Hall. 

The dews of summer night did foil, 
The moon, sweet regent of the sky, 

Silver'd the walls of Cumnor Ilall 
And many an oak that grow thereby. 

Now nauglit was heard beneath the skies, 
The sounds of busy life were still, 

Save an unhappy lady's sighs, 
That issued from that lonely pile. 

" Leicester," she cried, " is this thy love 
That thou so oft has sworn to me, 

To leave me in this lonely grove, 
Immured in shameful privity? 

" No more thou com'st with lover's speed. 
Thy once-beloved bride to see. 

But be she alive, or be .she dead, 

I fear, stern Earl, "s the same to thee. 

" Xot so the usage I received 

When happy in my father's hall ; 

No faithless husband then nie grieved, 
No chilling fears did me aj)pall. 

" I rose up with the cheerful morn, 

No lark more blithe, no flower more gay. 

And like the bird that haunts the thorn. 
So merrily sung the livelong day. 

" If that my beauty is but small, 
,\mong court ladies all despised, 

Why didst thou rend it from that hall, 
Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized? 

" .\nd when you first to me made suit. 
How fair I was you oft would say ! 

And, proud of conquest, pluck'd the fruit, 
Then left the blossom to decay. 

" Yes ! now neglected and despised. 
The rose is pale, the lily's dead. 

But he that once their charms so prized 
Is sure the cause those charms are fled. 



"For know, when sickening grief doth 
prey, 

And tender love's repaid with .scorn, 
The sweetest beauty will decay, — 

What floweret can endure the storm? 

"At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne, 
W'here every lady's passing rare. 

That Eastern flowers, that shame the sun. 
Are not so glowing, not so fair. 

" Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds 
Where roses and where lilies vie. 

To seek a primrose, whose pale shades 
Must sicken when those gauds are by ? 

" 'Mong rural beauties I was one, 
Among the fields wild flowers are fair; 

Some country swain might me have won. 
And thought my beauty passing rare. 

"But, Leicester (or I much am wrong). 
Or 'tis not beauty lures thy vows ; 

Rather ambition's gilded crown 
Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. 

"Then, Leicester, why, again I plead 
(The injured surely may repine). 

Why didst thou wed a country maid, 
When some fair princess might be thine? 

"Why didst thou praise my humble 
charms. 

And, oh! then leave them to decay? 
Why di<lst thou win me to tliy arms, 

Then leave to mourn the livelong day? 

"The village maidens of the plain 

Salute me lowly as they go ; 
Envious they mark my silken train, 

Nor think a countess can have woe. 

" The simple nymphs 1 they little know 
How far more happy's their estate; 

To smile for joy, than sigh for woe — 
To be content, than to be great. 

" How far less blest am I than them ? 

Daily to pine and waste with care! 
Like the poor plant, that, from its stem 

Divided, feels the chilling air. 

" Nor, cruel Earl ! can I enjoy 
The humble charms of solitude ; 

Your minions proud my peace destroy. 
By sullen frowns or pratings rude. 



880 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY 



" Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, 
The village death-bell smote my ear ; 

They wink'd aside, and seem'd to say, 
'Countess, prepare, thy end is near!' 

"And now, while hajipy peasants sleep, 

Here I sit lonely and forlorn ; 
No one to soothe me as I weep. 

Save Philomel on yonder thorn. 

" My spirits flag — my hopes decay — 
Still that dread death-bell smites my 
ear; 

And many a boding seems to say, 

' Countess, prepare, thy end is near !' " 

Thus sore and sad that lady grieved. 
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear ; 

And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, 
And let fall many a bitter tear. 

And ere the dawn, of day appear'd. 
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, 

Full many a piercing scream was heard, 
And many a cry of mortal fear. 

The death-bell thrice was heard to ring. 
An aerial voice was heard to call. 

And thrice the raven flapp'd its wing 
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. 

The mastiff howl'd at village door, 
The oaks were shatter'd on the green ; 

Woe was the hour — for never more 
That hapless Countess e'er was seen. 

And in that manor now no more 
Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball ; 

For ever since that dreary hour 
Plave spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. 

The village maids, with fearful glance. 
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall ; 

Nor ever lead the merry dance, 

Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. 

Full many a traveller oft hath sigh'd. 
And pensive wept the Countess' fall. 

As wandering onward they've espied 
The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. 
William Julius Mickle. 



Edward, Edward. 

QuHY dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid, 

Edward, Edward '? 
Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid ? 

And quhy sae sad gang zee, O? 
0, I hae kill'd my hauke sae guid, 

Mither, mither: 
O, I hae kill'd my hauke sae guid : 
And I had nae mair bot hee, O. 



Zour h.aukis bluid was nevir sae reid, 

Edward, Edward. 
Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, 

My deir son I tell thee, O. 
O, I hae kill'd my reid-roan steid, 

Mither, mither: 
O, I hae kill'd my reid-roan steid, 
That erst was sae fair and free, 0. 



Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat 
mair, 

Edward, Edward : 
Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, 

Sum other dule ze drie, O. 
O, I hae kill'd my fadir deir, 

Mither, mither : 
O, I hae kill'd my fadir deir, 
Alas ! and wae is mee, O ! 



And quhatten penance wul ze drie for 
that, 

Edward, Edward ? 
And quhatten penance will ze drie for that ? 

My deir son, now tell me, 0. 
lie set my feit in zonder boat, 

Jlither, mither: 
He set my feit in zonder boat, 
And He fare ovir the sea, O. 



And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and 
zour ha', 

Edward, Edward ? 
And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and 
zour ha'. 
That ware sae fair to see, O? 
He let thame stand til they doun fa', 

Mither, mither : 
He let thame stand til they doun fa'. 
For here nevir mair maun I bee, O. 



LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 



381 



Ami (juliat wul ze leive to zour bairns and 
zoiir wit'o, 

Edward, Edward? 
And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and 
zour wife, 
Quhan ze gang ovir the sea, ? 
Tlie warldis room, let tliame beg throw 
life, 

Mither, niither: 
The warldis room, let tliame beg throw 
life, 
For thame nevir niair wul I see, 0. 

And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither 
deir, 

Edward, Edward? 
And quhat vraX ze leive to zour ain mither 
deir? 
My deir son, now tell me, O. 
The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir, 
Mither, mither: 
The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir, 
Sic counseils ze gave to me, O. 

Sir David Dalrymple 

(Lord Hailes). 

Lord Ullin's Daughter. 

A ciiiEFTAix, to the Highlands bound, 
Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! 

And I'll give thee a silver pound 
To row us o'er the ferry." 

" Now, who be ye would cross Loch Gyle, 
This dark and stormy water?" 

" Oh ! I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 
And this — Lord Ullin's daughter. 

" And fast before her father's men. 
Three days we've fled together, 

For should be find us in the glen, 
My blood would stain the heather. 

" His horsemen hard behind us ride; 

Should they our steps discover. 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride 

When they have slain her lover?" 

Out spake the hardy Highland wight, 
■' I'll go, my chief — I'm ready : 

It is not for your silver bright, 
But for your winsome lady : 

" And, by my word ! the bonny bird 
In danger shall not tarrv ; 



So, though tlie waves are raging white, 
I'll row you o'er the ferry." 

By this, the storm grew loud apace, 
The waler-wrailh was shrieking; 

And, in the scowl of heaven, each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still, as wilder blow the wind. 
And as the night grew drearer, 

Adown the glen rode armfed men. 
Their trampling sounded nearer. 

" Oh ha-ste thee, haste !" the lady cries, 
" Though tempests round us gather, 

I'll meet the raging of the skies. 
But not an angry father." 

The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her — 
When, oh, too strong for human hand. 

The tempest gather'd o'er her. 

And while they row'd, amidst the roar 

Of waters fast prevailing: 
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, 

His wrath wiis changed to wailing. 

For, sore dismay'd, through storm and 
shade. 

His child he did discover ; 
One lovely arm she stretch'd for aid, 

And one was round her lover. 

"Come back! come back!" he cried in 
grief, 

" .\cross this stormy water : 
And I'll forgive your Highland chief. 

My daughter I my daughter !" 

'Twas vain : the loud waves lash'd the 
shore, 
Return, or aid preventing : 
The waters wild went o'er bis child, 
And he was left lamenting. 

Thomas Campbell. 



The Dowie De.xs of Yarrow. 

Late at e'en, drinking the wine. 
And ere they paid the lawing, 

They set a combat them between. 
To fight it in the dawing. 



382 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



" Oh stay at hame, my noble lord ! 

Oh stay at hame, my marrow ! 
My cruel brother will you betray 

On the dowie houms of Yarrow." 

" Oh fare ye weel, my ladye gaye ! 

Oh fare ye weel, my Sarah ! 
For I maun gae, though I ne'er return 

Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow." 

She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, 
As oft she had done before, oh ; 

She belted him with his noble brand. 
And he's away to Yarrow, 

As he gaed up the Tennies bank, 

I wot he gaed wi' sorrow. 
Till, down in a den, he spied nine arm'd 
men, 

On the dowie houms of Yarrow. 

" Oh come ye here to part your land. 

The bonnie forest thorough ? 
Or come ye here to wield j-our brand, — 

On the dowie houms of Yarrow?" — 

"I come not here to ]iart my land. 
And neither to beg nor Ijorrow ; 

I come to wield my noble brand, 
On the bonnie banks of Yarrow. 

"If I see all, ye're nine to ane ; 

And that's an unequal marrow; 
Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand, 

On the bonnie banks of Yarrow." 

Four has he hurt, and five has slain. 
On the bonnie braes of Yarrow, 

Till that stubborn knight came him be- 
hind. 
And ran his body thorough. 

" Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, 

And tell your sister Sarah, 
To come and lift her leafu' lord ; 

He's slecpin' sound on Yarrow." — 

" Yestreen I dream'd a dulefu' dream : 

I fear there will be sorrow ! 
I dream'd I pu'd the heather green, 

Wi' my true love, on Yarrow. 

" gentle wind, that bloweth south, 
From where my love repaireth, 

Convey a kiss from his dear mouth, 
And tell me how he fereth ! 



" But in the glen strive armfed men ; 

They've wrought me dole and sorrow; 
They've slain — the comeliest knight they've 
slain — 

He bleeding lies on Yarrow." 

As she sped down yon high, high hill. 

She gaed wi' dole and sorrow. 
And in the den spied ten slain men, 

On the dowie banks of Yarrow. 

She kiss'd his cheeks, she kaim'd his hair. 
She search'd his wounds all thorough ; 

She kiss'd them, till her lips grew red. 
On the dowie houms of Yarrow. 

"Now hand your tongue, my daughter 
dear! 

For a' this breeds but sorrow; 
I'll wed ye to a better lord 

Than him ye lost on Yarrow." — 

"Oh hand your tongue, my father dear! 

Ye 'mind me but of sorrow ; 
A fairer rose did never bloom 

Than now lies cropp'd on Yarrow." 

Author Unknown. 



The Braes of Yarrow. 

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride. 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, 

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride. 
And think nae mair on the Braes of 
Yarrow. 

Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride ? 

Where gat ye that winsome marrow ? 
I gat her where I dare na well be seen, 

Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. 

Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny 
bride. 
Weep not, weep not, my winsome mar- 
row ; 
Nor let thy heart lament to leive, 

Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. 

Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny 
bride ? 
Why does she weep, thy winsome mar- 
row ? 
And why dare ye nae mair well be seen 
Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow '? 



LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 



383 



Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, 
maun she weep, 
Lang maun she weep with dule and sor- 
row ; 
And hmg maun I nae mair weil be seen 
Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. 

For she has tint her luver, hivcr dear, 
Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow ; 

And I hae shiin the comeliest swain, 
That eir pu'd birks on the Braes of Yar- 
row. 

Why rins thy stream, Yarrow, Yarrow, 
reid? 
Why on tliy braes heard the voice of 
sorrow ? 
And why yon melancholions weids 
Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow ? 

What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful 
flude? 
What's yonder floats ? Oh dule and sor- 
row ! 
Oh 'tis he the comely swain I slew 
Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow. 

Wash, oh wash his wounds, his wounds in 
tears, 
His wounds in tears with dule and sor- 
row ; 
And wrap his limbs in mourning weids, 
And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow. 

Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters 
sad, 
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow ; 
And weep around in waeful wise 
His hapless fate on the Braes of Yar- 
row. 

Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless 
shield. 
My arm that wrought the deed of sor- 
rfiw ; 
The fatal spear that pierced his brea-st. 
His comely breast, on the Braes of Yar- 
row. 

Did I not warn thee, not to, not to luve ? 
And warn from fight ? but to my sor- 
row 
Too ra-shly bauld a stronger arm 
Thou mett'st, and fell'st on the Braes of 
Yarrow. 



Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green 
grows the grass, 

Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan, 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rork. 

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan. 

Flows Yarrow sweet ? as sweet, as sweet 
flows Tweed, 

As green its grass, its gowan xs yellow. 
As sweet smells on its braes the birk, 

The apple frae its rocks as mellow. 

Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy 
luve, 

In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter ; 
Tho' he was fair, and weil beluv'd again 

Than me he never luv'd thee better. 

Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny 
bride, 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow. 
Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of 
Tweed, 
And think nae mair on the Braes of 
Yarrow. 

How can I busk a bonny bonny bride? 

How can I busk a winsome marrow ? 
How luve him upon the banks of Tweed, 

That slew my luve on the Braes of Yar- 
row ? 

O Yarrow fields, m.iy never never rain 
Is or dew thy tender blossoms cover, 
I For there was ba-sely slain my luve. 
My luve, as he had not been a lover. 

The boy put on his robes, his robes of 
green, 
I His puri>le vest, 'twas my awn sewing : 
Ah, wretched me I I little, little kenn"d 
He was in these to meet his ruin. 

The boy took out his milk-white, milk- 
white steed, 

L'nheedful of my dule and sorrow : 
But ere the toofall of tlie night 

He lay a corps on the Braes of Yarrow. 

Much I rejoyced that waefiil waeful day ; 

I sang, my voice the woods relurning : 
But lang e'er night the spear wa.s flown. 

That slew my luve, and left me mourn- 
ing. 



3S4 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



What can my barbarous barbarous father 
do, 
But with his cruel rage pursue me ? 
My luver's blood is on thy spear, 

How canst thou, barbarous man, then 
wooe me ? 

My happy sisters may be, may be proud 
With cruel and ungentle scoffin', 

IMay bid me seek on Yarrow's Braes 
My luver nailed in his cofiin. 

My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, 
And strive with threat'ning words to 
muve me : 

My luver's blood is on thy spear, 

How canst thou ever bid me luve thee ? 

Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve, 
With bridal sheets my body cover, 

Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door. 
Let in the expected husband-lover. 

But who the expected husband husband 
is? 
His hands, methinks, are bathed in 
slaughter : 
Ah me ! what ghastly spectre's yon 

Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after. 

Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down, 
Oh lay his cold licad on my pillow ; 

Take aft", take aft' these bridal weids, 
And crown my careful head with wil- 
low. 

Pale tho' tliou art, yet best, yet best be- 
luv'd, 

Oh could my warmth to life restore thee ! 
Yet lye all night between my breists. 

No youth lay ever there before thee. 

Pale, jjale indeed, luvely luvely youth ! 

Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter : 
And lye all night between my breists ; 

No youth shall ever lye there after. 

Return, return, mournful mournful 
bride, 
Return, and dry thy useless sorrow : 
Thy luver heeds none of thy sighs. 

He lyes a corps in the Braes of Yarrow. 
William Hamilton of Bangour. 



The Braes of Yarrow. 

Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream, 

When first on them I met my lover ; 
Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream. 

When now thy waves his body cover I 
For ever now, O Yarrow stream ! 

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow ; 
For never on thy banks shall I 

Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. 

He promised me a milk-white steed 

To bear me to his father's bowers ; 
He promised me a little page 

To squire me to his father's towers ; 
He promised me a wedding-ring, — 

The wedding-day was fi.x'd to-morrow; — 
Now he is wedded to his grave, 

Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow ! 

Sweet were his words when last we met ; 

My passion I as freely told him ; 
Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought 

That I should never more behold him ! 
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ; 

It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow ; 
Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, 

And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow. 

His mother from the window look'd 

With all the longing of a mother ; 
His little sister weeping walk'd 

The greenwood path to meet her brother; 
They sought him east, they sought him 
west, 

They sought him all the forest thorough; 
They only saw the cloud of night, 

They only heard the roar of Yarrow. 

No longer from thy window look — 

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! 
No longer walk, thou lovely maid ; 

Alas, thou hast no more a brother ! 
No longer seek him east or west, 

And search no more the forest thorough ; 
For, wandering in the night so dark. 

He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow. 

The tear shall never leave my cheek, 
No other youth shall be my marrow — 

I'll seek thy body in the stream, 
And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow. 



LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 



3S.5 



— The tear did never leave her cheek, 
No other youth became her marrow ; 

She found his body in the stream, 

And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow. 
Jons Logan. 



The Child of Elle. 

On yonder hill a castle standes 
AVith walles and towres bedight, 

And yonder lives the Child of Elle, 
A younge and comely knightc. 

The child of Elle to his garden went, 

And stood at his garden pale, 
Whan, lo ! he beheld fair Emmelinea page 

Come trippinge downe the dale. 

The Child of Elle he hyed him thence, 

Y-wis he stoode not stille. 
And soone he mette fair Emmelines page 

Come climbing up the hille. 

NoweChriste thee save, thou littlefoot-page, 
Isow Christe thee save and see ! 

Oh tell me how does thy ladye gaye. 
And what may thy tydinges bee? 

My lady she is all woe-begone, 

And the teares they falle from her eyne ; 
And aye she lamcnt.s the deadlye feude 

Betweene her house and thine. 

And here shee sends thee a silken scarfe 

Bedewde with many a teare. 
And biddes thee sometimes thinke on her, 

Who lovfed thee so deare. 

And here she sends thee a ring of golde. 
The last boonc thou mayst have, 

And biddes thee weare it for her sake. 
When she is layde in grave. 

For, ah ! her gentle heart is broke. 
And in grave soon must shee bee, 

Sith her father hath chose her a new new 
love. 
And forbidde her to think of thee. 

Her father hath brought her a carlish 
knight, 
Sir John of the north countr;\ye, 
And within three dayes shee must him 
wedde, 
Or he vowes he will her slaye. 
25 



Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page. 
And greet thy ladye from mee. 

And tell her that I her owne true love 
Will dye, or sette her free. 

Nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page. 

And let thy fair ladye know 
This night will I bee at her bowre-win- 
dOwe, 

Betide me weale or woe. 

The boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, 

He neither stint ne stayd 
Untill he came to fair Emmelines bowre. 

Whan kneeling downe he sayd, 

O ladye, I've been with thy own true love, 
And he greets thee well by mee ; 

This night will he be at thy bowre-win- 
duwe. 
And dye or sette thee free. 

Nowe daye was gone and night was come, 

And all were fast asleepe. 
All save the ladye Emnieline, 

Who sate in her bowre to weepe: 

And soone she heard her true loves voice 
Lowe whispering at the walle, 

Awake, awake, my dear ladyfe, 
'Tis I thy true love call. 

Awake, awake, my ladye deare. 
Come, mount this faire jialfrilye; 

This ladder of ropes will lette thee downe, 
lie carrye thee hence awaye. 

Nowe nay. nowe nay, thou gentle knight, 

Nowe nay, this m.iy not bee; 
For aye shold I tint my maiden fame. 

If alone I should wend with thee. 

O ladye, thou with a knighte so true 

Mayst safely wend alone. 
To my ladye mother I will thee bringe, 

Where marriage shall make us one. 

" My father he is a baron bolde, 

Of lynage proude and hye ; 
And what would he saye if his daughtfcr 

Awaye with a knight should fly ? 

Ah ! well I wot, he never would rest. 
Nor his mcate should doc him no goode. 

Until he had slayne thee. Child of Elle, 
.\nd scene thv deare hearts bloode." 



3S6 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, 
And a little space him fro, 

1 -would not care for thy cruel fathfer, 
Xor the worst that he could doe. 

ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, 
And once without this walle, 

1 would not care for thy cruel fathfer, 
Nor the worst that might hefalle. 

Faire Emmeline sighed, fair Emmeline 
wept, 

And aye her heart was woe : 
At length he seized her lilly-white hand, 

And downe the ladder he drewe : 

And thrice he clasp'd her to his hreste. 

And kist her tenderlie : 
The teares that fell from her fair eyes 

Ranne like the fouutayne free. 

Hee mounted himselfe on his steede so 
talle. 

And her on a fair palfrilye. 
And slung his bugle about his necke, 

And roundlye they rode awaye. 

All this beheard her own damselle. 

In her bed whereas shee ley. 
Quoth shee, My lord shall knowe of this, 

Soe I shall have golde and fee. 

Awake, awake, thou baron bolde ! 

Awake, my noble dame ! 
Your daughter is fledde with the Child of 
Elle 

To doe the decde of shame. 

» The baron he woke, the baron he rose. 
And call'd his merrye men all : 
"And come thou forth. Sir John the 
knighte, 
Thy ladye is carried to thrall." 

Faire Emmeline scant had ridden a mile, 

A mile forth of the towne, 
When she was aware of her fothers men 

Come galloping over the downe : 

And foremost came the carlish knight, 
vSir John of the north countriye : 

" Nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false trait^ure. 
Nor carry that ladye awaye. 

For she is come of hye linkage, 
And was of a ladye borne. 



And ill it beseems thee a false churl's 
Sonne 
To carrye her hence to scorne." 

Nowe loud thou lyest, Sir John the knight, 

Nowe thou doest lye of mee ; 
A knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore, 

Soe never did none by thee. 

But light nowe downe, my ladye faire, 
Light downe, and hold my steed. 

While I and this discourteous knighte 
Doe trye this arduous deede. 

But light nowe downe, my deare ladyfe, 
Light downe, and hold my horse; 

While I and this discourteous knight 
Doe trye our valour's force. 

Fair Emmeline sigh'd, fair Emmeline 
wept. 
And aye her heart was woe, 
While 'twixt her love and the carlish 
knight 
Past many a baleful blowe. 

The Child of Elle hee fought soe well. 
As his weapon he waved amaine, 

That soone he had slaine the carlish knight, 
And layd him upon the plaine. 

And nowe the baron and all his men 

Full fast approached nye : 
Ah I what may ladye Emmeline doe? 

'Twere nowe no boote to flye. 

Her lover he put his borne to his mouth. 
And blew both loud and shrill. 

And soone he saw his owne merry men 
Come ryding over the hill. 

"Nowe hold thy hand, thou bold bar6n, 

I pray thee hold thy hand, 
Nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts 

Fast knit in true love's band. 

Thy daughter I have dearly loved 

Full long and many a day ; 
But with such love as holy kirke 

Hath freelye said wee may. 

Oh give consent .shee may be mine, 

And bless a faithfuU paire: 
My lands and livings are not small. 

My house and lineage faire : 



LEGENDARY ASD 


BALLAD POETRY. 387 


My mother she was an earl's daughter, 


He turned aside toward a Vassal's door, 


And a noble kiiy^'ht my sire — " 


And "Bring another horse!" he cried 


The baron he frown'd and turn'd away 


, aloud. 


With raickle dole and ire. 






" Another horse!"— That shout the Vassal 


Faire Emmeline sigh'd, faire Emmeline 


heard. 


wept. 


And saddled his best steed, a comely 


And did all tremblinge stand: 


gray ; 


At lengthe slie sprang upon her knee, 


Sir Walter mounted him ; he was the 


And held his lifted hand. 


third 


Pardon, my lorde and father deare, 


Which he had mounted on that glorious 
day. 


This fair yong knyght and mee : 


Trust me, but for the carlish knyght, 
I never had fled from thee. 


Joy sparkled in the prancing Courser's 
eyes ; 


Oft have you call'd your Emmeline 


The horse and horseman are a happy 


Your darling and your joye ; 


pair ; 


Oil let not then your harsh resolves 


But, though Sir Walter like a folcon 


Your Emmeline destroye. 


flics. 




There is a doleful silence in the air. 


The baron he stroakt his dark-brown 




cheeke. 


A rout this morning left Sir Walter's 


And turn'd his heade asyde 


Hall, 


To whipe awaye the starting teare 


That as they gallop'd made the echoes 


He proudly strave to hyde. 


roar; 


In deepe revolving thought he stoode. 


But horse and man are vani.sh'd, one and 
all; 


Anil mused a little space: 
Then raised faire Emmeline from the 


Such race, I think, was never seen be- 
fore. 


grounde 




AVith many a fond embrace. 


Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind. 


Here take her, Child of Elle, he sayd. 
And gave her lillye white hand ; 

Here take my deare and only child, 
And with her half my land : 


Calls to the few tired dogs that yet re- 
main : 
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their 
kind. 
Follow, and up the weary mountain 


Thy father once mine honour wrongde 


strain. 


In dayes of youthful pride; 




Do thou the injurye rcpayre 


The knight halloo'd, he cheer'd and chid 


In fondnessc for thy bride. 


them on 




With suppliant gestures and upbraiding 


.Vnd as thou love her, and hold her deare. 


stern ; 


Heaven prosper thee and thine: 


But breath and eyesight fail ; and, one by 


.\nd nowe my blessing wend wi' thee. 


one, 


My lovelye Emmeline. 


The dogs are stretch'd among the moun- 


AUTIIOtt I'NTtSOWS. 


tain-fern. 


•c^ 

Hart-leap Well. 


Where is the throng, the tumult of the 
race? 


The Knight had ridden down from Wens- 


The bugles that so joyfully were blown? 


ley .Moor 


This cha.se it looks not like an earthly 


With the slow motion of a summer's 


chase ; 


cloud ; 


Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. 



388 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



The poor Hart toils along the mountain- 
side ; 
I will not stop to tell how far he fled, 
Nor will I mention by what death he 
died : 
But now the Knight beholds him lying 
dead. 

Dismounting, then, he lean'd against a 
thorn, 
He had no follower. Dog, nor Man, nor 
Boy: 
He neither crack'd his whip, nor blew his 
horn. 
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. 

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter 
lean'd, 
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious 
feat; 
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yean'd. 
And white with foam as if with cleaving 
sleet. 

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretch'd : 
His nostril touch'd a spring beneath a 
hill. 
And with the last deep 'groan his breath 
had fetch'd 
The waters of the spring were trembling 
still. 

And now, too happy for repose or rest 
(Never had living man such joyful lot!). 

Sir Walker walk'd all round, north, south, 
and west, 
And gazed and gazed upon that darling 

SJJOt. 

And climbing up the hill (it was at least 
Nine roods of sheer ascent), Sir Walter 
found 
Three several hoof-marks which the hunted 
beast 
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. 

Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, " Till 
now- 
Such sight was never seen by living 
eyes : 
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty 
brow 
Down to the very fountain where he lies. 



I'll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot, 
And a small Arbor, made for rural joy ; 

'Twill be the Traveller's shed, the Pilgrim's 
cot, 
A place of love for Damsels that are coy. 

A cunning Artist will I have to frame 

A basin for that fountain in the dell! 
And they who do make mention of the 
same 
From this day forth shall call it Haet- 
LEAP Well. 

And, gallant Stag ! to make thy praises 
known. 
Another monument shall here be raised; 
Three several Pillars, each a rough-hewn 
Stone, 
And planted where thy hoofs the turf 
have grazed. 

And, in the summer-time when days are 
long, 
I will come hither with my Paramour ; 
And with the Dancers and the Minstrel's 
song 
We will make merry in that pleasant 
Bower. 

Till the foundations of the mountains fail 
My Mansion with its Arbor shall en- 
dure ; — 
The joy of them who till the fields of 
Swale, 
And them who dwell among the woods 
of Ure !" 

Then home he went, and left the Hart, 
stone-dead, 
With breathless nostrils stretch'd above 
the spring. 
— Soon did the Knight perform wh.at he 
had said, 
And far and wide the fame thereof did 
ring. 

Ere thrice the Moon into her port had 
steer'd, 
A Cup of stone received the living 
Well ; 
Three Pillars of rude stone Sir Walter 
rear'd, 
And built a house of Pleasure in the 
dell. 



LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 



389 



And near the fountain, flowers of stature 
tall 
With trailing plants and trees were in- 
tertwined, — 
Which soon composed a little sylvan Hall, 
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. 

And thither, when the summer-days were 
long, 
Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour ; 
And with the Dancers and the Minstrel's 
song 
JIade merriment within that pleasant 
Bower. 

The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course 
of time. 

And his bones lie in his paternal vale.— 
But there is matter for a scconil rhyme. 

And I to this would add another tale. 

Part Second. 

The moving accident is not my trade. 
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts; 

'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, 
To pipe a simple song for thinking 
hearts. 

As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, 
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell 

Three Aspens at three corners of a square. 
And one, not four yards distant, near a 
Well. 

What this imported I could ill divine, 
And, pulling now the rein my horse to 
stop, 

I saw three Pillars standing in a line, 
The last Stone Pillar on a dark hill-top. 

The trees were gray, with neither arms nor 
head, 
Half wasted the square Mound of tawny 
green. 
So that you just might say, as then I said, 
" Here in old time the hand of man 
hath been." 

I look'd upon the hill both far and near ; 

More doleful place did never eye survey ; 
It seem'd as if the spring-time came not 
here. 
And Nature here were willing to de- 
cav. 



I stood in various thoughts and fancies 
lost, 
When one, who was in Shepherd's garb 
attired. 
Came up the Hollow ; him did I accost. 
And what this place might be I then in- 
quired. 

The Shepherd stopp'd, and that same story 
told 
Which in my former rhyme I have re- 
hearsed. 
" A jolly place," said he, " in times of 
old. 
But something ails it now ; the spot is 
curst. 

You see these lifeless Stumps of aspen 
wood, — 
Some say that they are beeches, others 
elms,— 
These were the Bower, and here a Mansion 
stood. 
The finest palace of a hundred realms. 

The Arbor does its own condition tell ; 
You see the Stones, the Fountain, and 
the Stream, 
But as to the great Lodge, you might as 
well 
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 

There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor 
sheep. 
Will wet his lips within that Cup of 
stone. 
And oftentimes, when all are fiust asleep. 
This water doth send forth a dolorous 
groan. 

Some say that here a murder has been 
done, 
And blood cries out for blood ; but for 
my part, 
I've gue.ss'd, when I've been sitting in the 
sun. 
That it was all for that unhappy Hart. 

What thoughts must through the Crea- 
ture's brain have pass'd ! 
Even from the topmost Stone upon the 
Steep 
Are but three bounds; and look, sir, at 
this last ; — 
Oh, Master! it has been a cruel leap! 



390 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



For thirteen hours he ran a desperate 
race, 
And in my simple mind we cannot tell 
What cause the Hart might have to love 
this place, 
And come and make his deathbed near 
the Well. 

Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, 
Lull'd by the Fountain in the summer- 
tide; 
This water was perhaps the first he drank 
When he had wander'd from his moth- 
er's side. 

In April here beneath the scented thorn 
He heard the birds their morning carols 
sing. 
And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was 
born 
Not half a furlong from that selfsame 
spring. 

Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant 
shade , 
The sun on drearier Hollow never shone; 
So will it be, as I have often said. 

Till Trees, and Stones, and Fountain, all 
are gone." 

" Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken 
well ; 
Small difference lies between thy creed 
and mine ; 
This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell : 
His death was mourn'd by symj^athy di- 
vine. 

The Being, that is in the clouds and air. 
That is in the green leaves among the 
groves. 
Maintains a deep and reverential care 
For the unofl'ending creatures whom He 
loves. 

The Pleasure-house is dust, — behind, be- 
fore. 
This is no common waste, no common 
gloom. 
But Nature, in due course of time, once 
more 
Shall here put on her beauty and her 
bloom. 



She leaves these objects to a slow decay, 
That what we are, and have been, may 
be known ; 

But at the coming of the milder day 
These monuments shall all be overgrown. 

One lesson. Shepherd, let us two divide. 
Taught both by what she shows, and 
what conceals. 

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 

With sorrow of the meanest thing that 

feels." 

William Wordsworth. 



RoBiJsr Hood and Allen-a-Dale. 

Come listen to me, you gallants so free, 
All you that love mirth for to hear. 

And I will tell you of a bold outliiw, 
That lived in Nottinghamshire. 

As Eobin Hood in the forest stood, 
All under the greenwood tree, 

There he was aware of a brave young man. 
As fine as fine might be. 

The youngster was clad in scarlet red, 

In scarlet fine and gay ; 
And he did frisk it over the plain. 

And chaunted a roundelay. 

As Robin Hood next morning stood 

Amongst the leaves so gay. 
There did he espy the same young man 

Come drooping along the way. 

The scarlet he wore the day before 

It was clean cast away ; 
And at every step he fetch'd a sigh, 

" Alas ! and a-well-a-day !" 

Then stepjied forth brave Little John, 
And Midge, the miller's son ; 

Which made the young man bend his bow. 
When as he see them come. 

" Stand ofl'! stand oft'!" the young man said, 
" What is your will with me '?" 

" You must come before our master straight. 
Under yon greenwood tree." 

And when he came bold Eobin before, 
Kobin ask'd him courteously, 

" Oh, hast thou any money to spare. 
For my merry men and me '?" 



LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 



391 



" I have no money," the young man said, 
" But five shillings and a ring ; 

And thiit I have kept this seven long years, 
To have at my wedding. 

" Yesterday I should have married a maid, 

But she was from me ta'en, 
And chosen to be an old knight's delight, 

Whereby my poor heart is slain." 

"What is thy name?" then said Robin 
Hood, 
" Come tell me, without any fail." 
" By the faith of my body," then said the 
young man, 
" My name it is Allen-a-Dale." 

" What wilt thou give me," said Robin 
Hood, 

"In ready gold or fee. 
To help thee to thy true love again. 

And deliver her unto thee?" 

" I have no money," then quoth the young 
man, 

" In ready gold nor fee. 
But I will swear upon a book 

Tliy true servant for to be." 

" IldW many miles is it to thy true love? 

Come tell me without guile." 
" By the faith of my body," then said the 
young man, 

" it is but five little mile." 

Then Robin he ha.sted over the plain ; 

He did neither stint nor lin. 
Until he came unto the church 

Where Allen should keep his weddin'. 

" What hast thou here ?" the bishop then 
said ; 

" I prithee now tell unto me." 
" I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood, 

" And the best in the north country." 

" Oh welcome, oh welcome," the bishop he 
said ; 
" That music best plea-scth me." 
" You shall have no music," said Robin 
Hood, 
" Till the bride and bridegroom I see." 

With that came in a wealthy knight. 
Which was both grave and old ; 



And after him a finikin lass, 

Did shine like the glistering gold. 

" This is not a fit match," quoth Robin 
Hood, 

" That you do seem to make here ; 
For since we are come into the church, 

The bride shall choose her own dear." 

Then Robin Hood put his horn to his 
mouth. 

And blew blasts two or three ; 
When four-iind-twenty yeomen bold 

Came leaping over the lea. 

And when they came into the churchyard, 

Marching all in a row, 
The first man was Allen-a-Dale, 

To give bold Robin his bow. 

" This is thy true love," Robin he said, 
" Young Allen, as I hear say ; 

And you shall be married this same time. 
Before we depart away." 

" That shall not be," the bishop he cried, 
" For thy word shall not stand ; 

They shall be three times ask'd in the 
church. 
As the law is of our land." 

Robin Hood puU'd off the bishop's coat, 
And put it upon Little John ; 

" By the faith of my body," then Robin 
said, 
" This cloth doth make thee a man." 

Wlien Little .John went into the quire, 
The people began to laugh ; 

He a-sk'd them seven times into church. 
Lest three times should not be enough. 

"Who gives me this maid?" saiil Little 
John, 

Quoth Robin Hood, " That do I ; 
And he that takes her from Allen-a-Dale, 

Full dearly he shall her buy." 

And then having ended this merry wed- 
ding. 
The bride look'd like a queen ; 
And so they rcturn'd to the merry green 
wood, 
Amongst the leaves so green. 

AUTIIUR Unknowx. 



892 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



BETH-GELERT; or, THE GRAVE 

OF THE Greyhound. 

The Spearmen heard the bugle sound, 
And cheerily smiled the morn. 

And many a brach and many a hound 
Obey'd Llewelyn's horn. 

And still he blew a louder blast, 

And gave a lustier cheer : 
" Come, Gelert, come, wert never last 

Llewelyn's horn to hear. 

" Oh ! where does faithful Gelert roam. 

The flow'r of all his race ? 
So true, so brave ; a lamb at home, 

A lion in the chase !" 

'Twas only at Llewelyn's board 

The faithful Gelert fed ; 
He watch'd, he serv'd, he cheer'd his lord 

And sentinell'd his bed. 

In sooth he was a peerless hound. 

The gift of royal John ; 
But now no Gelert could be found. 

And all the chase rode on. 

And now, as o'er the rocks and dells 

The gallant chidings rise. 
All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells 

The many-mingled cries I 

That day Llewelyn little loved 

The chase of Hart or Hare, 
And scant and small the booty proved, 

For Gelert was not there. 

Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied : 

When, near the jiortal seat, 
His truant Gelert he espied 

Bounding his lord to greet. 

But, when he gained his castle door, 

Aghast the chieftain stood : 
The hound all o'er was smear'd with gore, 

His lips, his fangs, ran blood. 

Lleweh'n gazed with fierce surprise : 

Unused such looks to meet, 
His fav'rite check'd his joyful guise, 

And crouch'd and lick'd his feet. 

Onward in haste Llewelyn pass'd. 
And on went Gelert too. 



And still, where'er his eyes he cast. 
Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view. 

O'erturn'd his infant's bed he found, 
With blood-stain'd covert rent ; 

And all around, the walls and ground 
With recent blood besprent. 

He call'd his child, no voice replied ; 

He search'd with terror wild ; 
Blood, blood he found on ev'ry side ; 

But nowhere found his child. 

"Hell-hound! my child by thee's de- 
vour'd !" 

The frantic father cried ; 
And to the hilt his vengeful sword 

He plunged in Gelert's side. 

His suppliant looks as prone he fell, 

No pity could impart; 
But still his Gf-lert's dying yell 

Pass'd heavy o'er his heart. 

Aroused by GSlert's dying yell 
Some slumb'rer waken'd nigh : 

What words the parent's joy could tell 
To hear his infant's cry ! 

Conceal'd beneath a tumbled heap 
His hurried search had miss'd, 

All glowing from his rosy sleep, 
The cherub boy he kiss'd. 

Nor scath had he, nor harm, nor dread ; 

But the same couch beneath 
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead. 

Tremendous still in death. 

Ah, what was then Llewelyn's pain ! 

For now the truth was clear ; 
His gallant hound the wolf had slain, 

To save Llewelyn's heir. 

Vain, vain was all Llewelyn's woe : 

"Best of thy kind, adieu ! 
The frantic blow, which laid thee low. 

This heart shall ever rue." 

And now a gallant tomb they raise, 

With costly sculpture deckt ; 
And marbles, storied with his praise. 

Poor Gelert's bones protect. 

There never could the spearman pass, 
Or forester, unmoved ; 



LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 



393 



There oft the tear-besprinkled grass 
Llewelyn's sorrow proved. 

And there he hung his sword and spear, 

And there as evening fell, 
In Fancy's ear he oft would hear 

Poor Gelerl's dying yell. 

And till great Snowdon's rocks grow old, 
And cease the storm to brave, 

The consecrated spot shall hold 
The name of " GC-lert's Grave." 

William Kuuebt Spekckb. 



Katharine Janfarie. 

There was a may, and a weel-fared may. 

Lived high up in yon glen : 
Her name was Katharine Janfarie, 

She was courted by mouy men. 

Doun cam' the Laird o' Lamington, 
Doun frae the South Countrie ; 

And he is for this bonnie lass, 
Her bridegroom for to be. 

He ask'd no her father and mither. 

Nor the chief o' a' her kin ; 
But he whisper'd the bonny lass hersel', 

And did her favor win. 



Doun cam' an English gentleman, 
Doun frae the English border; 

He is for this bonny lass, 
To keep Lis house in order. 

He ask'd her father and mither, 
And a' the lave o' her kin ; 

But he never ask'd the lassie hersel' 
Till on her wedding-e'en. 

But she has wrote a long letter. 
And seal'd it with her hand ; 

^Vjid sent it away to Lamington, 
To let him understand. 

The first line o' the letter he read. 
He wa.s baith fain and glad ; 

But or he has read the letter o'er, 
He's turn'd baith wan and sad. 



Then he has sent a messenger, 
To run through all his land; 

And four and twenty armed men 
AVere all at his command. 

But he has left his merry men all. 

Left them on the lee; 
And he's awa' to the wedding-house, 

To see what he could see. 

They all rose up to honor him. 

For he was of high renown ; 
They all rose up to welcome him. 

And bade him to sit down. 

Oh niickle was the gude red wine 

In silver cups did How ; 
But aye she diank to Lamington, 

And fain with him would go. 

" Oh come ye here to fight, young lord ? 

Or come ye here to play ? 
Or come ye here to drink gude wine 

Upon the wedding-day?" 

" I come na here to fight," he said, 

" I come na here to play ; 
I'll but lead a dance wi' the bonny bride. 

And mount and go my way." 

He's caught her by the milk-white hand, 
And by the grass-green sleeve; 

He's mounted her hie behind himscl'. 
At her kinsfolk -spier'd na leave. 

It's up, it's up the Coudcn bank. 

It's doun tlic Cfiuden brae ; 
And aye thoy made the trumpet sound, 

" It's a' fair play !" 

Now, a' ye lords and gentlemen 

That be of England born. 
Come ye na doun to Scotland thus. 

For fear ye get the scorn I 

They'll feed ye up wi' flattering words, 

And play ye foul play ; 
They'll dress you frogs instead of fish 

Upon your wedding-day 1 



394 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Fair Anme of Lochroyan. 

" Oh wha will shoe my fair foot, 

And wha will glove my han'? 
And wha will lace my middle jimp 

Wi' a new-made London ban'? 

" Or wha will kemb my yellow hair 

Wi' a new-made silver kemb ? 
Or wlia'll be father to my young bairn, 

Till love Gregor come hame?" 

" Your father'll shoe your fair foot, 
Your mother glove your ban' ; 

Your sister lace your middle jimp 
AVi' a new-made London ban' ; 

" Your brethren will kemb your yellow 
hair 
AVi' a new-made silver kemb; 
And the King o' heaven will father j'our 
bairn, 
Till love Gregor come hame." 

" Oh gin I had a bonny ship. 

And men to sail wi' me, 
It's I would gang to my true love, 

Sin he winna come to me!" 

Her father's gien her a bonny ship, 

And sent her to the stran' ; 
She's ta'en her young son in her arms. 

And turn'd her back to the Ian'. 

She hadna been o' the sea sailin' 

About a month or more. 
Till landed has she her bonny ship 

Kear her true love's door. 

The nicht was dark, and the wind blew 
cald, 

And her love was fast asleep. 
And the bairn that was in her twa arms 

Fu' sair began to greet. 

Lang stood she at her true love's door. 

And lang tirl'd at the pin ; 
At length up gat his fause mother. 

Says, " AVha's that wad be in?" 

" Oh it is Annie of Lochroyan, 

Your love, come o'er the sea. 
But and your young son in her arms ; 

So open the door to me." 



" Awa', awa', ye ill woman ! 

You're nae come here for gude ; 
You're but a witch, or a vile warlock, 

Or mermaid o' the flude." 

" I'm nae a witch or vile warlock. 

Or mermaiden," said she ; — 
" I'm but your Annie of Lochroyan ; — 

Oh open the door to me !" 

" Oh gin ye be Annie of Lochroyan, 

As I trust not ye be, 
AVhat taiken can ye gie that e'er 

I kept your companie?" 

" Oh dinna ye mind, love Gregor," she 
says, 
" AVhan we sat at the wine, 
How we changed the napkins frae our 
necks ? 
It's nae sae lang sinsyne. 

" And yours was gude, and gude enough. 

But nae sae gude as mine ; 
For yours was o' the cambric clear. 

But mine o' the silk sae fine. 

"And dinna ye mind, love Gregor," she 
says, 

" As we twa sat at dine, 
How we changed the rings frae our fingers, 

And I can shew thee thine : 

" And yours was gude, and gude enough, 

Yet nae sae gude as mine ; 
For yours was o' the gude red gold, 

But mine o' the diamonds fine. 

" Sae open the door, now, love Gregor, 

And open it wi' speed ; 
Or your young son, that is in my arms, 

For cald will soon be dead." 

" Awa', awa', ye ill woman ! 

Gae frae my door ibr shame ; 
For I hae gotten anither fair love — 

Sae ye may hie you hame." 

" Oh hae ye gotten anither fair love, 

For a' the oaths ye sware ? 
Then fare ye weel, now, fause Gregor : 

For me ye's never see mair !" 

Oh hooly, hooly gaed she back, 
As the day began to peep ; 



LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 



395 



She set her foot on good shipboard, 
And sair, sair did she weep. 

"Tak down, tak down the masto' goud; 

Sot up the mast o' tree ; 
111 sets it a forsaken lady 

To sail sae gallautlie. 

"Tak down, tak down, the sails o' silk : 

Set up the sails o' skin ; 
111 sets the outside to be gay. 

Whan there's sic grief within I" 

Love Gregor started frae his sleep, 

And to his mother did say: 
"I dreamt a dream tliis night, mither, 

That maks my heart rielit wac; 

" I dreamt that Annie of Lochroyan, 

The flower o' a' her kin, 
Wiis standin' mournin' at my door ; 

But nane wad lat her in." 

" Oh there wa-s a woman stood at the door, 

Wi' a bairn intill her arms; 
But I wadna let her within the bower, 

For fear she had done you harm." 

Oh quickly, quickly raise he up. 

And fa.st ran to the strand ; 
And there he saw her, fair Annie, 

W;vs sailing frae the land. 

And " Heigh, Annie !" and " How, Annie ! 

O Annie, winna ye bide?" 
But aye the louder that he cried "Annie," 

The higher rair'd the tide. 

And " Heigh, Annie !" and " How, Annie I 

Annie, speak to me !" 
But .aye the louder that he cried " Annie," 

The louder rair'd the sea. 

The wind grew loud, and the sea grew 
rough. 

And the ship was rent in twain ; 
And soon he saw her, fair Annie, 

Come floating o'er the main. 

He saw his young son in her arms, 

Baith toss'd aboon the tide ; 
He wrang his hands, and fast he ran. 

And plunged in the sea sae wide. 

He catch'd her by the yellow hair, 
And drew her to the strand ; 



But cald and stifl" was every limb. 
Before he reach'd the land. 

Oh first he kist her cherry cheek, 

And syne he kist her chin : 
And sair he kist her rul)y lips, 

But there was nae breath within. 

Oh he has mourn'd o'er fair Annie, 
Till the sun was ganging down ; 

Syne wi' a sich his heart it brast. 
And his saul to heaven hits flown. 

AUTUOK Lnk-sown. 



O'CONNOR'S CHILD; 

on, 

"THE FLOWER.OF LOVE LIE.S BLEEDIXG." 

Oil ! once the harp of Innisfail 

Was strung full high to notes of glad- 
ness ; 
But yet it often told a tale 

Of more prevailing sadness. 
Sad was the note, and wild its fall. 

As winds that moan at night forlorn 
Along the isles of Fion-(iall, 

When for O'Connor's child to mourn. 
The hari)er told how lone, liow far 
From any mansion's twinkling star. 
From any path of social men. 
Or voice, but from the fox's den. 
The lady in the desert dwelt ; 
And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt. 
Say, why should dwell in place so wild 
O'Connor's pale and lovely eliild? 

Sweet lady ! she no more inspires 

Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power. 
As in the palace of her sires 

She blooni'd a peerless flower. 
Gone from her hand and bosom, gone, 

The royal brooch, the jewoll'd ring. 
That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone. 

Like dews on lilies of the spring. 
Yet why, though fall'n her brother's 

kerne. 
Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern, 
Wliile yet in Leinster unexplored, 
Her friends survive the English sword, — 
Why lingers she from Erin's host. 
So far on Galway's shipwreck'd coast? 
Why wanders she a huntress wild, — 
O'Connor's pale and lovely child ? 



396 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


And, fix'd on empty space, why burn 


" O'Connor's child, I was the bud 


Her eyes with iiionientary wildness ; 


Of Erin's royal tree of glory ; 


And wherefore do they then return 


But woe to them that wrapt in blood 


To more than woman's mildness ? 


The tissue of my story ! 


Dishevell'd are her raven locks ; 


Still, as I clasp my burning brain, 


On Connocht Moran's name she calls ; 


A death-scene rushes on my sight ; 


And oft amidst the lonely rocks 


It rises o'er and o'er again, — 


She sings sweet madrigals. 


The bloody feud, the fatal night. 


Placed midst the foxglove and the moss, 


When, chafing Connocht Moran's scorn. 


Behold a parted warrior's cross ! 


They call'd my hero basely born. 


Tliat is the spot where, evermore, 


And bade him choose a meaner bride 


The lady at her shieling door, 


Than from O'Connor's house of pride. 


Enjoys that, in communion sweet, 


Their tribe, they said, their high degree, 


The living and the dead can meet ; 


Was sung in Tara's psaltery ; 


For lo ! to love-lorn fantasy. 


Witness their Eath's victorious brand, 


The hero of her heart is nigh. 


And Cathal of the bloody hand. 




Glory (they said) and power and honor 


Bright as the bow that spans the storm. 


Were in the mansion of O'Connor; 


In Erin's yellow vesture clad, 


But he, my loved one, bore in field 


A son of light, a lovely form, 


A humbler crest, a meaner shield. 


He comes and makes her glad : 




Now on the grass-green turf he sits. 


" Ah ! brothers, what did it avail. 


His tassell'd horn beside him laid ; 


That fiercely and triumphantly 


Now o'er the hills in chase he flits. 


Ye fought the English of the Pale, 


The hunter and the deer a shade ! 


And stemm'd De Bourgo's chivalry ? 


Sweet mourner ! these are shadows vain, 


And what was it to love and me. 


That cross the twilight of her brain ; 


That barons by your standard rode, 


Yet she will tell you she is blest. 


Or beal-fires for your jubilee 


Of Connocht Moran's tomb possess'd. 


Upon a hundred mountains glow'd ? 


More richly than in Aghrim's bower. 


What though the lords of tower and dome 


When bards high praised her beauty's 


From Shannon to the North Sea foam, — 


power. 


Thought ye your iron hands of pride 


And kneeling pages offer'd up 


Could break the knot that love had tied ? 


The morat in a golden cup. 


No — let the eagle change his plume, 




The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom ; 


" A hero's bride ! this desert bower. 


But ties around this heart were spun 


It ill befits thy gentle breeding. 


That could not, would not, be undone ! 


And wherefore dost thou love this flower 




To call ' My love lies bleeding ' ?" 


"At bleating of the wild watch-fold, 


"This purple flower my tears have 


Thus sang my love : ' Oh, come with me ! 


nursed, — 


Our bark is on the lake, behold ! 


A hero's blood supplied its bloom : 


Our steeds are fosten'd to the tree. 


I love it, for it was the first 


Come far from Castle Connor's clans, 


That grew on Connocht Moran's tomb. 


Come with thy belted forestere ; 


Oh, hearken, stranger, to my voice ! 


And I, beside the lake of swans, 


This desert mansion is my choice ; 


Shall hunt for thee the fallow deer, 


And blest, though fatal, be the star 


And build thy hut, and bring thee home 


That led me to its wilds afar. 


The wild-fowl and the honeycomb. 


For here these pathless mountains free 


And berries from the wood provide, 


Gave shelter to my love and me ; 


And play my clarshech by thy side. 


And every rock and every stone 


Then come, my love !' How could I stay? 


Bore witness that he was my own. 


Our nimble stag-hounds track'd the way, 



LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 



397 



Ami I pursued, by moonless skies, 
The light of Connocht Jloran's eyes. 

" And fast and far, before the star 

Of day-spring, rush'd we through the 
glade, 
And saw at dawn the lofty bawn 

Of Castle Connor fade. 
Sweet was to us the hermitage 

Of this unplough'd, untrodden shore; 
Like birds all joyous from the cage, 

For man's neglect we loved it more. 
And well he knew, my huntsman dear, 
To search the game with hawk and spear; 
While I, his evening food to dress, 
Would sing to him in happiness. 
But oh, that midnight of despair! 
When I was doom'd to rend my hair, — 
Tlie night, to me, of shrieking sorrow ! 
The night, to him, that had no morrow ! 

" When all was husli'd, at even-tide 

I lieard the baying of their beagle. 
' Be hush'd I' my Connocht Moran cried ; 

' 'Tis but the screaming of the eagle.' 
Alas ! 'twas not the eyrie's sound ; 

Their bloody bands had track'd us out; 
Up listening starts our eoucliant hound, — 

And hark ! again, that nearer shout 
Brings faster on the murderers. 
Spare — spare him! Brazil — Desmond fierce ! 
In vain ! — no voice the adder charms; 
Their weapons cross'd my sheltering arms: 

Another's sword has laid him low — 
Another's, and anotlier's ; 

And every hand that dealt the blow — 
Ah me! it was a brother's. 
Yes, when his moanings died away, 
Their iron hands had dug the clay, 
And o'er his burial-turf they trod; 
And I beheld— O God ! O God !— 
His life-blood oozing from the sod. 

" Warm jn his death-wounds sepulchred, 

Alas! my warrior's spirit brave 
Xor mass nor ulla-Iulla heard, 

Lamenting, soothe his grave. 
Dragg'd to their hated mansion back, 

How long in thraldom's grasp I lay 
I knew not, for my soul was lilack, 

And knew no change of night or day. 
One night of horror round me grew; 
Or if I saw, or felt, or knew, 



'Twas but when those grim visages, 
The angry brothers of my race. 
Glared on each eyeball's aching throb, 
And clieck'd my bosom's power to sob. 
Or when my heart, with pulses drear, 
Beat like a death-watch to my ear. 

" But Heaven, at last, my soul's eclipse 

Did with a vision bright inspire: 
I woke, and felt upon my lips 

A prophetess's fire. 
Thrice in the east a war-drum beat, — 

I heard the Saxon's trumpet sound, 
And ranged, as to the judgment-seat, 

Jly guilty, trembling brothers round. 
Clad in the helm and shield they came ; 
For now De Bourgo's sword and flame 
Had ravaged Ulster's boundaries, 
And lighted up the midnight skies. 
The standard of O'Connor's sway 
Was in the turret where I lay ; 

Tkat standard, with so dire a look, 
As ghastly shone the moon and pale, 

I gave, that every bosom shook 
Beneath its iron mail. 

" ' And go !' I cried, ' the combat seek, 

Ye hearts that unappalled bore 
The anguish of a sister's shriek, 

Go I — and return no more ! 
For sooner guilt the ordeal brand 

Shall grasp unhurt, then ye shall hold 
The banner with victorious hand, 

Beneath a sister's curse unroll'd.' 

stranger, by my country's loss! 
And by my love! and by the cross! 

1 swear I never could have spoke 
The curse that sever'd Nature's j^oke, 
But that a spirit o'er me stood, 

And fired me with the wrathful mood ; 
And frenzy to my heart was given, 
To speak the malison of Heaven. 

" They would have cross'd themselves, all 

mute; 
They would have pray'd to burst the 

spell ; 
But at the stamping of my foot. 

Eacli hand down ])Owerless I'ell. 
' And go to Athunree!' I cried, 
' High lift the banner of your pride! 
But know that where its .sheet unrolls. 
The weight of blood is on your souls! 



398 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Go where tlie havoc of )-our kerne 


And when thy sons to fetters are con- 


Shall float as high as moiuitain-fcrn I 


sign'd — 


Men shall no more your mansion know ; 


To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless 


The nettles on your hearth shall grow ; 


gloom — 


Dead, as the green oblivious flood 


Their country conquers with their mar- 


That mantles by your walls, shall be 


tyrdom. 


The glory of O'Connor's blood ! 


And freedom's fame finds wings on every 


Away ! away to Athunree ! 


wind. 


Where, downward when the sun shall fall, 


Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, 


The raven's wing shall be your pall: 


And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas 


And not a vassal shall unlace 


trod 


The visor from your dying face !' 


Until his very steps have left a trace. 




Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod. 


" A bolt that overhung our dome, 


By Bonnivard ! — Jlay none those marks 


Suspended till my curse was given, 


efface ! 


Soon as it pass'd these lips of foam, 


For they appeal from tyranny to God. 


Peal'd in the blood-red heaven. 




Dire was the look that o'er their backs 


I. 


The angry parting brothers threw ; 


Jly hair is gray, but not with years. 


But now, behold ! like cataracts. 


Nor grew it white 


Come down the hills in view 


In a single night. 


O'Connor's plumfed partisans : 


As men's have grown from sudden fears ; 


Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans 


My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 


Were marching to their doom. 


But rusted with a vile repose ; 


A sudden storm their [ilumage toss'd, 


For they have been a dungeon's spoil. 


A flash of lightning o'er them cross'd 


And mine has been the fate of those 


And all agaiu was gloom. 


To whom the goodly earth and air 




Are bann'd and barr'd — forbidden fare. 


" Stranger, I fled the home of grief. 


But this was for my father's faith 


At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall. 


I suffer'd chains and courted death. 


I found the helmet of my chief. 


That father perish'd at the stake 


His bow still hanging on our wall. 


For tenets he would not forsake ; 


And took it down, and vow'd to rove 


And for the same his lineal race 


This desert place a huntress bold; 


In darkness found a dwelling-place. 


Nor would I change my buried love 


We were seven, who now are one — 


For any heart of living mould. 


Six in youth, and one in age, 


No ! for I am a hero's child ; 


Finish'd as they had begun. 


I'll hunt my quarry in the wild ; 


Proud of Persecution's rage ; 


And still my home this mansion make. 


One in fire, and two in field. 


Of all unheeded and unheeding; 


Their belief with blood have seal'd : 


And cherish, for my warrior's sake. 


Dying, as their father died. 


' The flower of love lies bleeding.' " 


For the God their foes denied. 


Thomas Campbell. 


Three were in a dungeon cast, 


.^ 


Of whom this wreck is left the last. 


The PiiisoxER OF Chillon. 


II. 


Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! 


There are seven pillars, of Gothic mould. 


Brighest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art, 


In Chillon's dungeons deep and old ; 


For there thy habitation is the heart — 


There are seven columns, massy and gr.ay, 


The heart which love of thee alone can 


Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 


bind ; 


A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 



LEGENDARY AND 


BALLAD POETRY. 399 


And throu<jh the crevice and the cleft 


(When d.ay was beautiful to me 


Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 


As to young eagles, being free). 


CrtTjiing o'er the floor so damp, 


A polar day, which will not see 


Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 


A sunset till its summer's goue, 


And in each pillar tliere is a ring. 


Its sleepless summer of long light. 


And in each ring there is a chain; 


The snow-clad oftspring of the sun : 


That iron is a cankering thing, 


And thus he was as pure and bright, 


For in these limbs its teeth remain. 


.\nd in his natural spirit gay, 


With marks tliat will not wear away 


With tears for naught but other's ills ; 


Till 1 have done with this new day, 


And then they flow'd like mountain-rills. 


Wliicli now is painful to these eyes, 


I'nlcss he could assuage the woo 


Wliich have not seen the sun so rise 


Which he abhorr'd to view below. 


For years — I cannot count them o'er ; 




I lost their long and hea\-y score 


V. 


When my last brother droop'd and died. 


The other was .as pure of mpd. 


And I lay living by his side. 


But form'd to combat with his kind ; 




Strong in his frame, and of a mood 


III. 


Which 'gainst the world in war had 


They chain'd us each to a column stone 


stood. 


And we were three — yet each alone. 


And perish'd in the foremost rank 


We could not move a single pace ; 


With joy ; but not in chains to ])ine. 


We could not see each other's face, 


His spirit wither'd with their clank ; 


I?ut with that pale and livid light 


I saw it silently decline — 


Tliat made us strangers in our sight; 


And so, perchance, in sooth, did mine: 


And thus togetlier, yet apart — 


But yet I forced it on to cheer 


Fettor'd in hand, but join'd in heart; 


Those relics of a home so dear. 


'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 


He was a hunter of the hills, 


Of the pure elements of earth. 


Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; 


To liearken to each other's speech. 


To wliom this dungeon was a gulf, 


And each turn comforter to each 


And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 


With some new hope, or legend old, 




Or song heroically bold ; 


VI. 


But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone. 
An echo of the dungeon-stone, 

A grating sound— not full and free, 


Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls. 
A thousand feet in depth below, 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 


As they of yore were wont to be; 
It might be fancy — l)ut to me 
They never sounded like our own. 


From Chillon's snow-white battlement. 

Which round about the wave enthralls ; 
A double dungeon wall and wave 


] 


Have made — and like a living grave. 


IV. 


Below the surface of the lake 


I w.as the eldest of the three ; 


The dark vault lies wherein we lay; 


And to uphold and cheer the rest 


We heard it rip|)le night and day ; 


I ought to do, and did, my best — 


Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd; 


And each did well in his degree. 


And I have felt the winter's sjjray 


The youngest, whom my father loved, 


Wash through the bars wlien winds were 


Because our mother's brow was given 


high, 


To him — with eyes as blue as heaven — 


And wanton in the happy sky; 


For him my soul w.is sorely moved; 


And then the verj- rock hath rocked. 


And truly miglit it be distress'd 


And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 


To see such bird in such a nest ; 


Because I could have smiled to see 


For he was beautiful as day 


The death that would have set me free. 



400 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



VII. 

I said my nearer brother pined ; 
I said his mighty heart declined. 
He loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
For we were used to hunter's fare, 
And for the like had little care. 
The milk drawn from the mountain-goat 
Was clianged for water from the moat ; 
Our bread was such as captives' tears 
Have moisten'd many a thousand years, 
Since man first pent his fellow-men. 
Like brutes, within an iron den. 
But what were these to us or him ? 
These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side. 
But why delay the truth ? — he died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head. 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead. 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlock'd his chain, 
And scooji'd for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought; 
But then within my brain it wrought. 
That even in death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly laugh'd, and laid him there, 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love ; 
His empty chain above it leant — 
Such murder's fitting monument ! 

VIII. 

But he, the favorite and the flower. 
Most cherish'd since his natal hour. 
His mother's image in fair face. 
The infiint love of all his race. 
His martyr'd father's dearest thought. 
My latest care — for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his might be 
Less wretched now, and one day free — 
He, too, who yet had held untired 
A spirit natural or inspired — 



He, too, was struck, and day by day 
Was wither'd on the stalk away. 
O God ! it is a fearful thing 
To see the human soul take wing 
In any shape, in any mood : 
I've seen it rushing forth in blood ; 
I've seen it on the breaking ocean 
Strive with a swoln, convulsive mo- 
tion; 
I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
Of sin, delirious with its dread ; 
But these were horrors — this was woe 
Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow. 
He faded, and so calm and meek, 
So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 
So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 
And grieved for those he left behind ; 
With all the while a cheek whose bloom 
Was as a mockery of the tomb, 
Whose tints as gently sunk away 
As a departing rainbow's ray — 
An eye of most transparent light, 
That almost made the dungeon bright, 
And not a word of murmur, not 
A groan o'er his untimely lot— 
A little talk of better days, 
A little hope my own to raise ; 
For I was sunk in silence — lost 
In this last loss, of all the most ; 
And then the sighs he would suppress 
Of fainting Nature's feebleness, 
More slowly drawn, grew less aud less. 
I listen'd, but I could not hear — 
I call'd, for I was wild with fear; 
I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 
Would not be thus admonished ; 
I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 
I burst my chain with one strong bound. 
And rush'd to him : I found him not, 
I only stirr'd in this black spot, 
I only lived — I only drew 
The accursfed breath of dungeon-dew ; 
The last, the sole, the dearest link 
Between me and the eternal brink. 
Which bound me to my failing race, 
Was broken in this fatal place. 
One on the earth and one beneath — 
My brothers — ^both had ceased to breathe. 
I took that hand which lay so still — 
Alas! my own was full as chill ; 
I had not strength to stir or strive, 
But felt that I was still alive — 



LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 



401 



A frantic feeling, when we know 
That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 



What next befell me then and there 
I know not well — I never knew. 

First came the loss of light and air, 
And then of darkness too. 

I had no thought, no feeling — none : 

Among the stones I stood a stone; 

And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 

As shrubless crags within the mist ; 

For all was blank, and bluak, and gray ; 

It was not night — it was not d.iy ; 

It was not even the dungeon-light, 

So hateful to my heavy sight ; 

But vacancy absorbing space, 

And fixedness, without a place ; 

There were no stars, no earth, no time. 

No check, no change, no good, no crime; 

But silence, and a stirless breath. 

Which neither was of life nor death ; 

A sea of stagnant idleness, . 

Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 

X. 

A light broke in upon my brain — 

It was the carol of a bird ; 
It ceased, and then it came again — 

The sweetest song ear ever heard ; 
And mine was thankful till my eyes 
Ran over with the glad surprise, 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of miserv' ; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
Jly senses to their wonted track : 
I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before ; 
I saw the glimmer of the sun 
Creeping as it before had done ; 
But through the crevice where it came 
That bird was perch'd as fond and tame, 

And tamer than upon the tree — 
A lovely bird with azure wings, 
.Vnd song that said a thousand things. 

And seem'd to say them all for me! 

I never saw its like before — 

I ne'er shall see its likeness more. 
26 



It seem'd, like me, to want a mate. 

But was not half so desolate ; 

And it was come to love me when 

None lived to love me so again, 

And, cheering from my dungeon's brink. 

Had brought me back to feel and think. 

I know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine ; 
But knowing well captivity. 

Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine — 
Or if it were, in wingfcd guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 
For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the 

while 
Which made me both to weep and smile; 
I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
Jly brother's soul come down to me ; 
But then at last away it flew, 
And then 'twas mortal well I knew; 
For he would never thus have flown. 
And left me twice so doubly lone — 
Lone as the corse within its shroud. 
Lone as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day. 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere. 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 



A kind of change came in my fate — 

My keepers grew compassionate. 

I know not what had made them so — 

They were inured to sights of woe; 

But so it was — my broken chain 

With links unfastcn'd did remain; 

And it was liberty to stride 

Along my cell from side to side. 

And up and down, and then athwart. 

And tread it over everj' part ; 

And round the |)illars one l)y one. 

Returning where my walk begun — 

Avoiding only, as I trod. 

My brothers' graves without a sod ; 

For if I thought with heedless tread 

My .step profaned their lowly bed, 

My breath came g;ispingly and thick, 

And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. 



I made a footing in the wall : 
It was not therefrom to escape. 



402 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


For I had buried one and all 


I had no hope my eyes to raise. 


Who loved me in a human shape ; 


And clear them of their dreary mote; 


And the whole earth would henceforth be 


At last men came to set me free. 


A wider prison unto me ; 


I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where ; 


No child, no sire, no kin had I, 


It was at length the same to me. 


No partner in my misery. 


Fetter' d or fetterless to be ; 


I thought of this, and I was glad. 


I learn'd to love despair. 


For thought of them had made me mad ; 


And thus, when they appear'd at last. 


But I was curious to ascend 


And all my bonds aside were cast, 


To my barr'd windows, and to bend 


These heavy walls to me had grown 


Once more upon the mountains high 


A hermitage — and all my own ! 


The quiet of a loving eye. 


And half I felt as they were come 




To tear me from a second home. 


XIII. 


With spiders I had friendship made, 


I saw them — and they were the same ; 


And watch'd them in their sullen trade; 


They were not changed, like me, in frame; 


Had seen the mice by moonlight play; 


I saw their thousand years of snow 


And why should I feel less than they? 


On high — their wide, long lake below, 


We were all inmates of one place, 


And the blue Ehone in fullest flow ; 


And I, the monarch of each race. 


I heard the torrents leap and gush 


Had power to kill ; yet, strange to tell ! 


O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; 


In quiet we had learn'd to dwell. 


I saw the white-wall'd distant town, 


My very chains and I grew friends, 


And whiter sails go skimming down ; 


So much a long communion tends 


And then there was a little isle, 


To make us what we are : — even I 


Which in my very face did smile — 


Kegain'd my freedom with a sigh. 


The only one in view; 


Lord Byron. 


A small, green isle, it seem'd no more, 


»ci 


Scarce broader than my dungeon-floor; 


Fair Helen. 


But in it there were three tall trees. 




And o'er it blew the mountain-breeze. 


I WISH I were where Helen lies ; 


And by it there were waters flowing. 


Night and day on mo she cries ; 


And on it there were young flow'rs growing 


Oh that I were where Helen lies, 


Of gentle breath and hue. 


On fair Kirconnell lea! 


The fish swam by the castle-wall. 


Curst be the heart that thought the thought. 


And they seem'd joyous, each and all; 


And curst the hand that fired the shot, 


The eagle rode the rising blast — 


When in my arms burd Helen dropt, 


Methought he never flew so fast 


And died to succor me ! 


As then to me he seem'd to fly ; 




And then new tears came in my eye, 


Oh think na but my heart was sair, 


And I felt troubled, and would fain 


When my love dropt down and spak nae 


I had not left my recent chain; 


mair ! 


And when I did descend again 


I laid her down wi' meikle care. 


The darkness of my dim abode 


On fair Kirconnell lea. 


Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new-dug grave. 
Closing o'er one we sought to save ; 


As I went down the water-side. 


None but my foe to be my guide — 
None but my foe to be my guide. 


And yet my glance, too much oppress'd, 
Had almost need of such a rest. 


On fair Kirconnell lea — 




I lighted down my sword to draw ; 


XIV. 


I hacked him in pieces sma' — 


It might be months, or years, or days— 


I hacked him in pieces sma', 


I kept no count, I took no note — 


For her sake that died for me. 



LEGES DARY A.XD BALLAD POETRY. 



403 



O Helen fair, beyond compare, 
I'll make a garland of thy hair 
Shall bind my heart for everinair, 
Until the day I die ! 

Oh that I were where Helen lies ! 
Night and day on me she cries ; 
Out of my bed she bids me rise — 
Says, " Haste and come to me !" 

Helen fair I Helen chaste ! 
If I were with thee I were blest, 
Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest, 

On fair Kirconnell lea. 

1 wish my grave were growing green, 
A winding-sheet drawn ower my een. 
And I in Helen's arms lying, 

On fair Kirconnell lea. 

I wish I were where Helen lies ! 
Night and day on me she cries; 
And I am weary of the skies. 
Since my love died for me. 

Author Usksowx. 



Helen of Kirkconnell. 

I WISH I were where Helen lies. 
For night and day on me she cries; 
And, like an angel, to the skies 

Still seems to beckon me ! 
For me she lived, for me she sigh'd, 
For me she wish'd to be a bride ; 
For me in life's sweet morn she died 

On fair Kirkconnell-Lee ! 

Where Kirtle waters gently wind, 
.\s Helen on my arm reclined, 
A rival with a ruthless mind 

Took deadly aim at me : 
My love, to disappoint the foe, 
Rusli'd in between me and the blow ; 
.\n<l now her corse is lying low 

On fair Kirkconnell-Lee!. 

Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell, 
I curse the hand by which she fell — 
The fiend who made my heaven a hell. 

And tore my love from me ! 
For if, where all the graces shine — 
Oh, if on earth there's aught divine, 
My Helen I all these charms were thine — 

They centred all in thee ! 



Ah, what avails it that, amain, 

I clove the assassin's head in twain ? 

No peace of mind, my Helen slain. 

No resting-place for me : 
I see her spirit in the air — 
I hear the shriek of wild despair. 
When Murder laid her bosom bare 

On fair Kirkconnell-Lee ! 

Oh ! when I'm sleeping in my grave, 
And o'er my head the rank weeds wave, 
May He who life and spirit gave 

Unite my love and me ! 
Then from this world of doubts and sighs. 
My soul on wings of peace shall rise ; 
And, joining Helen in the skies. 

Forget Kirkconnell-Lee ! 

John M.vyne. 



ROSABELLE. 

Oh listen, listen, ladies gay ! 

No haughty feat of arms I tell ; 
Soft is the note, and sad the lay 

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. 

"Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew, 
And, gentle lady, deign to stay ! 

Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 

"The blackening wave is edged with 
white; 
To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; 
The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, 
Whose screams forbode that wreck is 
nigh. 

" Last night the gifted seer did view 
A wet shroud swathed round lady gay ; 

Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch ; 
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day '?" 

" 'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir 
To-night at Roslin leads the ball. 

But that my lady-mother there 
Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 

" 'Tis not because the ring they ride. 

.\nd Lindesay at tlie ring rides well, 
But that my sire the wine will chide 

If 'tis not fiU'd by Rosabelle." 

— O'er Roslin all that dreary night 
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 



404 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, 
And redder than the bright moonbeam. 

It glared on Roslia's castled rock, 
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen ; 

'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak. 
And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. 

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud 
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, 

Each baron, for a sable shroud, 
8heath'd in his iron panoply. 

Seem'd all on fire within, around,. 

Deep sacristy and altar's pale ; 
Shone every pillar foliage-bound. 

And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. 

Blazed battlement and pinnet high. 
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — 

So still they blaze, when fate is nigh 
The lordly line of high Saint Clair. 

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 
Lie buried within that proud chapelle ; 

Each one the holy vault doth hold. 
But the sea holds lovely Rosabella ! 

And each Saint Clair was buried there 

With candle, with book, and with knell ; 
But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds 
sung 
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 

SiK Walter Scott. 



Mary, the Matd of the Inn. 

Who is yonder poor maniac, whose wild- 
ly-fix'd eyes 
Seem a heart overcharged to express ? 
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she 

sighs; 
She never complains, but her silence im- 
plies 
The composure of settled distress. 

Xo pity she looks for, no alms doth she 
seek. 
Nor for raiment nor food doth she care ; 
Through her tatters the winds of the win- 
ter blow bleak 
On that wither'd breast, and her weather- 
worn cheek 
Ilath the hue of a mortal desjaair. 



Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the 
day, 
Poor JIary the Maniac hath been ; 
The traveller remembers, who journey'd 

this way. 
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, 
As Mary the Maid of the Inn. 

Her cheerful address fiU'd the guests with 
delight. 
As she welcomed them in with a smile ; 
Her heart was a stranger to childish af- 
fright. 
And JIary would walk by the Abbey at 
night 
When the wind whistled down the dark 
aisle. 

She loved, and young Richard had settled 
the day. 
And she hoped to be happy for life. 
But Richard was idle and worthless, and 

they 
Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and 
say 
That she was too good for his wife. 

'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark 
was the night. 
And fast were the windows and door; 
Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt 

bright, 
And smoking in silence with tranquil de- 
light 
They listen'd to hear the wind roar. 

'"Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the 
fireside. 
To hear the wind whistle without." 
" What a night for the Abbey !" his com- 
rade replied, 
" Jlethinks a man's courage would now be 
well tried 
AVho should' wander the ruins about. 

" I myself, like a schoolboy, should trem- 
ble to hear 
The hoarse ivy shake over my head. 
And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by 

fear. 
Some ugly old abbot's grim spirit appear. 
For this wind might awaken the dead." 



LEGENDARY AND 


BALLAD POETRY. 405 


"I'll wager a dinner," the other one 


The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over 


cried, 


her head. 


" That Mary would venture there now." 


She listen'd, . . . naught else could she 


"Then wager and lose," with a sneer he 


hear; 


replied ; 


The wiml fell ; her heart sunk in her 


" I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her 


bosom with dread, 


side, 


For she heard in the ruins distinctly the 


And faint if she saw a white cow." 


tread 


" Will Mary this charge on her courage al- 
low?" 


Of footsteps approaching her near. 
Behind a wide column, half breathless with 


His companion exclaim'd with a smile; 


fear, 


" I shall win, for I know she will venture 


She crept to conceal herself there : 


there now. 


That in.stant the moon o'er a dark cloud 


And earn a new bonnet by bringing a 


shone clear. 


bough 


And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians 


From the elder that grows in the aisle." 


appear. 


With fearless good-humor did Mary com- 


And between them a corpse did they 
bear. 


ply, 
And her way to the Abbey she bent ; 


Then Mary could feel her heart-blood cur- 


The night was dark, and the wind was 


dle cold ; 


high, 


Again the rough wind hurried by, . . . 


And as hollowly howling it swept through 


It blew off the hat of the one, and behold 


the sky. 


Even close to the feet of poor Mary it 


She shiver'd with cold as she went. 


roll'd, ... 


O'er the path so well known still proceed- 


She felt, and expected to die. 


ed the maid. 


" Curse the hat !" he exclaims. " Nay, 


Where the Abbey rose dim on the 


come on till we hide 


sight, 


"The dead body," his comrade replies. 


Through the gateway she enter'd, she felt 


She beholds them in safety pa.ss on by her 


not afraid. 


side, 


Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and 


She seizes the hat, fear hercouragesupplicd. 


their shade 


And fast through tlie Abbey she flies. 


Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the 
night. 


She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at 
the door. 


All around her was .silent, save wlicn tlie 


She gazed in her terror around. 


rude blast 


Then her limbs could support their faint 


Howl'd dismally round the old pile ; 


burthen no more. 


Over wecd-cover'd fragments she fearlessly 


And exliausted and breathless she sank on 


pass'd. 


tlie floor. 


And arrived at the innermost ruin at last 


Unable to utter a sound. 


Where the elder tree grew in the aisle. 


Ere yet her pale lips could the story im- 


Well ]ilc.iscd did she reach it, and quickly 


part, 


drew near, 


For a moment the hat met her view ; . . . 


And ha.stily gather'd the bough ; 


Her eyes from that object convulsively 


When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise 


start. 


on her ear, 


For . . . what a cold horror tlun thrilled 


She paused, and she listen'd intently, in 


through her heart 


fear, 


When the name of her Richard she 


And lier heart panted painfully now. 


knew ! 



406 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Where the old Abbey stands, on the com- 
mon hard by, 
His gibbet is now to be seen ; 

His irons you still from the road may 
espy; 



" Gar saddle the black horse, gar saddle 

the brown ; 
Gar saddle the swiftest steed e'er rade frae 

a town :" 
But lang ere the horse was drawn and 



The traveller beholds them, and tliinks , brought to the green, 

with a sigh Oh, bonnie Glenlogie was twa mile his lane. 



Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn. 

Robert Southey. 



Glenlogie. 

Threescore o' nobles rade up the king's 

ha'. 
But bonnie Glenlogie's the flower o' them 

a', 
Wi' his milk-white steed and his bonnie 

black e'e, 
" Glenlogie, dear mither, Glenlogie for me ! " 

" Oh, baud your tongue, daughter, ye'll get 

better than he." 
" Oh, say nae sae, mither, for that canna be ; 
Though Doumlie is richer and greater than 

he, 
Yet if I maun tak him, I'll certainly dee. 

" AVhere will I get a bonnie boy, to win 

hose and shoon, 
Will gae to Glenlogie, and come again 

soon?" 
" Oh, here am I, a bonnie boy, to win hose 

and shoon. 
Will gae to Glenlogie, and come again 

soon." 

AVhen he gaed to Glenlogie, 'twas "Wash 

and go dine ;" 
'Twas " Wash ye, my pretty boy, wash and 

go dine." 
" Oh, 'twas ne'er my father's fashion, and it 

ne'er shall be mine 
To gar a lady's errand wait till I dine. 

" But there is, Glenlogie, a letter for thee." 
The first line that he read, a low laugh 

gave he ; 
The next line that he read, the tear blindit 

his e'e ; 
But the last line that he read, he gart the 

table flee. 



When he came to Glenfeldy's door, little 
mirth was there ; 

Bonnie Jean's mother was tearing her hair. 

" Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, ye're wel- 
come," said she, — 

" Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, your Jeanie to 
see." 

Pale and wan was she when Glenlogie 

gaed ben. 
But red and rosy grew she whene'er he 

sat down ; 
She turn'd awa' her head, but the smile 

was in her e'e, 
" Oh, binua fear'd, mither, I'll maybe no 

dee." 

Author Unksown. 



GINEVBA. 

If thou shouldst ever come by choice or 

chance 
To Jlodena, where still religiously 
Among her ancient trophies is preserved 
Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs 
Within that reverend tower, the Guir- 

landine) 
Stop at a Palace near the Reggio gate. 
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. 
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace. 
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, 
Will long detain thee ; thro' their arched 

walks. 
Dim at noonday, discovering many a 

glimpse 
Of knights and dames, such as in old 

romance, 
And lovers, such as in heroic song. 
Perhaps the two, for groves were their 

delight, 
That in the spring-time, as alone they sat. 
Venturing together on a tale of love, 
Kead only part that day. — A summer sun 
Sets ere one half is seen ; but ere thou go. 



LEGENDARY AXD BALLAD POETRY. 



407 



Enter the house — prythee, forget it not — 
And look a while upon a picture there. 
'Tis of a Laily in her earliest youth, 
The very last of tliat illustrious race, 
Done by Zampieri — but I care not whom. 
He who observes it, ere he passes on 
Gazes his fill, anfl comes and comes again, 
That he may call it up when far away. 

She sits, inclining forward as to speak. 
Her lips half open, and her finger up. 
As tho' she said, " Beware !" her vest of 

gold 
Broider'd with flowers, and clasp'd from 

head to foot, 
An emerald stone in every golden clasp; 
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, 
A coronet of pearls. But then her face, 
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, 
The overflowings of an innocent heart — 
It haunts me still, tho' many a year has fled. 
Like some wild melody ! 

Alone it hangs 
Over a mouldering heirloom, its compan- 
ion, 
An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm, 
But richly carved by Antony of Trent 
With Scripture stories from the Life of 

Christ; 
A chest that came from Venice, and had 

held 
The ducal robes of some old Ancestor. 
That by the way — it may be true or false — 
But don't forget the picture ; and thou 

wilt not 
When thou hast heard the tale they told 

me there. 
She was an only child ; from infancy 
The joy, the pride of an indulgent Sire. 
Her Jlother dying of the gift she gave, 
That precious gift, what else remained to 

him? 
The young Ginevra was his all in life. 
Still iLs she grew, for ever in his sight ; 
And in her fifteenth year became a bride, 
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, 
Her playmate from her birth, and her first 

love. 
Just as she looks there in her bridal 

dress. 
She was all gentleness, all gaiety. 
Her pranks the favorite theme of every 

tongue. 



But now the day was come, the day, the 
hour; 

Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth 
time, 

The nurse, that ancient lady, preach'd de- 
corum ; 

And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave 

Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. 
Great was the joy ; but at the Bridal- 
feast, 

When all sat down, the Bride was wanting 
there. 

Nor was she to be found! Her Father 
cried, 

" 'Tis but to make a trial of our love !" 

And filled his glass to all; but his hand 
shook. 

And soon from guest to guest the i)anic 
spread. 

'Twas but that instant she had left Fran- 
cesco, 

Laughing and looking back and flying 
still, 

Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. 

But now, alas, she was not to be found ; 

Nor from that hour could anything be 
guess'd, 

But that she was not ! 

Weary of his life, 

Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith 

Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 

Orsini lived ; and long might'st thou have 
seen 

An old man wandering as in quest of some- 
thing. 

Something he could not find — he knew not 
what. 

When he was gone, the house remain'd 
a while 

Silent and tenantless — then went to stran- 
gers. 
Full fifty years were past, and all forgot. 

When on an idle d.iy, a day of search 

'Mid the old lumber in the Gallerj-, 

That mouldering chest was noticed: and 
'twas said 

By one as young, as thoughtless as Gi- 
nevra, 

"Why not remove it from its lurking- 
place?" 

'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the 
way 



408 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton, 

With here and there a pearl, an emerald 

stone, 
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. 
All else had perish'd — save a nuptial 

ring, 
And a small seal, her mother's legacy. 
Engraven with a name, the name of both, 

" GiNEVEA." 

There then had she found a grave ! 
Within that chest had she conceal'd her- 
self, 
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the 

happy ; 
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush 

there, 
Fasten'd her down for ever ! 

Samuel Rogers. 



The Bull-Fight of Gazul. 

King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid 

the trumpet sound, 
He hath summon'd all the Moorish lords 

from the hills and plains around ; 
From Vega and Sierra, from Betis and 

Xenil, 
They have come with helm and cuirass of 

gold and twisted steel. 

'Tis the holy Baptist's feast they hold in 

royalty and state. 
And they have closed the spacious lists, 

beside the Alhambra's gate ; 
In gowns of black with silver laced, within 

the tented ring, 
Eight Moors to fight the bull are placed in 

presence of the king. 

Eight Moorish lords, of valor tried, with 

stalwart arm and true, 
The onset of the beasts abide, as they come 

rushing through : 
The deeds they've done, the spoils they've 

won, fill all with hope and trust ; 
Yet, ere high in heaven ajjpears the sun, 

they all have bit the dust. 

Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then 

clangs the loud tambour : 
Make room, make room for Gazul ! — throw 

wide, throw wide the door I — 



Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still ! more 
loudly strike the drum ! — 

The alcaydfe of Algava to fight the bull 
doth come. 

And first before the king he pass'd, with 

reverence stooping low ; 
And next he bow'd him to the queen, and 

the Infantas all a-row ; 
Then to his lady's grace he turn'd, and she 

to him did throw 
A scarf from out her balcony was whiter 

than the snow. 

With the life-blood of the slaughter'd lords 

all slippery is the sand. 
Yet proudly in the centre hath Gazul ta'en 

his stand ; 
And ladies look with heaving breast, and 

lords with anxious eye : 
But firmly he extends his arm — his look 

is calm and high. 

Three bulls against the knight are loosed, 

and two come roaring on : 
He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching 

his rejCn ; 
Each furious beast upon the breast he deals 

him such a blow. 
He blindly totters and gives back across 

the sand to go. 

" Turn, Gazul— turn !" the people cry : the 
third comes up behind ; 

Low to the sand his head holds he, his nos- 
trils snuft' the wind ; — 

The mountaineers that lead the steers 
without stand whispering low, 

" Now thinks this proud alcaydfe to stun 
Harpado so ?" 

From Gaudiana comes he not, he comes 

not from Xenil, 
From Guadalarif of the plain, or Barves 

of the hill ; 
But where from out the forest burst Xa- 

rama's waters clear. 
Beneath the oak trees was he nursed, — this 

proud and stately steer. 

Dark is his hide on either side, but the 

blood within doth boil. 
And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as 

he paws to the turmoil : 



LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 



409 



His eyes are jet, and they are set in crys- 
tal rings of snow ; 

But now tliey stare with one red glare of 
brass upon the foe. 

Upon the forehead of the bull the horns 

stand close and near, — 
From out the broad and wrinkled skull 

like daggers they appear ; 
His neck is massy, like the trunk of some 

old, knottod tree, 
Whereon the monster's shagged mane, like 

billows curl'd ye see. 

His legs are short, bis hams are thick, his 

hoofs are black as night ; 
Like a strong flail he holds his tail in 

fierceness of his might ; 
Like some thing molten out of iron, or 

hewn from forth the rock, 
Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the 

alcayd&'s shock. 

Now stops the drum : close, close they come ; 

thrice meet, and thrice give back ; 
The white foam of Harpado lies on the 

charger's breast of black, — 
The white foam of the charger on Har- 

pado's front of dun ; — 
Once more advance upon his lance, — once 

more, thou fearless one ! 

Once more, once more ! — in dust and gore 
to ruin must thou reel ! — 

In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with 
I furious heel I — 

In vain, in vain, thou noble beast ! — I see, 
I see thee stagger ! 

Now keen and cold thy neck must hold 
the stern alcaydfe's dagger I 

They have slipp'd a noose around his feet, 

six horses are brought in. 
And away they drag Harpado with a loud 

and joyful din. 
Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and 

the ring of price bestow 
Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath laid 

Harpado low. 

(From the Spanish.) 

JOIUI GlBSOK LUCKUABT. 



GOD'S JUDGMEST OX A WICKED 
BISHOP. 

The summer and autumn had been so wet, 
That in winter the corn was growing yet. 
'Twas a piteous sight to see all around 
The grain lie rotting on the ground. 

Every day the starving poor 
Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door, 
For he had a plentiful last year's store, 
And all the neighborhood could tell 
His granaries were furnish'd well. 

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day 
To quiet the poor without delay ; 
He bade them to his great barn repair, 
And they should have food for the winter 
there. 

Rejoiced the tidings good to hear. 
The poor folk flock'd from far and near; 
The great barn was full as it could hold 
Of women and children, and young and 
old. 

Then, when he saw it could hold no more, 
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door, 
And while for mercy on Christ they call, 
He set fire to the barn, and burnt them 
all. 

" r faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire !" quoth 

he, 
"And the country is greatly obliged to 

me 
For ridding it, in tliese times forlorn, 
Of rats that only consume the corn." 

So then to his palace returned he. 

And he sat down to supper merrily, 

And he slept that night like an innocent 

man ; 
But Bishop Hatto never slept again. 

In the morning, a.s he enter'd the hall 
Where his picture hung against the wall, 
A sweat like death all over him came. 
For the rats had eaten it out of the frame. 

As he look'd, there came a man from his 

farm. 
He had a countenance white with alarm : 



410 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



"My Lord, I open'd your granaries this 

morn, 
And the rats had eaten all your corn." 

Another came running presently. 
And he was pale as pale could be. 
" Fly, my lord bishop, fly !" quoth he, 
" Ten thousand rats are coming this way, 
The Lord forgive you for yesterday !" 

" I'll go to my tower on the Rhine," replied 

he; 
" 'Tis the safest place in Germany ; 
The walls are high, and the shores are 

steep, 
And the stream is strong, and the water 

deep." 

Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away. 
And he cross'd the Rhine without delay, 
And reach'd his tower, and barr'd with 

care 
All the windows, doors, and loopholes 

there. 

He laid him down and closed his eyes, 
But soon a scream made him arise ; 
He started, and saw two eyes of flame 
On his pillow, from whence the screaming 
came. 

He listen'd and look'd, — it was only the 

cat, 
But the bishop he grew more fearful for 

that. 
For she sat screaming, mad with fear, 
At the army of rats that were drawing 

near. 

For they have swum over the river so 

deep, 
And they have climb'd the shores so 

steep, 
And up the tower their way is bent, 
To do the work for which they were 

sent. 

They are not to be told by the dozen or 

score ; 
By thousands they come, and by myriads 

and more ; 



Such numbers had never been heard of 

before, 
Such a judgment had never been witness'd 

of yore. 

Down on his knees the bishop fell, 

And faster and faster his beads did he tell. 

As louder and louder, drawing near. 

The gnawing of their teeth he could hear. 

And in at the windows, and in at the door, 
And through the walls Ireltcr-skelter they 

pour ; 
And down from the ceiling and up through 

the floor, 
From the right and the left, from behind 

and before, 
From within and without, from above and 

below, — 
And all at once to the bishop they go. 

They have whetted their teeth against the 

stones, 
And now they pick the bishop's bones ; 
They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb. 
For they were sent to do judgment on him! 

EOBEKT SOUTHEY. 



The Three Ravens. 

There were three ravens sat on a tree. 
They were as black as they might be. 

The one of them said to his mate, 

" Where shall we our breakfast take?" 

" Down in yonder green field. 

There lies a knight slain under his shield ; 

" His hounds they lie down at his feet, 
So well do they their master keep ; 

" His hawks they fly so eagerly, 
There's no fowl dare come him nigh." 

Down there comes a fallow doe. 

As great with young as she might go. 

She lifted up his bloody head, 

And kiss'd his wounds that were so red. 

She got him up upon her back. 
And carried him to earthen lake. 



LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 



411 



She buried him before the prime, 
She was dead herself before even-song 
time. 

God send every gentleman 

Such hawks, such hounds, and such a 

leman. 

Author Unknown. 



The TWA CORBIES. 

As I gaed doun by yon house-en' 

Twa corbies there were sittan tlieir lane : 

The tane unto the tothcr sao, 

"Oh where shall we gae dine to-day?" 

" Oh down beside yon new-faun birk 
There lies a new-slain knicht ; 
Kae livin kens that he lies there, 
But bis horse, his hounds, and his lady 
fair. 

" His horse is to the huntin gane. 
His hounds to bring the wild deer hame ; 
His lady's ta'en another mate ; 
Sae we may make our dinner swate. 

" Oh we'll sit on his bonnie bricst-bane, 
And we'll pyke out his bonnie gray cen ; 
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair 
We'll theek our nest when it blaws bare. 

" Mony a ane for him maks mane. 
But nane sail ten where he is gane ; 
Ower his bancs, when they are bare, 
The wind sail blaw for evermair!" 

AuTUOB Unknown. 



The Glove and the Lions. 

King Frascls was a hearty king, and 
loved a royal sport. 

And one day, as his lions fought, sat look- 
ing on tlie court. 

The nobles fiil'd the benches, with the 
ladies in their pride, 

And "mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, 
with one for whom he sigh'd : 

And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that 
crowning .show. 

Valor and love, and a king above, and the 
roval beasts below. 



Raniji'd and roar'd tlie lions, with horrid 

laughing jaws ; 
They bit, they glared, gave blows like 

beams, a wind went with their paws , 
With wallowing might and stilled roar 

they roH'd on one another. 
Till all the pit with sand and mane was 

in a thunderous smother ; 
The bloody foam above the bars came 

whisking through the air; 
Said Francis then, " Faith, gentlemen, 

we're better here than there." 

De Lorge's love o'erhcard the king, a 

beauteous, lively dame. 
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, 

which always sccm'd the same ; 
She thought, The Count my lover is brave 

as brave can be ; 
He surely would do wondrous things to 

show his love of me ; 
King, ladies, lovers, all look on ; the oc- 

ca.sion is divine ; 
I'll drop my glove, to prove his love ; great 

glory will be mine. 

She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, 

then look'd at him and smiled ; 
He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among 

the lions wild : 
The leap was quick, return was quick, he 

has regain'd his place. 
Then threw the glove, but not with love, 

right in the lady's foce. 
" By heaven," said Francis, " rightly 

done !" and he rose from where he 

sat; 
" No love," quoth he, " but vanity, sets 

love a task like that." 

Leigh Hcnt. 

The Three Troopers. 

During the Pkotectorate. 
Into the Devil tavern 

Three booted troopers strode. 
From spur to feather spotted and sphush'd 

With the mud of a winter road. 
In each of their cups they dropp'd a crust. 

And stared at the guests with a frown ; 
Then drew their swords, and roar'd for a 
toast, 

" God send this Crum-well-down !" 



412 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



A blue smoke rose from their pistol-locks, 

Their sword-blades were still wet ; 
There were long red smears on their jerkins 
of buff, 

As the table they overset. 
Then into their cups they stirr'd the crusts, 

And cursed old London town ; 
Then waved their swords, and drank with 
a stamp 

" God send this Crum-well-down !" 

The 'prentice dropp'd his can of beer. 

The host turn'd pale as a clout; 
The ruby nose of the toping squires 

Grew white at the wild men's shout. 
Then into their cups they flung the crusts, 

And sliow'd their teeth with a frown ; 
They flash 'd their swords as they gave the 
toast, 

" God send this Crum-well-down !" 

The gambler dropp'd his dog's-ear'd cards. 

The waiting-women scream'd, 
As the light of the fire like stains of blood. 

On the wild men's sabres gleam'd. 
Then into their cups they splash'd the 
crusts. 

And cursed the fool of a town. 
And leap'd on the table, and roar'd a 
toast, 

"God send this Crum-well-down !" 

Till on a sudden fire-bells rang, 

And the troopers sprang to horse ; 
The eldest mutter'd between his teeth. 

Hot curses — deep and coarse. 
In their stirrup-cups they flung the crusts, 

And cried as they spurr'd through town. 
With their keen swords drawn and their 
pistols cock'd, 

" God send this Crum-well-down !" 

Away they dasli'd through Temple Bar, 

Their red cloaks flowing free, 
Their scabbards clash'd, each back-piece 
shone — 

None liked to touch the three. 
The silver cups that held the crusts 

They flung to the startled town, 
Shouting again, with a blaze of swords, 

" God send this Crum-well-down !" 

George Walter Thornbury. 



The Bended Bow. 

There was heard the sound of a coming foe, 
There was sent through Britain a bended 

bow ; 
And a voice was pour'd on the free winds 

far. 
As the land rose up at the sign of war. 

" Heard you not the battle-horn ? — 
Reaper ! leave thy golden corn : 
Leave it for the birds of heaven — 
Swords must flash and spears be riven ! 
Leave it for the winds to shed — 
Arm ! ere Britain's turf grow red I" 

And the reaper arm'd, like a freeman's 

son; 
And the bended bow and the voice pass'd 

on. 

" Hunter ! leave the mountain chase, 
Take the falchion from its place ; 
Let the wolf go free to-day. 
Leave him for a nobler prey ; 
Let the deer ungall'd sweep by — 
Arm thee ! Britain's foes are nigh !" 

And the hunter arm'd ere the chase was 

done ; 
And the bended bow and the voice pass'd 

on. 

" Chieftain ! quit the joyous feast — 
Stay not till the song hath ccas'd : 
Though the mead be foaming bright. 
Though the fire give ruddy light, 
Leave the hearth and leave the hall — 
Arm thee ! Britain's foes must fall." 

And the chieftain arm'd, and the horn was 

blown ; 
And the bended bow and the voice pass'd 

on. 

" Prince ! thy father's deeds are told 
In the bower and in the hold, 
Where the goatherd's lay is sung. 
Where the minstrel's harp is strung ! 
Foes are on thy native sea — 
Give our bards a tale of thee !" 

And the prince came arm'd, like a leader's 

son ; 
And the bended bow and the voice pass'd 

on. 



LEGENDARY AND 


BALLAD POETRY. 413 


" Jlotlicr I stay thou not thy boy, 


Reach the mooring ? Rather say, 


He must learn the battle's joy : 


While rock stands, or water runs. 


Sister ! bring the sword and spear, 


Not a ship will leave the bay !" 


Give thy brother words of clieer: 




Maiden I bid tliy lover part : 


Then was call'd a council straight: 


Britain calls the strong in heart 1" 


Brief and bitter the debate. 




" Here's the English at our heels : would 


And the bended bow and the voice pass'd 


you have them take in tow 


on ; 


All that's left us of the fleet, link'd to- 


And the bards made song for a battle won. 


gether stern and bow. 


Feucia Dorothea Uemans. 


For a prize to Plymouth Sound ? 


,0, 


Better run the ships aground !" 


TlFRvH RTFL 


(Ended Damfrcville his speech.) 


■tXAjAV W JZi AKi-iJjlJt 


" Not a minute more to wait ! 


On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hun- 


Let the captains all and each 


dred ninety-two, 


Shove ashore, then blow up, liurn the ves- 


Did the English fight the French, — woe 


sels on the beach ! 


to France ! 


France must undergo her fate." 


And the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter 




through the blue, 


"Give the word !" But no such word 


Lilce a crowd of frighten'd porpoises a 


Was ever spoke or heard : 


shoal of sharks pursue. 


For up stood, for out stepp'd, for in 


Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo 


struck, amid .all these, — 


on the Ranee, 


A captain? a lieutenant? a mate, — first, 


With the English fleet in view. 


second, tliird ? 




No such man of mark and meet 


'Twaa the squadron that escap'd, with the 


With his betters to compete ! 


victor in full chase : 


But a simple Breton sailor press'd by Tour- 


First and foremost of the drove, in his 


ville for the fleet, 


great ship, Danifreville ; 


A poor coa-sting-pilot he, — Herv6 Riel 


Close on him fled, great and small, 


the Croisickese. 


Twenty-two good ships in all ; 




And they signall'd to the place, 


And " AVliat mockery or m.alice have we 


" Help the winners of a race ! 


here ?" cries Hervt'^ Kiel. 


Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us 


"Are you mad, you .Malouins? Are you 


quick ; or, quicker still, 


cowards, fools, or rogues ? 


Here's the English can and will !" 


Talk to me of rocks and shoals ? me, who 




took the soundings, tell 


Then the pilots of the place put out brisk, 


On my fingers every bank, every shallow, 


and leap'd on board : 


every swell, 


" Why, what hojie or chance have ships 


'Twixt the offing here and Or^ve, where 


like these to pass ?'' laugh'd they : 


the river diseml)f)gues? 


" Rocks to starboard, rocks to ])ort, all the 


Are you bought by English gold ? Is it 


pa.ssage scarr'd and scored. 


love the lying's for ? 


Shall the ' Formidable ' here with hertwelve 


Morn and eve, night and day, 


and eighty guns 


Have I piloted your bay, 


Think to make the river-mouth by the 


Enter'd free and anchor'd fa-st at the foot 


single narrow way, 


of Solidor. 


Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft 


Burn the fleet, and ruin France? That 


of twenty tons, 


were worse than fifty Ilogues ! 


And with flow at full beside? 


Sirs, they know I speak the truth ! Sirs, 


Now 'tis slackest ebb of tide. 


believe me, there's a way I 



414 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Only let me lead the line, 


What a shout, and all one word. 


Have the biggest ship to steer, 


"Herv6Riel!" 


Get this ' Formidable ' clear. 


As he stepp'd in front once more ; 


Make the others follow mine. 


Not a symptom of surprise 


And I lead them, most and least, by a 


In the frank blue Breton eyes,^ 


passage 1 know well, 


Just the same man as before. 


Right to Solidor, past Grfeve, 


Then said Damfreville, " My friend, 


And there lay them safe and sound ; 


I must speak out at the end. 


And, if one ship misbehave, — 


Though I find the speaking hard : 


Keel so much as grate the ground, — 


Praise is deeper than the lips : 


Why, I've nothing but my life : here's 


You have saved the king his ships ; 


my head !" cries Herv6 Riel. 


You must name your own reward. 




'Faith, our sun was near eclipse ! 


Not a minute more to wait. 


Demand whate'er you will. 


" Steer us in, then, small and great ! 


France remains your debtor still. 


Take the helm, lead the line, save the 


Ask to heart's content, and have ! or ray 


squadron !" cried its chief. 


name's not Damfreville." 


Captains, give the sailor place ! 




He is admiral, in brief. 


Then a beam of fun outbroke 


Still the north wind, by God's grace. 


On the bearded mouth that spoke, 


See the noble fellow's face, 


As the honest heart laugh'd through 


As the big ship, with a bound. 


Those frank eyes of Breton blue : — 


Clears the entry like a hound, 


" Since I needs must say my say ; 


Keeps the passage as its inch of way were 


Since on board the duty's done, 


the wide sea's profound ! 


And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point 


See, safe through shoal and rock. 


what is it but a run ? — 


How they follow in a flock ! 


Since 'tis ask and have, I may ; 


Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that 


Since the others go ashore, — 


grates the ground. 


Come ! A good whole holiday ! 


Not a spar that comes to grief! 


Leave to go and see my wife, whom I 


The peril, see, is past I 


call the Belle Aurore I" 


All are harbor'd to the last ! 


That he ask'd, and that he got,— noth- 


And just as Herv6 Riel holloas " Anchor !" 


ing more. 


sure as fate, 




Up the English come, — too late ! 


Name and deed alike are lost : 


So the storm subsides to calm : 


Not a pillar nor a post 


They see the green trees wave 


In his Croisic keeps .alive the feat as it 


On the heights o'erlooking Grfeve ; 


befell ; 


Hearts that bled are stanch'd with 


Not a head in white and black 


balm. 


On a single fishing-smack 


" Just our rapture to enhance. 


In memory of the man but for wliom had 


Let the English rake the bay. 


gone to wrack 


Gnash their teeth and glare askance 


All that France sav'd from the fight 


As they cannonade away ! 


whence England bore the bell. 


'Neath rampir'd Solidor pleasant riding 


Go to Paris ; rank on rank 


on the Ranee !" 


Search the heroes flung pell-mell 


How hope succeeds despair on each cap- 


On the Louvre, face and flank : 


tain's countenance ! 


You shall look long enough ere you 


Out burst all with one accord. 


come to Herv4 Riel. 


" This is paradise for hell ! 




Let France, let France's king. 


So, for better and for worse. 


Thank the man that did the thing !" 


Herv6 Riel, accept my verse I 



LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 



415 



In my verse, Hervf Ricl, dii thou once 

more 
Save the squadron, honor France, love thy 

wife, the Belle Aurore ! 

Robert Browkino. 



The High Tide ox the Coast of 

LiNCOLXSniRE. (1571.) 

The old mayor cliinb'd the belfry tower, 
The ringers rang by two, by three; 

" Pull, if ye never pull'd before; 
Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he, 

" Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells ! 

Ply all your changes, all your swells. 
Play up, ' The Brides of Enderby.' " 

Men say it was a stolen tydc — 

The Lord that sent it, He knows all ; 

But in myne ears doth still abide 
Tlie message that the bells let fall : 

And there was naught of strange, beside 

The flights of mews and peewits pied 
By millions crouch'd on the old sea wall. 

I sat and spun within the doore, 

My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; 
The level sun, like ruddy ore. 

Lay sinking in the barren skies ; 
And dark against day's golden death 
She moved where Lindis wandereth. 
My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha !" calling, 
Ere the early dews were falling, 

Farre away I heard her song. 

" Cusha ! Cusha !" all along; 
Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 

Floweth, floweth. 
From the meads where melick groweth 

Faintly came her niilking-song — 

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha !" calling, 
" For the dews will soon be falling ; 
Leave your meadow-grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come up|)e. Light- 
foot ; 
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe. Jetty, rise and follow. 
From the clovers lift vour head ; 



Come up, Whitefoot, come up. Light foot. 
Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow, 
Jetty, to the milking-shed." 

If it be long, ay, long ago. 

When I beginne to think howe long, 
Againe I hear the Lindis flow. 

Swift as an arrowe sharp and strong ; 
And all the aire, it secmeth mee. 
Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), 
That ring the tune of Enderby. 

Alle fresh the level pasture lay. 
And not a shadowe mote be seene. 

Save where full fyve good miles away 
The .steeple tower'd from out the greene; 

And lo ! the great bell farre and wide 

Was heard in all the country side 

That Saturday at eventide. 

The swanherds where their sedges are 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath, 
The shepherd-lads I heard afarre. 

And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 
Till floating o'er the grassy sea 
Came downe that kindly message free, 
The " Brides of Mavis Enderby." 

Then some look'd uppe into the sky. 
And all along where Lindis flows 

To where the goodly vessels lie, 

And where the lordly steeple shows. 

They sayde, "And whv should this thing 
'be? 

What danger lowers by land or sea ? 

They ring the tune of Enderby ! 

" For evil news from Mablethorpe, 
Of pyrate galleys warping down ; 
For shippes ashore beyond the scorjie. 

They have not spared to wake the lowne : 
But while the we-st bin red to see, 
.Vnd storms be none, and py rates flee. 
Why ring ' The Brides of Enderby ' ?" 

I look'd without, and lo ! my sonne 
Came riding down with miglit and main ; 

He raised a shout as he drew on. 
Till all the welkin rang again, 

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" 

(.\ sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 



416 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



" The old sea wall," he cried, " is downe, 
The rising tide comes on apace, 

And boats adrift in yonder towne 
Go sailing uppe the market-place." 

He shook as one that looks on death : 

" God, save you, mother !" straight he saith ; 

" Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" 

" Good Sonne, where Lindis winds her way. 
With her two bairns I mark'd her long, 
And ere yon bells beganne to play 
Afar I heard her milking song." 
He look'd across the grassy lea. 
To right, to left, " Ho, Enderby !" 
They rang "The Brides of Enderby!" 

With that he cried and beat his breast; 

For, lo ! along the river's bed 
A mighty eygre rear'd his crest. 

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with thunderous noises loud. 
Shaped like a cui'ling snow-white cloud 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 

And rearing Lindis backward press'd 
Shook all her trembling bankes aniaine. 

Then madly at the eygre's breast 

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 

Then bankes came down with ruin and 
rout. 

Then beaten foam flew round about. 

Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the eygre drave. 

The heart had hardly time to beat. 
Before a shallow seething wave 

Sobb'd in the grasses at oure feet ; 
The feet had hardly time to flee 
Before it brake against the knee, 
And all the world was iu the sea. 

Upon the roof we sate that night, 
The noise of bells went sweeping by ; 

I mark'd the lofty beacon light 
Stream from the church tower, red and 
high; 

A lurid mark and dread to see ; 

And awesome bells they were to mee, 

That in the dark rang " Enderby." 

They rang the sailor lads to guide 

From roofe to roofe who fearless row'd ; 

And I — my sonne was at my side. 
And yet the ruddy beacon glow'd ; 



And yet he moan'd beneath his breath, 
" Oh come in life, or come in death, 

lost! my love, Elizabeth." 

And didst thou visit him no more ? 

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter 
deare ; 
The waters laid thee at his doore, 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 

That flow strew'd wrecks about the grass. 

That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; 
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 

To manye more than myne and mee ; 
But each will mourn his own (she saith), 
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 
Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 

1 .shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Lindis shore, 
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, 
Ere the early dews be falling ; 

I shall never hear her song, 
" Cusha ! Cusha !" all along 
Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth ; 
From the meads where melick groweth, 
When the water winding down. 
Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see her more 

Where the reeds and rushes quiver. 
Shiver, quiver ; 

Stand beside the sobbing river. 

Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling 

To the sandy, lonesome shore ; 

I shall never hear her calling, 

" Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 
Mellow, mellow ; 

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Light- 
foot, 

Quit your pipes of parsley hollow. 
Hollow, hollow ; 

Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow, 
Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 

From your clovers lift the head ; 

Come uppe. Jetty, follow, follow. 

Jetty, to the milking-shed." 

Jean Ingelow. 



LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 



417 



The Sands of Dee. 



"On, >[ary, po and call the cattle home, 
And call the i-attlc home, 
And call the cattle home, 

Across the sand-s of Dee." 
The western wind was wild and dank with 
foam, 
And all alone went she 

The western tide cre|)t up along the sand. 
And o'er and o'er the sand, 
And round and round the sand. 

As far as eye could see. 
The rolling mist came down and hid the 
land : 

And never home came she. 

" Oh ! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — 
A tre.ss of golden hair, 
A drowned maiden's hair. 

Above the nets at sea?" 
Wa.s never salmon yet that shone so fair 

Among the stakes on Dee. 

They row'd her in across the rolling 

foam, 
The cruel crawling foam, 
The cruel liungry foam, 

To her grave lieside the sea. 
But still the boatmen hear her call the 
cattle home 
Across the sands of Dee. 

ClfAKL^) KiNGSLEY. 



liARIiAnA ALIENS CRUELTY. 

All in the merry month of May. 

When green buds they were swelling, 
Young Jemmy trrove ou his death-bed lay 

For love o' Barbara Allen. 

He sent his man unto her then. 
To the town where she was dwelling : 

" Oh haste and come to my master dear, 
If your name be Barbara Allen." 

Slowly, slowly ra.se she up. 

And s!ie cam' where he was lying; 

And when she drew the curtain by, 
8ays, " Young man, I think you're 
dying. " 

" Oh, it's I am sick, and very, very sick. 

And it's a' for Barbara .\llen. 
27 



"Oh the better for me ye'se never be, 
Tho' your heart's blude were a-spilling ! 



"O, dinna ye min', young man," she says, 
" When the red wine ye were filling, 
That ye made the healths gae round and 
round. 
And ye slighted Barbara Allen?'' 

He turn'd his face unto the wa', 
And death was wi' him dealing: 

"Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a'; 
Be kind to Barbara Allen." 

As she was walking o'er the fields, 
She heard the dead-bell knelling; 

And every jow the dead-bell gave, 
It cried, " Woe to Barbara Allen!" 

" O mother, mother, mak' my bed, 

To lay me down in sorrow. 
My love has died for me to-day, 

I'll die for him to-morrow." 

Author Unknown'. 



Lameut of THE Border Widow. 

My love he built me a bonny bower. 
And clad it a' wi' lily flower; 
A brawer bower ye ne'er did see. 
Than my true-love he built for me. 

There came a man by middle day, 
He spied his sport, and went away; 
And brought the king that very night. 
Who brake my bower and slew my knight 

He slew my knight, to me sae dear ; 
He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear : 
My servants all for life did flee. 
And left me in extremitie. 

I sew'd his sheet, making my mane ; 
I watch'd the corpse mysell alane ; 
I watch'd his body night and day ; 
No living creature came that way. 

I took his body on my back. 

Anil whiles I gaed. and whiles I sat; 

I digg'd a grave, and laid him in. 

And happ'd him with the sod sae green. 

But think nae ye my heart was sair. 
When I laid the moul' (m hisvcllow hair? 



418 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Oh, think nae ye my heart was wae, 
When I turn'd about, away to gae? 

Nae living man I'll love again, 
Since that my lovely knight is slain ; 
Wi' ae lock o' his yellow hair 
I'll chain my heart for evermair. 

Author Unknown. 



The Cruel Sister. 

There were two sisters sat in a hour, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie ; 
There came a knight to be their wooer; 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

He courted the eldest with glove and ring, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie ; 
But he lo'ed the youngest abune a' thing ; 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

He courted the eldest with broach and 
knife, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie ; 
But he lo'ed the youngest abune his life ; 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

The eldest she was vextd sair, 
Binnorie, O Binnorie; 
And sore envied her sister fair; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

The eldest said to the youngest ane, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 
" Will ye go and see our father's ships 
come in ?" 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

She's ta'en her by the lily hand, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 
And led her down to the river strand ; 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

The youngest stude upon a stane, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 
The eldest came and push'd her in ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

She took her by the middle sma', 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 
And dash'd her bonny back to the jaw; 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

" sister, sister, reach your hand, 
Binnorie, Binnorie ; 



And ye shall be heir of half my land." — 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

" O sister, I'll not reach my hand, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 
And I'll be heir of all your land ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

" Shame fa' the hand that I should take, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie: 
It's twintd me and my world's make." — 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

" O sister, reach me but your glove, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 
And sweet William shall be your love." — 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

"Sink on, nor hope for hand or glove! 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 
And sweet William shall better be my 
love. 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

" Your cherry cheeks and your yellow 
hair, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie ; 
Garr'd me gang maiden evermair." 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

Sometimes she sunk, and sometimes she 
swam, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie ; 
Until she cam to the miller's dam ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

" O father, father, draw your dam ! 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 
There's either a mermaid, or a milk-white 
swan." 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

The miller hasted and drew his dam ! 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 
.Vnd there he found a drown'd woman ; 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

You could not see her yellow hair, 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 
For gowd and pearls that were so rare ; 
By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 

You could not see her middle sma', 

Binnorie, O Binnorie; 
Her gowden girdle was sae' bra' ; 

By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 



LEGENDARY AXD 


BALLAD POETRY. 419 


A famous liarper passing by, 


Saddled and bridled 


Binnorie, Binnoric; 


And gallant rade he ; 


The sweet pale face he chanced to spy ; 


Hame cam his gude horse, 


I!y the Ixinny milldams of Binnorie. 


But never cam he. 


And wlien he look'd that lady on, 


Out cam his old mither 


Binnorie, Binnorie; 


Greeting fu' sair. 


He sigh'd and made a heavy moan ; 


And out cam his bonnie bride 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


Rivin' her hair. 




Saddled and bridled 


He made a harp of her breast-bone, 


And booted rade he ; 


Binnorie. Binnorie; 


Toom hame cam the saddle, 


Whose sounds would melt a heart of stone; 


But never cam he. 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 






" My meadow lies green, 


The strings he framed of her yellow hair. 


And my corn is unshorn ; 


Binnorie. Binnorie; 


My barn is to build. 


Whose notes made sad the listening ear; 


And my baby's unborn." 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


Saddled and bridled 




And booted rade he ; 


He brought it to her father's hall. 


Toom hame cam the saddle, 


Binnorie, Binnorie; 


But never cam ho ! 


And there was the court a-ssembled all ; 


Author Unknown. 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 
He laid his harp upon a stone, 




The Last Bvccakeer. 


Binnorie, Binnorie; 




And straight it began to play alone ; 


Oh, England^ is a pleasant place for them 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


that's rich and high ; 




But England is a cruel place for such poor 


" Oh yonder sits my father, the king, 


folks as I ; 


Binnorie, Binnorie; 


And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall 


. And yonder sits my mother, the queen ; 


see again 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


As the plea-sant Isle of Avfes, beside the 




Spanish main. 


" And yonder stands my brother Hugh, 




Binnorie, Binnorie; 


There were forty craft in Avfes that were 


And by him my William, sweet and true." 


both swift and stout. 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


All furnish'd well with small-arms and 




cannons round about ; 


But the last tune that the harp play'd 
then, 


And a thousand men in Avfes made laws 


so fair and free 


Binnorie, Binnorie ; 


To choose their valiant captains and obey 
them loyally. 


Was — " Woe to my sister, false Helen !" 


By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. 


Author Ukk.now.n. 






Thence we sail'd against the ."Spaniard with 




his hoards of plate and gold. 


BoyxiE George Campbell. 


Which he wrung with cruel tortures from 




the Indian folk of old ; 


Hie upon Hielands, 


Likewise the merchant captains, with ^ 


.\nd low upon Tay, 


hearts as hard as stone. 


Bonnie George C'am|il)ell 


Who flog men and keel-haul them and 


Bade out on a day. 


starve them to the bone. 



420 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Oh the palms grew high in Avfes and fruits 

that shone like gold, 
And the colibris and parrots they were 

gorgeous to behold ; 
And the negro maids to Avfes from bondage 

fast did flee, 
To welcome gallant sailors a-sweeping in 

from sea. 

Oh sweet it was in Avfes to hear the land- 
ward breeze 

A-swing with good tobacco in a net be- 
tween the trees. 

With a negro lass to fan you while you lis- 
ten'd to the roar 

Of the breakers on the reef outside that 
never touch'd the shore. 

But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine 

things must be, 
So the King's ships sail'd on Avfes, and 

quite put down were we. 
All day we fought like bulldogs, but they 

burst the booms at night ; 
And I fled in a piragua sore wounded from 

the figlit. 

Nine days I floated starving, and a negro 

lass beside, 4 

Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor 

young thing she died ; 
But as I lav a-gasping a Bristol sail came 

by, 

And brought me home to England here to 
beg until I die. 

And now I'm old and going — I'm sure I 

can't tell where ; 
One comfort is, this world's so hard I can't 

be worse off" there : 
If I might but be a sea-dove I'd fly across 

the main. 

To the pleasant Isle of Avfes, to look at it 

once again. 

Charles Kingsley. 



The King of Denmark's Ride. 

Word was brought to the Danish king 

(Hurry!) 
That the love of his heart lay suffering 
And pined for the comfort his voice would 
bring ; 
(Oh ride as though you were flying!) 



Better he loves each golden curl 
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl 
Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and 
pearl ; 
And his Rose of the Isles is dying ! 

Thirty nobles saddled with speed ; 

(Hurry!) 
Each one mounting a gallant steed 
Which he kept for battle and days of 
need; 
(Oh ride as though you were flying!) 
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank ; 
Worn-out chargers stagger'd and sank ; 
Bridles were slacken'd, and girths were 

burst ; 
But ride as they would, the king rode 
first. 
For his Rose of the Isles lay dying! 

His nobles are beaten one by one; 

(Hurry!) 
They have fainted, and falter'd, and home- 
ward gone ; 
His little fair page now follows alone. 
For strength and for courage trying. 
The king look'd back at that faithful child ; 
Wan was the face that answering smiled; 
They pass'd the drawbridge with clattering 

din. 
Then he dropp'd ; and only tlie king rode 
in 
Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying ! 

The king blew a blast on his bugle horn ; 

(Silence!) 
No answer came ; but faint and forlorn 
An echo return'd on the cold gray morn. 

Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 
The castle portal stood grimly wide ; 
None welcomed the king from that weary 

ride ; 
For dead, in the light of the dawning 

day. 
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay. 
Who had yearn'd for his voice while 
dying ! 

The panting steed, with a drooping crest, 

Stood weary. 
The king return'd from her chamber of 

rest. 
The thick sobs choking in his breast; 
And, that dumb companion eying. 



LEGEXDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 



4-Jl 



The tears gush'd forth which he strove to 

check ; 
He bow'd his head on ids charger's neck : 
" O steed — that every nerve didst strain, 
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain 
To the halls where my love lay dying!" 
Caroline Norton. 



A SosG OF THE North. 

"Thou rulest the waves, O God!" 

" Away I away I" cried the stout Sir John, 

" While the blossoms are on the trees ; 
For the summer is short and the time 
speeds on. 

As we sail for the northern seas. 
Hoi gallant Crozier and brave Fitz James! 

We will start the world, I trow, 
When we find a way through the North- 
ern seas 

That never was found till now ! 
A good stout ship is the Erebus 

As ever unfurl'd a sail, 
And the Terror will match with as brave a 
one 

As ever outrode a gale." 

So they bade farewell to their pleasant 
homes, 
To the hills and valleys green, 
With three hearty cheers for their native 
isle, 
And three for the English queen. 
They sped them away beyond cape and 
bay. 
Where the day and night are one — 
Where the hissing light in the heavens 
grew bright 
And flamed like a midnight sun. 

There was naught below save the fields of 
snow. 

That stretch'd to the icy Pole; 
And the Esquimaux in his strange canoe, 

Was the only living soul I 
Along the coast like a giant host 

The glittering icebergs frown'd. 
Or they met on the main like a battle- 
plain. 

And crash'd with a fearful sound ! 
The seal and the bcjir, with a curious stare, 

Look'd down from the frozen heights, 



And the stars in the skies with their great 
wild eyes, 
Peer'd out from the Northern Lights. 
The gallant Crozier and the brave Fitz 
James, 
And even the stout Sir John, 
Felt a doubt like a chill through their 
warm hearts thrill 
As they urged the good ships on. 

They sped them away, beyond cape and 
bay. 
Where even the tear-drops freeze ; 
But no way was found by strait or sound. 

To sail through the Northern seas; 
They sped them away, beyond cape and 
bay. 
And they sought, but they sought in 
vain ! 
But no way was found, through the ice 
around. 
To return to their homes again. 
But the wild waves rose, and the waters 
froze 
Till they closed like a prison-wall; 
And the icebergs stood, in the silent flood, 

Like jailers grim and tall. 
O God .' O God !— it was hard to die 

In that prison-house of ice ! 
For what was fame, or a mighty name. 
When life was the fearful price? 

The gallant Crozier and the brave Fitz 
James, 
And even the stout Sir John, 
Had a secret dread and the hopes all fled. 

As the weeks and months pass'd on. 
Then the Ice King came, with his eyes of 
flame. 
And look'd on the fated crew ; 
His chilling breath was as cold as death, 
And it pierced their warm hearts 
through. 
A heavy sleep that was dark and deep. 

Came over their weary eyes, 
.\nd they dream'd .strange dreams of the 
hills and .streams. 
And the blue of their native skies. 

The Christmas chimes of the good old 
times 
Were heard in each dying ear. 



And the darling feet and the voices sweet 
Of their wives and children dear! 

But it faded away — away — away! 
Like a sound on a distant shore ; 

And deeper and deeper came the sleep, 
Till they slept to wake no more! 

Oh, the sailor's wife and the sailor's child! 

They weep and watch and pray ; 
And the Lady Jane, she will hope in vain 

As the long years pass away ! 
The gallant Crozier and the brave Fitz 
James, 

And the good Sir John have found 
An open way to a quiet bay. 

And a port where all are bound. 
Lot the waters roar round the ice-bound 
shore 

That circles the frozen Pole, 
But there is no sleep and no grave so deep 

That can hold the human soul. 

Elizabeth Doten. 



Tmb Church of Brou. 



The Castle. 
Down the Savoy valleys sounding. 

Echoing round this castle old, 
'Mid the distant mountain-chalets. 

Hark ! what bell for church is toU'd ? 

In the bright October morning 
Savoy's Duke had left his bride. 

From the castle, past the drawbridge, 
Flow'd the hunters' merry tide. 

Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering. 

Gay, her smiling lord to greet. 
From her mullion'd chamber-casement 

Smiles the Duchess Marguerite. 

From Vienna, by the Danube, 
Here she came, a bride, in sj>ring: 

Now the autumn crisps the forest ; 
Hunters gather, bugles ring. 

Hounds are pulling, prickers swearing, 
Horses fret, and boar-spears glance. 

Off! — They sweep the marshy forests, 
Westward on the side of France. 



Hark! the game's on foot; they scatter! — 

Down the forest- ridings lone. 
Furious, single horsemen gallop. — 

Hark ! a shout — a crash — a groan ! 

Pale and breathless came the hunters — 
On the turf dead lies the boar. 

God ! the Duke lies stretch'd beside him, 
Senseless, weltering in his gore. 

In the dull October evening, 

Down the leaf-strewn forest-road, 

To the castle, past the drawbridge, 
Came the hunters with their load. 

In the hall, with sconces blazing. 
Ladies waiting round her seat, 

Clothed in smiles, beneath the dais 
Sate the Duchess Marguerite. 

Hark ! below the gates unbarring ! 

Tramp of men and quick commands ! 
" — 'Tis my lord come back from hunt- 
ing."- 

And the Duchess claps her hands. 

Slow and tired came the hunters ; 

Stopp'd in darkness in the court. 
" — Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters ! 

To the hall! Whatsport? whatsport?" — 

Slow they enter'd with their master ; 

In the hall they laid him down. 
On his coat were leaves and blood-stains, 

On his brow an angry frown. 

Dead her princely youthful husband 

Lay before his youthful wife. 
Bloody 'neath the flaring sconces — 

And the sight froze all her life. 

In Vienna, by the Danube, 
Kings hold revel, gallants meet. 

Gay of old amid the gayest 
Was the Duchess Marguerite. 

In Vienna, by the Danube, 

Feast and dance her youth beguiled. 
Till that hour she never sorrow'd ; 

But from then she never smiled. 

'Mid the Savoy mountain-valleys 
Far from town or haunt of man. 

Stands a lonely church, unfinish'd, 
Which the Duchess Maud began ; 



LEGENDARY AND BALLAD POETRY. 



423 



Old, that Duchess stern began it, 
In gray age, with palsied hands ; 

But she died while it was building, 
And the Church unfiuish'd stands — 

Stands as erst the builders left it, 
When she sank into her grave ; 

Mountain greensward paves the chancel ; 
Harebells flower in the nave. 

" — In my castle all is sorrow," 
Said the Duchess Marguerite then ; 

" Guide me, some one, to the mountain ! 
We will build the Church again." — 

Sandall'd |ialmers, faring homeward, 
Austrian kuiglits from Syria came. 

" Austrian wanderers bring, O warders ! 
Homage to your Austrian dame." — 

From the gate the warders answer'd : 
" — Gone, O knights, is she you kuew ! 

Dead our Duke, and gone his Duchess. 
Seek her at the Church of Brou !" — 

Austrian knights and march-worn iialmcrs 
Climb the winding mountain-way ; 

Reach the valley, where the fabric 
Rises higher day by day. 

Stones are sawing, hammers ringing — 
On the work tlie bright sun shines ; 

In the Savoy mountain-meadows. 
By the stream, below the pines. 

On her palfrey white the Duchess 
Sate and watch'd her working train — 

Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders, 
German masons, smiths from Spain. 

Clad in black, on her white palfrey, 

Her old architect beside — 
There they found her in the mountains, 

Morn, and noon, and eventide. 

There she sate and watch'd the builders, 
Till the Church was roof 'd and done. 

Last of all, the builders rear'd her 
In the nave a tomb of stone. 

On the tomb two forms they sculptured. 

Lifelike in the marble pale — 
One, the Duke in helm and armor; 

One, the Duchess in her veil. 



Round the tomb the carved stone fretwork 

Was at Easter-tide put on. 
Then the Duchess closed her labors ; 

And she died at the St. John. 



II. 

The Church. 
Upon' the glistening leaden roof 

Of the new pile, the sunlight shines ; 
The stream goes leaping by. 
The hills are clothed with pines sun-proof; 
'Mid bright green fields, below the pines. 
Stands the Church on liigh. 
What Church is this, from men aloof? — 
'Tis the Church of Brou. 

At sunrise, from their dewy lair 

Crossing the stream, the kine are seen 
Round the wall to stray — 
The churchyard wall that clips the square 
Of open hill-sward fresh and green 
Where last year they lay. 
But all things now are ordcr'd fair 
K(mnd the Church of Brou. 

On Sundays, at the matin-chime, 
The Alpine pea.sants, two and three. 
Climb up here to pray ; 
Burghers and dames, at .summer's prime. 
Ride out to church from Chambfery, 
Dight with mantles gay. 
But else it is a lonely time 

Round the Church of Brou. 

On Sundays, too, a priest doth come 
From the wall'd town beyond the pass, 
Down the mountain-way ; 
And then you hear the organ's hum, 
You hear the white-robed priest say mass, 
And the people pray. 
But else the woods and fields are dumb 
Round the Church of Brou. 

And after church, when mass is done. 
The people to the nave repair 
Round the tomb to stray ; 
And marvel at the forms of stone, 

And praise the chisell'd broideries rare — 
Then they drop away. 
The princely pair are left alone 
In the Church of Brou. 



424 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



in. 
The Tomb. 

So rest, for ever rest, O princely pair. 

In your high Church, 'mid the still moun- 
tain-air, 

Where horn, and hound, and vassals never 
come ! 

Only the blessed saints are smiling dumb 

From the rich painted windows of the nave 

On aisle, and transept, and your marble 
grave ; 

Where thou, young Prince, shalt never 
more arise 

From the fringed mattress where thy 
Duchess lies. 

On autumn mornings, when the bugle 
sounds. 

And ride across the drawbridge with thy 
hounds 

To hunt the boar in the crisp woods till 
eve ! 

And thou, O Princess, shalt no more re- 
ceive. 

Thou and thy ladies, in the hall of state, 

The jaded hunters with their bloody 
freight, 

Coming benighted to the castle-gate ! 

So sleep, for ever sleep, O marble pair ! 
Or, if ye wake, let it be then, when fair 
On the carved western front a flood of 

light 
Streams from the setting sun, and colors 

bright 
Prophets, transfigured Saints, and Martyrs 

brave, 
In the vast western window of the nave ; 



And on the pavement round the tomb 

there glints 
A chequerwork of glowing sapphire tints. 
And amethyst, and ruby — then unclose 
Your eyelids on the stone where ye re- 
pose, 
And from your broider'd pillows lift your 

heads. 
And raise you on your cold white marble 

beds ; 
And looking down on the warm rosy tints 
Which chequer, at your feet, the illumined 

flints. 
Say : What is this ? we are in bliss^or- 

given — 
Behold the pavement of the courts of Heaven ! 
Or let it be on autumn nights, when rain 
Doth rustlingly above your heads com- 
plain 
On the smooth leaden roof, and on the 

walls 
Shedding her pensive light at intervals 
The moon through the clere-story windows 

shines. 
And the wind washes 'mid the mountain- 
pines ; 
Then, gazing up thro' the dim pillars high, 
The foliaged marble forest where ye lie : 
Hush — ye will say — it is eternity ! 
This is the glimmering verge of Heaven, and 

these 
Tlie columns of the heavenly palaces. 
And in the sweeping of the wind your ear 
The passage of the Angels' wings will hear, 
And on the lichen-crusted leads above 
The rustle of the eternal rain of love. 

Matthew Arnold. 



PART viir. 



Poems of Nature. 



iiV.ri. 



fVri 



■^'f 



fev 



Poems of Nature. 


A HYMN. 


Mysterious round ! what skill, what 




force divine. 


The Seasons. 


Deep felt, in the.se appear 1 a simple train, 


These, as they change, Almighty Father, 


Yet so delightful mi.x'd, with such kind 


these 


art, 


Are but tlie varied God. The rolling 


Such beauty and beneficence combined ; 


year 


Shade, unperceived, so softening into 


Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing 


shade ; 


spring 


And all so forming an harmonious whole, ■ 


Thy Beauty walks, thy Tenderness and 


That, as they still succeed, they ravish 


Love. 


still. 


Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is 


But wandering oft, with brute unconscious 


balm ; 


gaze, 


Echo the mountains round ; the forest 


Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty 


smiles; 


Hand, 


And every sense, and every heart, is joy. 


That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres; 


Then comes thy Glory in the summer 


Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steam- 


months, 


ing, thence 


With light and heat refulgent. Then thy 


The fair profusion that o'erspreads the 


Sun 


spring ; 


Shoots full perfection through the swell- 


Flings from the sun direct the flaming 


ing year ; 


day ; 


And oft thy Voice in dreadful thunder 


Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest 


speaks. 


forth ; 


And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling 


And, as on earth this grateful change re- 


eve. 


volves, 


By brooks and groves, in hollow-whisper- 


With transport touches all the springs of 


ing gales. 


life. 


Thy Bounty shines in autumn unconfined. 


Nature, attend I join, every living soul 


And spreads a common feiLst for all that 


Beneath the spacious temple of the sky. 


lives. 


In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise 


In winter awful Thou ! with clouds and 


One general song ! To Him, ye vocal 


storms 


gales, 


Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest 


Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness 


roll'd, 


breathes : 


Majestic darkness ! On the whirlwind's 


Oh, talk of Him in solitary glooms; 


wing. 


Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving 


Riding sublime. Thou bid'st the World 


pine 


adore, 


Fills the brown shade with a religious 


And humblest Nature with thy northern 


awe. 


blast. 


And ve, whose bolder note is heard afar, 


427 



428 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Who shake the astonish'd world, lift high 

to heaven 
The impetuous song, and say from whom 

you rage. 
His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling 

rills ; 
And let me catch it as I muse along. 
Ye headlong torrents, rapid and pro- 
found ; 
Ye softer floods, that lead the humid 

maze 
Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, 
A secret world of wonders in thyself, 
Sound His stupendous praise, whose greater 

voice 
Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings 

fall. 
Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, 

and flowers, 
In mingled clouds to Him, whose sun 

exalts, 
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose 

pencil paints. 
Ye forests, bend, ye harvests, wave, to Him ; 
Breathe your still song into the reaper's 

heart. 
As home he goes beneath the joyous 

moon. 
Ye that keep w'atch in heaven, as earth 

asleep 
Unconscious lies, effiise your mildest 

beams. 
Ye constellations, while your angels strike, 
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 
Great source of day ! best image here be- 
low 
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 
From world to world, the vital ocean 

round, 
On Nature write with every beam His 

praise. 
The thunder rolls : be hush'd the prostrate 

world. 
While cloud to cloud returns the solemn 

hymn. 
Bleat out afresh, ye hills ; ye mossy rocks, 
Retain the sound ; the broad responsive 

low, 
Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd 

reigns. 
And His unsufTering kingdom yet will 

come. 



Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless 

song 
Burst from the groves ; and when the rest- 
less day. 
Expiring, lays the warlding world asleep. 
Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm 
The listening shades, and teach the night 

His praise. 
Ye chief, for whom the whole creation 

smiles. 
At once the head, the heart, and tongue 

of all, 
Crown the great hymn ! in swarming cities 

vast. 
Assembled men to the deep organ join 
The long-resounding voice, oft breaking 

clear, 
At solemn pauses, through the swelling 

bass ; 
And, as each mingling flame increases 

each, 
In one united ardor rise to heaven. 
Or if you rather choose the rural shade, 
And find a fane in every sacred grove, 
There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's 

lay, 
The prompting seraph, and the poet's 

lyre, 
Still sing the God of Seasons, as they 

roil. 
For me, when I forget the darling theme, 
Whether the blossom blows, the summer 

ray 
Russets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams. 
Or winter rises in the blackening east. 
Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no 

more. 
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat ! 
Should fate command me to the farthest 

verge 
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous 

climes. 
Rivers unknown to song, — where first the 

sun 
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting 

beam 
Flames on the Atlantic isles, — 'tis naught 

to me : 
Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
In the void waste, as in the city full. 
And where He vital breathes, there must 

be joy. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



429 



When even at last the solemn hour shall 

come, 
And wing my mystic Hight to future 

worlds, 
I cheerful will obey ; there, with new 

powers, 
Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go 
Where Universal Love not smiles around, 
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their 

suns ; 

From seeming evil still educing good, 

And better thence again, and better still, 

In infinite progression. But I lose 

Myself in Him, in Light ineffable ! 

Come, then, expressive Silence, muse His 

praise. 

James Thomson. 



To PAy. 

All ye woods, and trees, and bowers, 
All ye virtues and ye powers 
That inhabit in the lakes. 
In the plciLsant springs or brakes, 

Move your feet 
To our sound. 

Whilst we greet 
All this ground 
With his honor and his name 
That defends our flocks from blame. 

He is great, and he is just. 
He is ever good, and must 
Thus be honor'd. Daffodillies, 
Roses, pinks, and lovtid lilies, 

Let us fling, 

Whilst we sing, 

Ever holy. 

Ever holy, 
Ever honor'd, ever young ! 
Thug great Pan is ever sung. 

Beaumont and Fletcueb. 



Descriptiox of SPRiyG. 

The soote season, that bud and bloom forth 
brings. 
With green hath clad the hill, and eke 
the vale ; 
The nightingale with feathers new she 
sings; 
The turtle to lier make hath luld her 
tale. 



Summer is come, for every spray now 

springs ; 

The hart hath hung his old head on the 

pale. 

The buck in brake his winter coat he 

flings ; 

The fishes flete with new repaired 

scale ; 

The adder all her slough away she flings ; 

The swift swallow pursucth the flies 

smale; 

The busy bee her honey now she miugs; 

Winter is worn that was the fiowres' 

bale. 

And thus I see among these pleasant 

things 

Each care decays, and yet my sorrow 

springs. 

Henry itowARD 

(Ear] of Surrey). 



To Spuing. 

Sweet Spring, thou turn'st with all thy 
goodly train. 
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright 
with flowers; 
The zephyrs curl the green locks of the 
plain. 
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down 

their showers. 
Thou turn'st, sweet youth — but, ah ! my 
plea-sant hours 
And happy days, with thee come not 

again ; 
The sad memorials only of my pain 
Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets 
in sours. 
Thou art the same which still thou wast 
before, 
Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair; 
But she whose breath embalm'd thy whole- 
some air 
Is gone ; nor gold nor gems her can re- 
store. 
Neglected Virtue, seasons go and come, 
AVhen thine forgot lie closed in a tomb. 

What doth it serve to see sun's burning 
face ? 
And skies euamell'd with both ludie.s' 
gold? 



430 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Or moon at night in jetty chariot roll'd, 

And all the glory of that starry place ? 
What doth itserve earth's beauty to behold, 
The mountain's pride, the meadow's 
flowery grace ; 
The stately comeliness of forests old. 
The sport of floods which would them- 
selves embrace? 
What doth it serve to hear the sylvans' 
songs, 
The wanton merle, the nightingale's sad 
strains. 
Which in dark shades seem to deplore my 
wrongs ? 
For what doth serve all that this world 
contains, 
Sith she, for whom those once to me were 

dear, 
No part of them can have now with me here ? 
William Dkummond. 



Chorus. 

From " Atalanta in Calydon." 

When the hounds of spring are on win- 
ter's traces, 
The mother of months in meadow or 
plain 
Fills the shadows and windy places 

With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ; 

And the brown bright nightingale amorous 

Is half assuaged for Itylus, 

For the Thracian ships and the foreign 

faces ; 

The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 

Come with bows bent and with emptying 
of quivers, 
Maiden most perfect, lady of light, 
With a noise of winds and many rivers. 
With a clamor of waters, and with 
might ; 
Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, 
Over the splendor and speed of thy feet ! 
For the faint east quickens, the wan west 
shivers. 
Round the feet of the day and the feet 
of the night. 

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing 
to her. 
Fold our hands round her knees and 
cling? 



Oh that man's heart were as fire, and could 

spring to her. 
Fire, or the strength of the streams that 

spring ! 
For the stars and the winds are unto her 
As raiment, as songs of the harp-player ; 
For the risen stars and the fallen cling to 

her, 
And the south-west wind and the west 

wind sing. 

For winter's rains and ruins are over, 

And all the season of snows and sins ; 
The days dividing lover and lover, 
The light that loses, the night that 
wins ; 
And time remember'd is grief forgotten, 
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, 
And in green underwood and cover 
Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 

The full streams feed on flower of rushes. 
Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, 
The faint fresh flame of the young year 
flushes 
From leaf to flower and flower to fruit ; 
And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, 
And the oat is heard above the lyre. 
And the hoof'd heel of a satyr crushes 
The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. 

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night. 
Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid. 
Follow with dancing and fill with de- 
light 
The Manad and the Bassarid ; 
And soft as lips that laugh and hide. 
The laughing leaves of the trees divide. 
And screen from seeing and leave in sight 
The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair 
Over her eyebrows, shading her eyes ; 
The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 

Her bright breast shortening into sighs ; 
The wild vine slips with the weight of its 

leaves, 
But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that 
scare 
The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. 
Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



431 



Ode. 

On the Spring. 

Lo ! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, 

Fair Venus' train, appear, 
Discloso the Icutg-cxpecting flowers 

And wake the purple year ! 
The Attic warbler pours her throat 
Responsive to the cuckoo's note, 

The untaught harmony of spring: 
While, whispering pleasure as they fly, 
Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky 

Their gather'd fragrance fling. 

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch 

A broader, browner shade, 
AVhere'er the rude and moss-grown beech 

O'er-canopies the glade. 
Beside some water's rushy brink 
With me the Muse shall sit, and think 

(At ease reclined in rustic state) 
How vain the ardor of the crowd. 
How low, how little are the proud, 

How indigent the great ! 

Still is the toiling hand of Care; 

The panting herds repose: 
Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air 

The busy murmur glows! 
The insect youth are on the wing, 
Eager to taste the honey'd spriug 

And float amid the liquid noon: 
Some lightly o'er the current skim. 
Some show their gayly-gilded trim 

Quick-glancing to the sun. 

To Contemplation's sober eye 

Such is the race of man ; 
And they that creep, and they that fly 

Shall end where they began. 
Alike the busy and the gay 
But flutter thro' life's little day, 

In Fortune's varying colors drest: 
Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance 
Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance 

They leave, in dust to rest. 

Methinks I hear in accents low 

The sportive kind reply: 
Poor moralist ! and what art thou? 

A solitary fly ! 
Thy joys no glittering female meets. 
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets. 



No painted plumage to display : 
On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; 
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone — 

We frolic while 'tis May. 

Thomas Gray. 



SPBING. 

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's 

pleasant king ; 
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance 

in a ring. 
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do 

sing. 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo I 

The palm and may make country houses 

Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe 

all day. 
And we hear ave birds tune this merry 

lay. 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! 

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss 

our feet, 
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning 

sit, 
In every street these tunes our ears do 
greet. 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! 
Spring! the sweet spring! 

Thomas Nash. 



Soxo. Ox Ma y Morxing. 

Now the bright morning star, day's har- 
binger. 
Comes dancing from the east, and leads 

with her 
The flowery May, who from her green lap 

throws 
The yellow cowslip and the i)ale prim- 
rose. 
Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire 
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire I 
Woods and groves are of thy dressing, 
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
Thus we salute thee with our early song, 
And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 

John Miltom. 



432 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Song to May. 


This bird's estate I may compare with 


May ! queen of blossoms 
And fulfilling flowers, 

With what pretty music 

Shall we charm the hours ? 


mine. 
To whom fond Love doth work such 
wrongs by day. 
That in the night my heart must needs re- 


Wilt thou have pipe and reed, 
Blown in the open mead ? 


pine. 
And storm with sighs to ease me as I 


Or to the lute give heed 
In the green bowers? 


may; 
Whilst others are bccalm'd or lie them 
still. 


Thou hast no need of us. 


Or sail secure with tide and wind at 


Or pipe or wire, 


will. 


That hast the golden bee 


And as all those which hear this bird com- 


Eipen'd with fire ; 


plain, 


And many thousand more 


Conceive in all her tunes a sweet de- 


Songsters, that thee adore. 


light. 


Filling earth's grassy floor 


Without remorse or pitying her pain ; 


With new desire. 


So she, for whom I wail both day and 
night, 
Doth sport herself in hearing my com- 


Thou hast thy mighty herds. 


Tame, and free livers; 


plaint ; 
A just reward for serving such a saint ! 


Doubt not, thy music too 


In the deep rivers ; 


Thomas Watson. 


And the whole plumy flight, 




Warbling the day and night — 


. «5< 


Up at the gates of light. 


CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING. 


See, the lark quivers! 


Get up, get up, for shame! the blooming 


When with the jacinth 


morn 


Coy fountains are tress'd : 


Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. 


And for the mournful bird 


See how Aurora throws her fair 


Green woods are dress'd. 


Fresh-quilted colors through the air ! 


That did for Tereus pine ; 


Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 


Then shall our songs be thine. 


The dew bespangling herb and tree. 


To whom our hearts incline: 


Each flower has \\e\>i and bow'd toward 


May, be thou bless'd ! 


the east. 


Loud Thurlow. 


Above an hour since, yet you not drest — 




Nay, not so much as out of bed, 




When all the birds have matins said, 


Sonnet. 


And sung their thankful hymns : 'tis 


May. 


sin. 
Nay, profanation, to keep in. 


When Blay is in his prime, and youthful 


Wlienas a thousand virgins on this day 


Spring 


Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in 


Doth clothe the tree with leaves and 


May. 


ground with flowers. 




And time of year reviveth everything. 


Else, and put on your foliage, and be seen 


And lovely Nature smiles, and nothing 


To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh 


lowers ; 


and green. 


Then Philomela most doth strain her 


And sweet as Flora. Take no care 


breast 


For jewels for your gown or hair : 


With night-complaints, and sits in little 


Fear not, the leaves will strew 


rest. 


Gems in abundance upon you ; 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



433 



Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, 
Against you come, some orient pearls un- 
wept. 
Ccmc, and receive them while the liffht 
Hauirs on the dew-loeks of the night ; 
And Titan on the eastern hill 
Retires himself, or else stands still 
Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief 

in praying: 
Few beads are best, when once we go a- 
Maying. 

Come, my Corinna, come I and, coming, 

mark 
How each field turns a street, each street 
a park 
JIade green and trimm'd with trees ; see 

how 
Devotion gives each house a bough 
Or branch ; each porch, each door, ere 

this 
An ark, a tabernacle is, 
Made up of white thorn neatly inter- 
wove. 
As if here were those cooler shades of 
love. 
Can such delights be in the street 
And open fields, and we not sec 't? 
Come ! we'll abroad, and let's obey 
The proclamation made for May ; 
And sin no more, as we have done, by 

staying, 
But, mv Corinna. come ! let's go a-Mav- 



There's not a budding boy or girl, this 

day, 
But is got up, and gone to bring in May. 
A deal of youth, ere this, is come 
Back, and with white thorn laden 

home. 
Some have despatch'd their cakes and 

cream 
Before that we have left to dream ; 
And some have wept and woo'd and 

plighted troth. 
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off 
sloth. 
JIany a green gown has been given ; 
5Iany a kiss, both odd and even ; 
Many a glance, too, has been sent 
From out the eye, love's firmament ; 

28 



Many a jest told of the key's betraying 
This night, and locks pick'd : yet w' are 
not a-Maying. 

Come ! let us go while we are in our 

prime, 
And take the harmless folly of the time; 
We shall grow old apace, and die 
Before we know our liberty. 
Our life is short, and our days run 
As fast away as does the sun ; 
And as a vapor, or a drop of rain 
Once lost, can ne'er be found again, 
So when or you or I are made 
A fable, song, or fleeting shade. 
All love, all liking, all delight 
Lies drown'd with us in endless night. 
Then, while time serves, and we are but 

decaying. 
Come, my Corinna, come ! let's go a-May- 
ing. 

Robert Herrick. 



i)i:v.Micji LoxGiyas. 

Las maflanns floridas 
De Abril y Mayo. 

Calderos. 

Ah ! my heart is weary waiting — 
Waiting for the May — 
Waiting for the pleasant rambles. 
Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, 
AVith the woodbine alternating. 

Scent the dewy way. 
Ah I my heart is weary waiting — 
Waiting for the May. 

Ah! my heart is sick with longing. 
Longing for the Jlay — 
Longing to cscajjc from study, 
To the young face fair and ruddy, 
And the thousand charms belonging 

To the summer's day. 
Ah ! my heart is sick with longing. 
Longing for the May. 

Ah I my heart is sore with sighing, 
Sighing for the May — 
Sighing for their sure returning, 
When the summer beams arc burning, 
Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying, 

All the winter lay. 
Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, 
Sighing for the May. 



434 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Ah ! my heart is pain'd with throbbing, 
Throbbing for the May — 
Throbbing for tlie seaside billows, 
Or the water-wooing willows; 
■ Where, in laughing and in sobbing. 
Glide the streams away. 
Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing, 
Throbbing for the May. 

Waiting sad, dejected, weary, 
Waiting for the Jlay : 
Spring goes by with wasted warnings — 
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings — 
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary 

Life still ebbs away ; 

Man is ever weary, weary. 

Waiting for the May ! 

Dems Florence McCarthy. 



They Come: the Merry Sujimer 
Months. 

They come ! the merry summer months 
of beauty, song, and flowers ; 

They come ! the gladsome months that 
bring thick leafincss to bowers. 

Up, up, my heart! and walk abroad; fling 
cark and care aside ; 

Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where 
peaceful waters glide ; 

Or, underneath the shadow vast of patri- 
archal tree, 

Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky 
in rapt tranquillity. 

The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grate- 
ful to the hand ; 

And, like the kiss of maiden love, the 
breeze is sweet and bland ; 

The daisy and the buttercup are nodding 
courteously ; 

It stirs their blood with kindest love, to 
bless and welcome thee ; 

And mark how with thine own thin locks 
— they now are silvery gray — 

That blissful breeze is wantoning, and 
whispering, " Be gay !" 

There is no cloud that sails along the 

ocean of yon sky 
But hath its own wing'd mariners to give 



it melody ; 



Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, 

all gleaming like red gold ; 
And hark ! with shrill pipe musical, their 

merry course they hold. 
God bless them all, those little ones, who, 

far above this earth. 
Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and 

vent a nobler mirth ! 



But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound, — 

from yonder wood it came ! 
The spirit of the dim green glade did 

breathe his own glad name ; — 
Yes, it is he ! the hermit bird, that, apart 

from all his kind. 
Slow spells his beads monotonous to the 

soft western wind ; 
Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! he sings again, — his 

notes are void of art ; 
But simplest strains do soonest sound the 

deep founts of the heart. 



Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for 
thought-crazed wight like me 

To .smell again these summer flowers be- 
neath this summer tree ! 

To suck once more in every breath their 
little souls away. 

And feed my fancy with fond dreams of 
youth's bright summer day. 

When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the 
reckless, truant boy 

Wander'd through greenwoods all day 
long, a mighty heart of joy ! 



I'm sadder now, — I have had cause ; but 

oh, I'm proud to think 
That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I 

yet delight to drink ; — 
Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, 

the calm, unclouded sky, 
Still mingle music with my dreams, as in 

tlie days gone by. 
When summer's loveliness and light fall 

round me dark and cold, 
I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse, — a 

heart that hath wax'd old ! 

William Motherwell. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



435 



Soyyi;T. 

Sum 51 E K . 

Tin; Summer, the divincst Summer burns, 
The skies are bright with azure and 
with {rohl, 
The mavis aud the nightingale by turns 
Amid the woods a soft enchantment 
liold : 
The flowering woods, with gh)ry and de- 
light, 
Their tender leaves unto the air have 
spread ; 
The wanton air, amid their alleys bright. 
Doth softly fly, and a light fragrance 
shed : 
The nymphs within the silver fountains 
play. 
The angels on the golden banks recline, 
Wiierein great Flora, in her bright array, 
Hath sjirinkled her ambrosial sweets 
divine : 
Or, else, I gaze upon that beauteous face, 
Amoret I and thiuk these sweets have 

place. 

Lord Tuck low. 



Soya OF THE Summer Wixds. 

Up the dale and down the bourne, 
O'er the meadow swift we fly ; 

Now we sing, and now we mourn. 
Now we whistle, now we sigh. 

By the grassy-fringed river. 

Through the murmuring reeds we sweep; 
'Mid the lily-leaves we quiver, 

To their very hearts we creep. 

Now the maiden rose is blushing 

At the frolic things we say. 
While a.side her cheek we're rushing. 

Like some truant bees at play. 

Through the blooming groves we rustle, 

Kissing every bud we pass, — 
As wc did it in the bustle. 

Scarcely knowing how it was. 

Down the glen, across the mountain, 
O'er the yellow heath we roam, 

Whirling round about the fountain. 
Till its little breakers foam. 



B'?nding down the weeping willows. 
While our vesper hymn we sigh ; 

Then unto our rosy pillows 
On our weary wings we hie. 

There of idlenesses dreaming, 
Scarce from waking we refrain, 

Moments long as ages deeming 
Till we're at our play again. 

GE01«iK Darley. 



To Autumn. 

Se.\sox of mists and mellow fruitfulness ! 
Close bosom-friend of the maturing 
sun! 
Conspiring with him how to load and 
bless 
With fruit the vines that round the 
thatch-eaves run — 
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage 
trees. 
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the 
core — 
To swell the gourd, and plum]! the 
hazel-shells 
With a sweet kernel — to set budding 
more, 
And still more, later flowers for the bees. 
Until they think warm days will never 
cease, 
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their 
clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy 
store ? 
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may 
find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary-tioor, 
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing 
wind ; 
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound a.sleep, ' 
llrowsed with the fume of poppies, 
while thy hook 
Spares the next .swath and all its 
twined flowers ; 
And sometime like a gleaner thou dost 
keep 
Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 
Or by a cider-press, with patient look. 
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours 
by hours. 



436 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Wliere are the songs of Spring? Ay, 
where are thev? 



Ye follow the hier 
Of the dead cold year, 



Think not of them — thou hast thy music [ And make her grave green with tear on 



too, 
AVhile barrfed clouds bloom the soft-dying 
day, 
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy 
hue; 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats 
mourn 
Among the river-sallows, borne aloft 
Or sinking, as the light wind lives or 
dies ; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from 
hilly bourn ; 
Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with 

treble soft 
The red-breast whistles from a garden- 
croft. 
And gathering swallows twitter in the 

skies. 

John Keats. 

A VTUMN. 

A Dirge. 

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is 

wailing, 
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale 
flowers are dying, 

And the year 
On the earth her deathbed, in a shroud of 
leaves dead. 

Is lying. 
Come, months, come away. 
From November to May, 
In your saddest array ; 
Follow the bier 
Of the dead cold year. 
And like dim shadows watch by her 
sepulchre. 

The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is 

crawling. 
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is 
knelling 

For the year ; 
The blithe swallows are flown, and the 
lizards each gone 

To his dwelling; 
Come, months, come away, 
Put on white, black, and gray, 
Let your light sisters play — 



tear. 



Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



Ode to the West Wixd. 
r. 

O WILD West Wind, thou breath of au- 
tumn's being. 

Thou from whose unseen presence the 
leaves dead 

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter 
fleeing. 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic 

red. 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O thou 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

The wingfed seeds, where they lie cold and 

low, 
Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the spring shall 

blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and 

fill 
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in 

air) 
With living hues and odors plain and hill : 

Wild spirit, which art moving everywhere ; 
Destroyer and preserver ; hear, oh hear ! 

II. 

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's 

commotion. 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves 

are shed. 
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven 

and ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning ; there are 

spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge. 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim 

verge 
Of the horizon to the zenith's height, 
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou 

dirge 



POEMS OF XATURE. 



437 



Of the dying year, to which this closing 

night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere 
Black rain and fire and hail will burst : oh 
hear ! 

III. 
Thou who didst waken from his summer 

dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay 
Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams 

Beside a pumice isle in Bail's bay, 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intcnser day, 

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them ! 

Thou 
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far 

below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which 

wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean know 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with 

fear. 
And tremble, and despoil themselves : oh 

hear ! 

IV. 
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; 
If I were a swift cloud to fly witli thee; 
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and 
share 

Tlie imjiulse of thy strength, only less free 
Tlian thou, () uncontrollable ! if even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over 

heaven, 
As then, when to outstrip the skyey speed 
Scarce seem'd a vision, I would ne'er have 

striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore 

need. 
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
I fall upon the thorns of life I I bleed ! 



A heavy weight of hours ha.s chain'd and 

bow'd 
One too like thee : tameless and swift and 

proud. 

V. 
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : 
What if my leaves are falling like its own! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 

Will take from both a deep autumnal tone. 
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit 

fierce, 
My spirit ! be thou me, impetuous one ! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new 

birth ; 
And, by the incantation of this verse, 

Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd heartli 
Ashes and sparks, my words among man- 
kind ! 

Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy! O wind, 
If winter comes, can spring be far beliind? 
Percy Bysshb Siiellev. 



The FiiiST Syow-FALL. 

The snow had begun in the gloaming, 

And busily all the night 
Had been heaping field and highway 

With a silence deep and white. 

Every pine and fir and hemlock 
Wore ermine too dear for an earl. 

And the poorest twig on the elm tree 
Was ridged inch-deep with pearl. 

From sheds new-roof'd with Carrara 
Came Chanticleer's muflied crow. 

The stifl" rails were soften'd to swan's-down, 
And still flutter'd down the snow. 

I stood and watch'd by the window 
The noisele.ss work of the sky. 

And the sudden flurries of snow-l)irds, 
Like brown leaves whirling by. 

I thought of a mound in sweet .Vuburn 
Where a little headstone stood ; 

How the flakes were folding it gently, 
As did robins the babes in the wood. 



438 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Up spoke our own little Mabel, 


Blow, Blow, ihov Winter Wind. 


Saying, " Father, who makes it snow?" 




And I told of the good All-father 


Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 


Who cares for us here below. 


Thou art not so unkind 




As man's ingratitude ; 


Again I look'd at the snow-fall. 


Thy tooth is not so keen. 


And thought of the leaden sky 


Because thou art not seen. 


That arch'd o'er our first great sorrow, 


Although thy breath be rude. 


When that mound was heap'd so high. 


Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! unto the green 




holly : 


I remember'd the gradual patience 


Most friendship is feigning, most loving 


That fell from that cloud like snow. 


mere folly : 


Flake by flake, healing and hiding 


Then, heigh-ho! the holly! 


The scar of our deep-plunged woe. 


This life is most jolly! 


And again to the child I whisper'd, 


Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 


" The snow that husheth all, 


Thou dost not bite so nigh 


Darling, the merciful Father 


As benefits forgot : 


Alone can make it fall!" 


Though thou the waters warp, 




Thy sting is not so sharp 


Then, with eyes that saw not, I kiss'd 


As friend remember'd not. 


her ; 


Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! unto the green 


And she, kissing back, could not know 


holly : 


That my kiss was given to her sister. 


Most friendship is feigning, most loving 


Folded close under deepening snow. 


more folly : 


James Russell Lowell. 


Then, heigh-ho ! the holly ! 




This life is most jolly ! 




William Shakespeare. 


WiiEiY Icicles Hang by the 




Wall. 




When icicles hang by the wall 


The Death of the Old Year. 


And Dick the shepherd blows his nail. 


Full knee-deep lies the winter snow. 


And Tom bears logs into the hall, 


And the winter winds are wearily sigh- 


And milk comes frozen home in pail, 


ing: 


Wlien blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul. 


Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 


Then nightly sings the staring owl, 


And tread softly and speak low. 


To-who ; 


For the Old year lies a-dying. 


Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note, 


Old year, you must not die ; 


While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 


You came to us so readily. 




You lived with us so steadily, 


When all aloud the wind doth blow. 


Old year, you shall not die. 


And coughing drowns the parson's saw, 




And birds sit brooding in the snow. 


He lieth still : he doth not move : 


And Marian's nose looks red and raw, 


He will not see the dawn of day. 


When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl. 


He hath no other life above. 


Tlien nightly sings the staring owl, 


He gave me a friend, and a true true-love. 


To-who ; 


And the New year will take 'em away. 


Tu-whit, to-wlio, a merry note. 


Old year, you must not go ; 


While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 


So long as you have been with us, 


William Suakespeake. 


Such joy as you have seen with us. 




Old year, you shall not go. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



439 



He froth'd his bumpers to the brim ; 

A jollier year we shiill not see. 
But tiiough iiis eyes are waxing- dim, 
And though his foes speak ill ol' him, 
He was a friend to me. 
Old year, you shall not die ; 

AVe did so lanjrh and ery with you, 
I've half a mind to die with you. 
Old year, if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest, 

But all his merry quips arc o'er. 
To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 
But he'll be deail before. 
Every one for his own. 
The night is starry and cold, my 

friend. 
And the New year blithe and bold, 
my friend. 
Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes ! Over the snow 

I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro : 
The cricket chirps : the light burns low : 
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. 
Shake hands before you die. 

Old year, we'll dearly rue for yon : 
What is it we can do for you? 
Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 

Alack ! our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes: tie up his chin : 
Step from the corpse and let him in 
That standeth there alone. 
And waiteth at the door. 
There's a new foot on the floor, my 

friend. 
And a new face at the door, my 
friend, 
A new face at the door. 

Alfred Tesnyson. 



MOJiXJXa. 

Hakk — hark ! the lark at heaven's gate 
sings, 

And I'lKcbus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chaliced flowers that lies : 



And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes; 
With everything that pretty bin, 
Jly lady sweet, arise ; 
Arise, arise! 

\ViLLi.\M .Shakespeare. 



SOXXET. 

Full many a glorious morning have I 
seen 
Flatter the mountain-toiis with sov- 
ereign eye. 
Kissing with golden face the meadows 
green, 
Gilding pale .streams with heavenly al- 
chemy ; 
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 
Willi wgly rack on his celestial face. 
And from tlie forlorn world his visage hide. 
Stealing unseen to west with this dis- 
grace. 
Even so my sun one eai'ly morn did shine. 
With all triumphant splendor on my 
brow ; 
But out, alack ! ho was but one hour 
mine, 
The region cloud hath mask'd him from 
me now. 
Yet him for this my love no whit dis- 

daineth ; 
Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's 
sun staineth. 

WiLLUM Shakespeare. 



The Sabbath MonxixG. 

With silent awe I hail the sacred morn. 
That slowly wakes while all the fields 
are still ! 
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne ; 
A graver murmur gurgles from the rill ; 
And Echo answers softer from the hill ; 
And softer sings the linnet from the thorn; 
The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill. 
Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath 
morn ! 
The rooks float silent by in airy drove; 
The sun a placid yellow lustre throws; 
The gales that lately sigh'd along the 
grove. 



440 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEBIA OF POETRY. 



Have husti'd their downy wings in dead 

repose ; 
The hovering rack of clouds forgets to 
move — 
So smiled the day when the first morn 
arose ! 

JouN Levden. 



Ode to E vexing. 

If auglit of oaten stop, or pastoral song, 
May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine 
car. 
Like thy own brawling springs, 
Thy springs, and dying gales ; 

O nym])h reserved, while now the bright- 

hair'd sun 
Sits in yon western tent whose cloudy 
skirts, • 

With bredo ethereal wove, 
O'erhang his wavy bed : 

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak- 
eyed bat, 
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern 
wing. 
Or where the beetle winds 
His small but sullen horn, 

As oft he rises midst the twilight path. 
Against the pilgrim borne in needless 
hum : 
Now teach me, maid composed, 
To breathe some soften'd strain, 

Whose numbers stealing through thy dark- 
ening vale 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit ; 

As musing slow I hail 

Thy genial loved return ! 

For when thy folding star arising shows 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 

The fragrant Hours and Elves 

Who slept in buds the day. 

And many a nymph who wreathes her 

brows with sedge. 
And sheds the freshening dew, and, love- 
lier still, 
The pensive Pleasures sweet. 
Prepare thy shadowy car. 



Then let me rove some wild and heathy 

scene, 
Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells. 

Whose walls more awful nod 

By thy religious gleams. 

Or if chill blustering winds, or driving 
rain. 

Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut 
That from the mountain's side 
Views wilds and swelling floods, 

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd 

spires. 
And hears their simple bell, and marks 
o'er all 
Thy dewy fingers draw 
The gradual dusky veil. 

While Spring shall pour his showers, as 

oft he wont, 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest 
Eve! 
AVhile Summer loves to sport 
Beneath thy lingering light ; 

While sallow Autumn fills thy laji with 

leaves ; 
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous 
air. 
Affrights thy shrinking train, 
And rudely rends thy robes ; 

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, 
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling 
Peace 
Thy gentlest influence own. 
And love thy favorite name. 

AViLLiAM Collins. 



The budges Dance aboon the 
Burn. 

The midges dance aboon the burn; 

The dews begin to fa' ; 
The pairtricks down the rushy holm 

Set up their e'ening ca'. 
Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang 

Rings through the briery shaw. 
While, flitting gay, the swallows play 

Around the castle-wa'. 

Beneath the golden gloauiin' sky 
The mavis mends her lay ; 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



441 



The redbreast pours his hwcetest strains 
To charm the lingering day ; 

While weary yeldrins seem to wail 
Their little nestlings torn, 

The merry wren, frae den to den, 
Gaes jinking through the thorn. 

The roses fauld their silken leaves, 

The foxglove shuts its bell ; 
The honeysuckle and the birk 

Spread fragrance through the dell. 
Let others crowd the giddy court 

Of mirth and revelry. 
The simple joys that Nature yields 

Are dearer far to me. 

RODERT TaNSAIIILL. 



SOXNET. 

It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free; 
The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 
The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea : 
Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, 
And doth with his eternal motion make 
A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkcst 
with me here, 
If thou appear'st untouch'd by solemn 
thought, 
Thy nature is not therefore less divine: 
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the 
year ; 
And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner 
shrine, 
God being with thee when we know it 
not. 

William Wokdswokth. 



Sabhatit EVEXIXG. 

How calmly sinks the parting sun ! 

Yet twilight lingers still ; 
And beautiful as dream of heaven 

It slumbers on the hill ; 
Earth sleeps, with all her glorious things. 
Beneath the Holy Spirit's wings. 
And, rendering back the hues above, 
Seems resting in a trance of love. 

Round yonder rocks the forest trees 
In shadowy groups recline, 



Like saints at evening bow'd in prayer 

Around their holy shrine ; 
And through their leaves the niglit-winds 

blow. 
So calm and still, their music low 
Seems the mysterious voice of prayer. 
Soft echo'd on the evening air. 

And yonder western tlirong of clouds, 

Retiring from the sky, 
So calmly move, so softly glow, 

They seem to Fancy's eye 
Bright creatures of a better sphere, 
Come down at noon to worship here, 
And, from their .sacrifice of love. 
Returning to their home above. 

The blue isles of the golden sea, 

The night-arch floating high. 
The flowers that gaze upon the heavens, 

The bright streams leaping by, 
Are living with religion — deep 
On earth and sea its glories sleep, 
And mingle with the starlight ray.s, 
Like the soft light of parted days. 

The spirit of the holy eve 

Comes through the silent air 
To Feeling's hidden spring, and wakes 

A gush of music there ! 
And the far depths of ether beam 
So passing fair, we almost dream 
That we can rise and wander through 
Their open paths of trackless blue. 

Each soul is fill'd with glorious dreams. 

Each pulse is beating wild ; 
And thought is soaring to the shrine 

Of glory undefiled ! 
And holy as|)iratioiis start. 
Like blessed angels, from the heart, 
And bind — for earth's dark ties are riven — 
Our spirits to the gates of heaven. 

CiEOllGE DENISON PKENTICE. 



To Night. 

Mysterious Night I when our first parent 
knew 
Thee from report divine, and heard thy 

name. 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 
This glorious canopy of light and blue ? 



442 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew, 

Bathed in the rays of the great setting 

flame, 

Hesperus with tlie liost of heaven came, 

And lo I creation widen'd in man's view. 

Who could have thought such darkness lay 

conceal'd 

Within thy beams, Sun ! or who could 

find, 

While fly, and leaf, and insect lay reveal'd, 

That to such countless orbs thou mad'st 

us blind ! 

Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious 

strife ? — 

If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not 

Life? 

Joseph Blanco White. 



To ALIGHT. 

Swiftly walk over the western wave, 

Spirit of Night! 
Out of the misty eastern cave, 
Where all the long and lone daylight 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear 
Which make thee terrible and dear, — 

Swift be thy flight! 

'\^'rap thy form in a mantle gray 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of day. 
Kiss her until she be wearied out. 
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land. 
Touching all with thine oj)iate wand — 

Come, long-sought! 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sigh'd for thee ; 
AVhen light rode high, and the dew was 

gone, 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
And the weary Day turn'd to his rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 

I sigh'd for thee. 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 
Wouldst thou me ? 

Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 

Murmur'd like a noontide bee, 

Shall I nestle near thy side? 

Wouldst thou me ? — And I replied, 
No, not thee ! 



Death will come when thou art dead, 

Soon, too soon — 
Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 

Come soon, soon ! 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



The Evening Cloud. 

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, 
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided 
snow ; 
Long had I wateh'd the glory moving on 
O'er the still radiance of the lake be- 
low. 
Trancjuil its spirit seem'd, and floated 
slow ! 
Even in its very motion there was rest : 
While every breath of eve that chanced to 
blow 
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous 
west. 
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul ! 
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss 
is given 
And by the breath of mercy made to roll 
Eight onward to the golden gates of 
heaven. 
Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies. 
And tells to man his glorious destinies. 

John Wilson. 



The Evening Wind. 

Spirit that breathest through my lattice ; 
thou 
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry 
day ! 
Gratefully flows thy freshness round ray 
brow ; 
Thou hast been out upon the deep at 

play, 

Riding all day the wild blue waves till 

now, 
Roughening their crests, and scattering 

high their sjiray. 
And swelling the white sail. I welcome 

thee 
To the scorch'd land, thou wanderer of the 

sea ! 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



443 



Nor I alone, — a thousand bosoms round 
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; 
And languid forms rise up, and pulses 
bound 
Livelier, at eoming of the wind of night ; 
And languishing to hear thy weleonie 
sound, 
Lies the vast inland, streteh'd beyond 
the sight. 
Go forth into the gathering shade ; go 

forth,— 
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting 
earth ! 

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest ; 
Curl tlie still waters, briglit with stars; 
and rouse 
The wide old wood from his majestic rest, 
Summoning, from the innumerable 
boughs, 
The strange deep luirnuinies that haunt his 
breast. 
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly 
bows 
The shutting flower, and darkling waters 

pass, 
And where the o'ershadowing branches 
sweep the grass. 

Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly 
sway 
The sighing herbage by the gleaming 
stone. 

That tliey who near the churchyard wil- 
lows stray, 
And listen in the deepening gloom, 
alone, 

Jlay think of gentle souls that pa.ss'd 
away. 
Like thy pure breath, into the vast un- 
known. 

Sent forth from heaven among the sons of 
men. 

And gone into the boundless heaven again. 

The faint old man shall lean his silver 
head 
To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child 
asleep. 
And dry the moisten'd curls that over- 
spread 
His temples, while his breathing grows 
more deep ; 



And they who stand about the sick man's 
bed 
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, 
And softly part his curtains to allow 
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 

Go, — but the circle of eternal change. 
Which is the life of Nature, shall re- 
store, 
With sounds and scents from all thy 

mighty range. 
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep 

once more. 
Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and 

strange. 
Shall tell the homesick mariner of the 

shore ; 
And, listening to thy imii-nmr, he shall 

deem 
He hears the rustling leaf and running 

stream. 

\VlI.I.[A.M CLLLli.N BkVANT. 



Night at Sea. 

The lovely purple of the noon's bestow- 
ing 
Has vanish'd from the waters, where it 
flung 

A roval color, such as sems are throwing 



'Tis night, and overhead the sky is gleam- 
ing, 
Through the slight vapor trembles each 
dim star; 
I turn away — my heart is sadly dreaming 
Of scenes they do not ligiit, of scenes 
afar. 
My friends, my absent friends ! 

Do you think of nu>, as I think of 
you ? 

By each dark wave around the vessel 
sweeping. 
Farther am I from old dear frien<ls re- 
moved ; 
Till the lone vigil that I now am keep- 
ing, 
I did not know how much you were be- 
loved. 
How many acts of kindness little heeded, 
Kind looks, kind words rise half re- 
proachful now! 



444 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Hurried and anxious, my vex'd life has 


How oft on some strange loveliness while 


speeded, 


gazing 


And memory wears a soft accusing 


Have I wish'd for you — beautiful as new, 


brow. 


The purple waves like some wild army 


My friends, my absent friends ! 


raising 


Do you think of me, as I think of 


Their snowy banners as the ship cuts 


you ? 


through. 


The very stars are strangers, as I catch 
them 
Athwart tlie shadowy sails that swell 


My friends, my absent friends ! 

Do you think of me, as I think of 
you? 


above ; 


Bearing upon its wings the hues of morn- 


I cannot hojie that other eyes will watch 


ing, 


them 


Up springs the flying-fish like life's false 


At the same moment with a mutual 


,i"y. 


love. 


Which of the sunshine asks that frail 


They shine not there as here they now are 


adorning 


shining; 


Whose very light is fated to destroy. 


The very hours are changed. — Ah, do ye 


Ah, so doth genius on its rainbow pinion 


sleep ? 


Sirring from the depths of an unkindly 


O'er each home pillow midnight is de- 


world ; 


clining — 


So spring sweet ftincies from the heart's 


May some kind dream at least my image 


dominion — 


keep! 


Too soon in death the scorch'd-up wing 


My friends, my absent friends ! 


is liirl'd. 


Do you think of me, as I think of 


My friends, my absent friends ! 


you ? 


Whate'er I see is link'd with thoughts 


Yesterday has a charm To-day could 


of you. 


never 


No life is in the air, but in the waters 


Fling o'er the mind, which knows not till 


Are creatures, huge, and terrible, and 


it parts 


strong ; 


How it turns back with tenderest en- 


The sword-fish and the shark pursue their 


deavor 


slaughters, 


To fix the past within the heart of 


War universal reigns these depths along. 


hearts. 


Like some new island ou the ocean spring- 


Absence is full of memory ; it teaches 


ing, 


The value of all old familiar things ; 


Floats on the surface some gigantic 


The strengthener of afi'ection, while it 


whale. 


reaches 


From its vast head a silver fountain fling- 


O'er the dark parting, with an angel's 


ing, 


wings. 


Bright as the fountain in a fairy tale. 


My friends, my absent friends I 


My friends, my absent friends ! 


Do you think of me, as I think of 


I read such fairy legends while with 


you? 


you. 


The world, with one vast element 


Light is amid the gloomy canvas sjn-ead- 


omitted — 


ing. 


Man's own especial element, the earth ; 


The moon is whitening the dusky sails. 


Yet, o'er the waters is his rule trans- 


From the thick bank of clouds she mas- 


mitted 


ters, shedding 


By that great knowledge whence has 


The softest influence that o'er night pre- 


power its birth. 


vails. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



445 



Pale is she like a young queen pale with 
splendor, 
Haunted with passionate thoughts too 
fond, too deep ; 
The very glorj' that she wears is tender. 
The eyes that watch her beauty fain 
would weep. 
Jly friends, my absent friends ! 

Do vou think of me, as I think of 



Sunshine is ever cheerful ; when the morn- 
ing 
Wakens the world with cloud-dispelling 
eyes, 
The spirits mount to glad endeavor, scorn- 
ing 
What toil upon a path so sunny lies. 
Sunshine and hope are comrades, and 
their weather 
Calls into life an energy like Spring's ; 
But memory and mof)nlight go together, 
Reflected in the light that either brings. 
My friends, my absent friends ! 

Do you think of me, then ? I think 
of you. 

The busy deck is hush'd, no sounds are 
waking 
But the watch pacing silently and slow ; 
The waves against the sides incessant 
breaking. 
And rope and canvas swaying to and 
fro. 
The topmast .sail, it seems like some dim 



All that the spirit thinks of thought and 
feeling 
Takes visionary hues from such an hour; 
But while some phantasy is o'er me steal- 
ing, 
I start — remembrance hxs a keener 
power : 
My friends, my absent friends ! 

From the fair dream I start to think 
of you. 

A dusk line in the moonlight — I discover 
What all day long vainly I sought to 
catch ; 
Or is it but the varying clouds that hover 
Thick in the air, to mock the eyes that 
watch ? 
No ; well the sailor knows each speck ap- 
pearing 
Upon the tossing waves, the far-off 
strand ; 
To that dark line our eager ship is steer- 
in (^ 
Her voyage done ; to-morrow we shall 
land. 
LjiTiTiA* Eliz.vbetu Landon Maclkax. 



The Raixbow. 

Still young and fine, but what is still in 

view 
We slight as old and soil'd, though fresh 

and new. 
How bright wert thou, when Shem's ad- 
miring eye 

pinnacle ' Thy burnish'd, flaming arch did fir^t des- 

Cresting a shadowy tower amid the air ; cry I 

While red and fitful gleams come from the \ When Torah, Xahor, ITaran, Abram, Lot, 
binnacle, , The youthful world's gray fathers, in one 

The only light on board to guide us — knot 

where ? Did with intentive looks watch every 

My friends, my absent friends ! i hour 

Far from my native land, and far For thy new light, and trembled at each 
from you. shower ! 

When thou dost shine, darkness looks 



On one side of the ship the moonbeam's 

shimmer 
In luminous vibrations sweeps the sea. 
But where the shadow falls, a strange, pale 

glimmer 



white and fair. 
Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and 

air: 
Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and 
pours 

Seems, glow-worm like, amid the waves \ Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and 
to be. I flowers. 



446 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. . 


Bright pledge of peace and sunshine ! the 


Nor ever sliall the Muse's eye 


sure tie 


Unrapturcd greet thy beam ; 


Of thy Lord's hand, the object of His eye! 


Theme of primeval prophecy. 


Wlien I behold thee, tiiough my light be 

dim. 
Distinct, and low, I can in thine see Him, 


Be still the prophet's theme ! 


The earth to thee her incense yields, 


Who looks upon thee from His glorious 
throne, 


The lark thy welcome sings. 
When, glittering in the freshen'd fields, 


And minds the covenant betwixt all and 


The snowy mushroom springs. 


One. 

Henrv Vauouan. 


How glorious is thy girdle cast 




O'er mountain, tower, and town. 




Or mirror'd in the ocean vast, 


To THE Rainbow. 


A thousand fatlioms down ! 


Triumphal arch that fiU'st the sky 


As fresh in yon horizon dark. 


When storms prepare to part, 


As young thy beauties seem, 


I ask not proud Philosophy 


As when the eagle from the ark 


To teacii me what thou art — 


First sported in thy beam. 


Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, 

A mid-way station given 
For happy spirits to alight 

Betwixt the earth and heaven. 


For, faithful to its sacred page. 
Heaven still rebuilds thy span. 

Nor lets the type grow pale with age 
That first spoke peace to man. 

Thomas Campbell. 


Can all that Optics teach, unfold 


•o* 


Thy form to please me so, 
As when I dream'd of gems and gold 


The Rainbow. 


Hid in thy radiant bow? 


5Iy heart leaps up when I behold 




A Rainbow in the sky : 


Wlicn Science from Creation's face 


So was it when my life began ; 


Enchantment's veil withdraws, 


So is it now I am a iVIan ; 


What lovely visions yield their place 


So be it when I shall grow old, 


To cold material laws ! 


Or let me die ! 


And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams 

But words of the Most High, 
Have told why first thy robe of beams 


The Child is Father of the Man ; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 
William Wokdsworth. 


Was woven in the sky. 


.0. 


When o'er the green undeluged earth 


The Cloud. 


Heaven's covenant thou did'st shine, 
How came the world's gray fathers forth 
To watch thy sacred sign ! 


I BRIXG fresh showers for the thirsting 
flowers. 
From the seas and the streams; 


And when its yellow lustre smiled 


I bear light shade for the leaves when 


O'er mountains yet untrod, 


laid 


Each inother held aloft her child 
To bless the bow of God. 


In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that 
waken 


Mcthinks, thy jubilee to keep, 


The sweet birds every one. 


The first-made anthem rang 


When rock'd to rest on their mother's 


On earth, deliver'd from the deep, 


breast. 


And the first poet sang. 


As she dances about the sun. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



447 



I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 
And whiten the green plains uiuler; 

And then again I dissolve it in rain; 
And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers 

Lightning, my pilot, sits; 
In a eavirn under is fetter'd the thunder ; 

It struggles and howls at fits. 
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 

This pilot is guiding me. 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the 
hills. 

Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or 
stream, 

The Spirit he loves renuiins; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue 
smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor 
eyes. 

And his burning plumes outspread. 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 

When the morning star shines dead. 
As, on the jag of a mountain-erag 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
An eagle, alit, one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings; 
And when sunset may breathe, from the 
lit sea beneath, 

Its ardors of rest and of love. 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of keaven above, 
With wings folded I rest on mine airy 
nest. 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden with white fire laden. 

Whom mortals call the moon. 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like 
floor 
By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen 
feet. 
Which only the angels hear, 



May have broken the woof of my tent's 
thin roof. 
The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and 
flee, 
Like a swarm of golden bees, 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built 
tent, 
I Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
i Like strips of the skv fallen throueh me on 
high. 
Are each paved with the moon and 
these. 

I bind the sun's throne with a burning 
zone. 
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel 
and swim, 
AVhen the whirlwinds my baniic r un- 
furl. 
From cape to eape. with a bridge-like 
shape, 
Over a torrent sea. 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof. 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch, through which I 
march 
With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
When the powers of the air arc cliain'd to 
my ehair. 
Is the million-color'd bow; 
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, 
While the moist earth was hxughing be- 
low. 

I am the daughter of earth and water. 

And the nursling of the sky; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and 
shores ; 
I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when, with never a 
stain, 
The pavilion of heaven is bare, 
And the winds and sunbeams, with their 
convex gleams, 
Build up the blue dome of air— 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

.Vnd out of the caverns of rain. 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost 
from the tomb, 
I arise and unbuild it again, 

Percy Bvssiie Siir.t.LLV 



448 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Signs of Rain. 

Forty Reasons for not Accepting an In- 
vitation OF A Friend to make an Ex- 
cursion with Him. 

1 The hollow winds begin to blow; 

2 The clouds look black, the glass is low, 

3 The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep, 

4 And spiders from their cobwebs peep. 

5 Last night the sun went pale to bed, 

6 The moon in lialos hid her head ; 

7 The boding shepherd heaves a sigh, 

8 For, see ! a rainbow spans the sky. 

9 The walls are damp, the ditches smell, 

10 Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel. 

11 Hark how the chairs and tables crack ! 

12 Old Betty's nerves are on the rack ; 

1.3 Loud quacks the duck, the peacocks cry, 

14 The distant hills are seeming nigh. 

15 How restless are the snorting swine ! 

16 The busy flies disturb the kine ; 

17 Low o'er the grass the swallow wings, 

18 The cricket, too, how sharp he sings ! 

19 Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws, 

20 Pits wiping o'er her whisker'd jaws, 

21 Through the clear streams the fishes 

rise, 

22 And nimbly catch the incautious flies. 

23 The glow-worms, numerous and light, 

24 Illumed the dewy dell last night. 

25 At dusk the squalid toad was seen, 

20 Hopping and crawling o'er the green, 

27 The whirling dust the wind obeys, 

28 And in the rapid eddy plays ; 

29 The frog has changed his yellow vest, 
80 And in a russet coat is dress'd. 

31 Though June, the air is cold and still, 

32 The mellow blackbird's voice is shrill ; 

33 My dog, so alter'd in his taste, 

34 Quits mutton-bones on grass to feast; 

35 And see yon rooks, how odd their flight ! 

36 They imitate the gliding kite, 

37 And seem precipitate to fall, 

38 As if they felt the piercing ball. 

39 'Twill surely rain ; I see with sorrow, 

40 (Jur jaunt must be put off" to-morrow. 

Edward Jenner, 



To Cynthia. 

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair. 

Now the sun is laid to sleep, 



Seated in thy silver chair 

State in wonted manner keep: 
Hesperus entreats thy light, 
Goddess excellently bright ! 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 

Dare itself to interpose ; 
Cynthia's shining orb was made 

Heaven to clear when day did close ; 
Bless us, then, with wished sight. 
Goddess excellently bright ! 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart, 

And thy crystal-shining quiver; 

Give unto thy flying hart 

Space to breathe, how short soever; 

Thou that mak'st a day of night. 

Goddess excellently bright ! 

Ben Jonson. 



To THE MOON. 

Art thou pale for weariness 
Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, 

Wandering companionless 
Among the stars that have a diff'erent 

birth,— 
And ever changing, like a joyless eye 
That finds no object worth its constancy ? 
Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



Sonnet. 

To the Moon. 

O Moon, that shinest on this heathy 
wild, 
And light'st the hill of Hastings with 
thy ray, 
How am I with thy sad delight beguiled! 
How hold with fond imagination play ! 
By thy broad taper I call uj) the time 
When Harold on the bleeding verdure 
lay ; 
Though great in glory, overstain'd with 
crime. 
And fallen by his fate from kingly sway ! 
On bleeding knights, and on war-broken 
arms, 
Torn banners, and the dying steeds you 
shone. 
When this fair England, and her peerless 
charms, 
And all, but honor, to the foe were gone ! 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



449 



Here died the king, whom his brave sub- 
jects chose, 
But, dying, hiy amid his Norman foes I 

LuiiD TlIlRLOW. 



To THE E VEXING Star. 

How sweet thy modest light to view. 
Fair star, to love and lovers dear, 

While trembling on the falling dew. 
Like beauty shining through a tear ! 

Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream, 
To mark each image trembling there, 

Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam. 
To see thy lovely face so fair. 

Though, blazing o'er the arch of night, 
The moon thy timid beams outshine 

As far as thine each starry light, — 
Her rays can never vie with thine. 

Thine are the soft enchanting hours 
When twilight lingers on the plain, 

And whispers to the closing flowers 
That soon the sun will rise again. 

Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland 
As music, wafts the lover's sigh. 

And bids the yielding heart expand 
In love's delicious ecsta.sy. 

Fair star ! though I be doom'd to prove 
That rapture's tears are niix'd with pain. 

Ah I still I feel 'tis .sweet to love, — 
But sweeter to be loved again. 

John Levden. 



Song. 

To THE Evening Stab. 

Star that bringost home the bee, 
And sett'st the weary laborer free ! 
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou 

That send'st it from above. 
Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow 

Are sweet as hers we love. 

Come to the luxuriant skies 
Whilst the landscape's odors rise. 
Whilst far-off lowing herds arc heard, 

And songs, when toil is done, 
From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd 

Curls yellow in the sun. 
29 



Star of love's soft interviews ! 
Parted lovers on thee muse; 
Their remembrancer in Heaven 

Of thrilling vows thou art. 
Too delicious to be riven 

By absence from the heart. 

Thomas Campbell. 



Autumn Flowers. 

Those few pale Autumn flowers! 

How beautiful they are ! 
Than all that went before. 
Than all tlio Summer store, 

How lovelier tar! 

And why?— They are the last! 

The last ! the last ! the last ! 
Oh ! by that little word 
How many hearts are stirr'd ! 

That sister of the past ! 

Pale flowers! pale perishing flowers! 

Ye're types of precious things; 
Types of those bitter moments 
That flit, like life's enjoyments. 

On rapid, rapid wings. 

Last hours with parting dear ones 
(That Time the fa.stest spends). 

Last tears in silence shed, 

L.ast words half uttered. 
Last looks of dying friends! 

Who but would fain compress 

A life into a day, — 
The last day spent with one 
AVho, ere the morrow's sun, 

Must leave us, and for aye ? 

Oh precious, precious moments! 

Pale flowers ! ye're types of those — 
The saddest ! sweetest ! dearest ! 
Because, like those, the nearest 

Is an eternal close. 

Pale flowers I pale perishing flowers! 

I woo your gnitle breath — 
I leave the Summer rose 
For younger, blither brows, 
■ Tell me of change and death I 

Cau»li>'E Bowles Soithey. 



450 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



FLOWERS. 

Spake full well, in language quaint and 

olden, 

One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, 

When he call'd the flowers, so blue and 

golden. 

Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. 

Stars they are, wherein we read our his- 
tory. 

As astrologers and seers of eld ; 
Yet not wrapp'd about with awful mystery, 

Like the burning stars which they beheld. 

Wondrous truths, and manifold as won- 
drous, 
God hath written in those stars above ; 
But not less in the bright flowerets under 
us 
Stands the revelation of his love. 

Bright and glorious is that revelation, 
Written all over this great world of 
ours — 
Making evident our own creation, 
In these stars of earth, these golden 
flowers. 

And the poet, faithful and far-seeing. 
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part 

Of the self-same, universal being 

Which is throbbing in his brain and 
heart. 

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight sliin- 
ing, 
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, 
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lin- 
ing, 
Buds that open only to decay ; 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous 
tissues, 

Fhiunting gayly in the golden light ; 
Large desires, with most uncertain issues. 

Tender wishes, blossoming at night ; 

These in flowers and men are more than 
seeming ; 
Workings are they of the self-same 
powers 
Wliich the poet, in no idle dreaming, 
Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 



Everywhere about us are they glowing — 
Some, like stars, to tell us Spring is born ; 

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflow- 
ing, 
Stand, like Ruth, amid the golden corn. 

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing. 
And in Summer's green-emblazon'd 
field, 
But in arms of brave old Autumn's wear- 
ing, 
In the centre of his brazen shield ; 

Not alone in meadows and green alleys, 
On the mountain-top, and by the brink 

Of sequester'd pools in woodland valleys, 
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to 
drink ; 

Not alone in her vast dome of glory, 
Not on graves of bird and beast alone. 

But in old cathedrals, high and hoary. 
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ; 

In the cottage of the rudest peasant ; 

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling 
towers. 
Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 

Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers. 

In all places, then, and in all seasons. 
Flowers expand their light and soul-like 
wings. 

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, 
IIow akin they are to human things. 

And with childlike, credulous affection. 
We behold their tender buds expand — 

Emblems of our own great resurrection, 
Emblems of the bright and better land. 
Henry Wadswokth Longfellow. 



Flowers. 

Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies, 
Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew. 

What more than magic in you lies 
To fill the heart's fond view ! 

In childliood's sports companions gay ; 

In sorrow, on life's downward way, 

How soothing ! in our last decay. 
Memorials prompt and true. 

Relics ye are of Eden's bowers. 
As pure, as fragrant, and as fair, 



POEMS OF NATURE. 451 


As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours 


CnORUS OF THE FLOWERS. 


Of happy wanderers tlicre. 


We are the sweet Flowers, 


Fall'n all beside, — the world of life 


Boru of sunny showers, 1 


How is it stain'd with fear and strife! 


Think, whene'er you see us, what our 


In rea.sou'3 world what storms are rife, 


beauty saith ; 


What passions rage and glare! 


Utterance U)ute and bright 


But cheerful, and unchanged the while, 


Of some unknown delight. 


Your first and perfect form ye show, 


M'e fill the air with jileasure, by our simple 


The same that won Eve's matron smile 


breath : 


In the world's opening glow. 
Tlie stars of heaven a course are taught. 


All who see us love us ; 
Wc befit all i)laces; 


Too high above our human thought; — 


Unto sorrow wc give smiles ; and unto 


Ye may be found if ye are sought. 


graces, graces. 


And as we gaze, we know. 


Mark our ways, how noiseless 


Ye dwell beside our paths, and homes. 


All, and sweetly voiceless, 


Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow. 


Though the March-winds pipe to make our 


And guilty man, where'er he roams. 


passage clear ; 


Your innocent mirth may borrow. 


Not a whisper tells 


The birds of air before us fleet, 


Where our snuiU seed dwells, 


They cannot brook our shame to meet, — 


Nor is known the moment green when our 


But we may taste your solace sweet, 


tips appear. 


And come again to-morrow. 


AVe thread the earth in silence. 




In silence build our bowers ; 


Ye fearless in your nests abide; 


And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we 


Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise, 


laugh atop, sweet Flowers. 


Your silent lessons, undcscried 




By all but lowly eyes; 


The dear lumpish baby. 


For ye could draw th' admiring gaze 


Humming with the May bee, 


Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys; 


Hails us with his bright stare, stumbling 


Your order wild, your fragrant maze. 


through the gra-ss ; 


He taught us how to prize. 


The honey-dropping moon, 


Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour. 


On a night in .June, 


As when He paused, and own'd you 


Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt 


good. 
His blessing on earth's primal bower, 


the bridegroom pass. 


Age, the wither'd dinger, 


Ye felt it all renew'd. 


On us mutely gazes. 


What care ye now, if winter's storm 


And wraps the thought of his last bed in 


Sweep restless o'er each silken form ? 


his childhood's daisies. 


Chri.st'9 blessing at your heart is warm. 




Ye fear no vexing mood. 


See, and scorn all duller 




Taste, how Heaven loves color; 


Alas! of thousand bosoms kind, 


How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and 


That daily court you, and caress, 


green ; 


How few the hapi)y secret find 


What sweet thoughts she thinks 


Of your calm loveliness! 


Of violets and pinks. 


" Live for to-day I'' to-morrow's light 


And a thousand flashing hues made solely 


To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight. 


to be seen ; 


Go, sleep like closing flowers at night. 


See her whitest lilies 


And Heaven thy morn will bless. 


Chill the silver showers, 


Joiis Kedle. 


And what a red mouth has her rose, the 




woman of the Flowers. 





452 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



Uselessness divinest, 
Of a use the finest, 
Painteth us, the teachers of the end of 
use ; 
Travellers, weary-eyed, 
Bless us, far and wide ; 
Unto sick and prison'd thoughts we give 
sudden truce ; 
Not a poor town-window 
Loves its sickliest planting, 
But its wall speaks loftier truth than 
Babylon's whole vaunting. 

Sage are yet the uses 
Mix'd with our sweet juices. 
Whether man or May-fly profits of the 
balm ; 
As fair fingers heal'd 
Knights from the olden field. 
We hold cups of mightiest force to give 
the wildest calm. 
E'en the terror, poison, 
Hath its plea for blooming ; 
Life it gives to reverent lips, though death 
to the presuming. 

And oh ! our sweet soul-taker, 

That thief, the honey-maker, 
What a bouse hath he, by the thymy glen! 

In his talking rooms 

How the feasting fumes. 
Till his gold cups overflow to the mouths 
of men ! 

The butterflies come aping 

Those fine thieves of ours. 
And flutter round our rifled tops, like 
tickled flowers with flowers. 

See those tops, how beauteous ! 
What fair service duteous 
Bound some idol waits, as on their lord the 
Nine ? 
Elfin court 'twould seem. 
And taught, perchance, that dream 
Which the old Greek mountain dreamt 
upon nights divine. 
To expound such wonder 
Human speech avails not, 
Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such 
a glory exhales not. 

Think of all these treasures, 
^Matchless works and pleasures, 



Every one a marvel, more than thought 
can say; 
Then think in what bright showers 
We thicken fields and bowers. 
And with what heaps of sweetness half 
stifle wanton May ; 
Think of the mossy forests 
By the bee-birds haunted. 
And all those Amazonian plains, lone 
lying as enchanted. 

Trees themselves are ours ; 
Fruits are born of flowers; 
Peach and roughest nut were blossoms in 
the Spring ; 
The lusty bee knows well 
The news, and comes pell-mell. 
And dances in the bloomy thicks with 
darksome antheming. 
Beneath the very burthen 
Of planet-pressing ocean 
We wash our smiling cheeks in peace, a 
thought for meek devotion. 

Tears of Phoebus — missings 
Of Cytherea's kissings, 
Have in us been found, and wise men find 
them still ; 
Drooping grace unfurls 
Still Hyacinthus' curls, 
And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish 
rill ; 
Thy red lip, Adonis, 
Still is wet with morning ; 
And the step that bled for thee the rosy 
brier adorning. 

Oh ! true things are fables, 
Fit for sagest tables. 
And the flowers are true things, yet no fa- 
bles they ; 
Fables were not more 
Bright, nor loved of yore^ 
Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by 
every old pathway ; 
Grossest hand can test us ; 
Fools may prize us never ; 
Yet we rise, and rise, and rise, marvels 
sweet for ever. 

Who shall say that flowers 
Dress not heaven's own bowers ? 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



453 



Who its love, without them, can fancy— or 
sweet floor? 
Who shall even dare 
To say we sprang not there, 
And came not down, that Love might bring 
one piece of heaven the more ? 
Oh I pray believe that angels 
From those blue dominions 
Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt 
their golden pinions. 

Leigh Hcst. 

IlYMX TO THE FLOWERS. 

Day-stars ! that ope your frownless eyes 
to twinkle 
From rainbow galaxies of earth's crea- 
tion, 
And dewdrops on her lonely altars sprin- 
kle 

As a libation ! 

Ye matin worshippers ! who bending 
lowly 
Before the uprisen sun — God's lidless 
eye — 
Throw from your chalices a sweet and 
holy 

Incense on high ! 

Ye bright mosaics! that with storied 
beauty 
The floor of Nature's temple tessellate, 
What numerous emblems of instructive 
duty 

Your forms create ! 

'Neath cloister'd boughs, each floral bell 
that swingcth 
And tolls its perfume on the passing air, 
ilakes .Sabbath in the fields, and ever 
ringeth 

A call to prayer. 

Not to the domes where crumbling arch 
and column 
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 
But to that fane, most catiiolic and solemn, 
Whit'h (Jod hath plann'd ; 

To that cathedral, boundle-ss as our won- 
der. 
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and 
moon supply — 



Its choir the winds and waves, its organ 
thunder. 

Its dome the sky. 

There — as in solitude and shade I wander 
Through the green aisles, or, stretch'd 
upon the sod, 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God — 

Your voiceless lips, O Flowers, are living 
preachers. 
Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book. 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From loneliest nook. 

Floral apostles ! tliat in dewy splendor 
" Weep without woe, and bhisli without 
a crime," 
Oh, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surren- 
der. 

Your lore sublime ! 

"Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy 
glory, 
Array'd," the lilies cry, " in robes like 
ours ; 
How vain your grandeur ! Ah, how tran- 
sitory 

Are human flowers!" 

In the sweet-scented pictures. Heavenly 
Artist ! 
With which thou paintest Nature's wide- 
spread hall, 
What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
Of love to all ! 

Not useless are ye, Flowers ! though made 
for pleasure ; 
Blooming o'er field and wave, by day 
and night. 
From every source your sanetion bids me 
treasure 

Harmless delight. 

Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary 
For such a world of thought could fur- 
nish scope? 
Each fading calyx a memento mori, 
Yet fount of h(jpe. 

Posthumous glories! angel-like collection ! 
Upraised from seed or bulb interr'd in 
earth. 



454 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Ye are to me a type of resurrection, 
And second birth. 

Were I in churcliless solitudes remaining, 
Far from all voice of teachers and 
divines, 
My soul would find, in flowers of God's or- 
daining, 

Priests, sermons, shrines! 
Horace Smitu. 



To AN Early Primrose. 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! 
Whose modest form, so delicately fine. 

Was nursed in whirling storms. 

And cradled in the winds. 

Thee, when young Spring first question'd 

Winter's sway. 
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, 

Thee on this bank he threw 

To mark his victory. 

In this low vale, the promise of the year. 
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, 

Unnoticed and alone, 

Thy tender elegance. 

So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the 

storms 
Of chill adversity ; in some lone walk 

Of life she rears her head. 

Obscure and unobserved ; 

While every bleaching breeze that on her 

blows 
Chastens her spotless purity of breast. 
And hardens her to bear 
Serene the ills of life. 

Henry Kirke White. 



To PRIMROSES, 
FILLED WITH MORNING DeW. 

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can 
tears 
Speak grief in you. 
Who were but born 
Just as the modest morn 
Teem'd her refreshing dew ? 
Alas! you have not known that shower 
That mars a flower ; 



Nor felt th' unkind 
Breath of a blasting wind ; 
Nor are ye worn with years ; 
Or warp'd, as we. 
Who think it strange to see 
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young. 
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. 

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make 

known 

The reason why 

Ye droop and weep. 

Is it for want of sleep, 

Or childish lullaby ? 

Or, that ye have not seen as yet 

The violet? 

Or brought a kiss 

From that sweetheart to this? 

No, no ; this sorrow, shown 

By your tears shed, 

Would have this lecture read : — 

" That things of greatest, so of meanest 

worth. 

Conceived with grief are, and with tears 

brought forth." 

Robert Herrick. 



Daffodils. 

I wander'd lonely as a Cloud 

That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills, 
When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden Daflbdils, 
Beside the Lake, beneath the trees. 
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the Milky Way, 

They stretch'd in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay : 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance. 

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee : — 

A poet could not but be gay 
In such a jocund company : 

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought : 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood. 



POEMS OF XATURE. 



4o5 



Tlioy flash upon that inward eye, 
Which is tlie bliss of solitude, 
And then my heart with pleitsure tills, 
And dances with the DafTodils. 

William Wordsworth. 



To Daffodils. 

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see 

You luuste away so soon : 
As yet the early-rising ?5un 

Has not attain'd his noon. 
Stay, stay, 

Until the hasting day 
Has run 

But to the even-song; 
And, having pray'd togotlicr, we 

Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay, as you, 

We have as short a Spring; 
As quick a growth to meet decay 
As you, or any thing. 

We die. 
As your hours do, and dry 

Away 
Like to the Summer's rain ; 
Or as the pearls of morning's dew, 
Ne'er to be found again. 

Robert Uebrick. 



The Violet. 

FAINT, delicious, spring-time violet! 

Thine odor, like a key, 
Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let 

A thought of sorrow free. 

The breath of distant fields upon my brow 
Blows through that open door 

The sound of wind-liornc bells, more 
sweet and low, 
And sadder than of yore. 

It comes afar, from that belov6d place 

And that beloved hour. 
When life hung ripening in love's golden 
grace. 

Like grapes above a bower. 

A Pi)ring goes singing through its reedy 
grass ; 
The lark sings o'er my head, 



Drown'd in the sky — oh pass, ye visions, 
pass ! 
I would that I were dead ! — 

Why hast thou open'd that forbidden door 

From which I ever flee? 
vanish'd Joy! Love, that art no 
more. 

Let my vex'd spirit be! 

violet! thy odor through my brain 
Hath search'd, and stung to grief 

This sunny day, as if a curse did stain 
Thy velvet leaf. 

Wii.MAM Wetmore Story. 



To THE Daisy. 

With little here to do or see 

Of things that in the great world be, 

Sweet Diiisy, oft I talk to thee. 

For thou art worthy. 
Thou unassuming Commonplace 
Of Nature, with that homely face. 
And yet with something of a grace. 

Which Love makes for thee ! 

Oft on the dappled turf at ease 

I sit, and play with similes. 

Loose tyi)es of things through all degrees, 

Thoughts of thy raising : 
And many a fond and idle name 
I give to thee, for praise or blame, 
As is the humor of the game, 

AVhile I am gazing. 

A Xun doniuro, of lowly port; 

Or sprightly Jlaiden of Love's Court, 

In thy simplicity the sport 

Of all temptations; 
A Queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
A Starveling in a scanty vest ; 
Are all, as .seems to suit thee best, 

Thy ajipellations. 

A little Cyclops, with one eye 

Staring to threaten and defy, 

That thought comes next — and instantly 

The freak is over, 
The shape will vanish, and behold 
A silver Shield with boss of gold, 
That spreails itself, some Faery bold 

In fight to cover I 



456 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


I see thee glittering from afar ; — 


To A Mountain Daisy. 


And tlien tliou art a pretty Star ; 


On Tukking one down with the Plough, 


Not quite so fair as many are 


IN April, 1786. 


In heaven ahove thee ! 




Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 


Wee, modest, crimson-tippfed flower, 


Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ; — 


Thou's met me in an evil hour, 


May peace come never to his nest, 


For I maun crush amang the stoure 


Who shall reprove thee ! 


Thy slender stem ; 




To spare thee now is past my power. 




Thou bonny gem. 


Sweet Flower ! for by that name at last, 




When all my reveries are past. 


Alas ! it's no thy neibor sweet, 


I call thee, and to that cleave fast, 


The bonny lark, companion meet. 


Sweet silent Creature ! 


Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 


That breath'st with me in sun and air, 


Wi' speckled breast. 


Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 


When upward springing, blithe, to greet 


My heart with gladness, and a share 


The purpling east. 


Of thy meek nature ! 




William Wokdswokth. 


Cauld blew the bitter biting north 




Upon thy early, humble birth ; 




Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 


To THE DAISY. 


Amid the storm. 




Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 


Bright flower, whose home is everywhere ! 


Thy tender form. 


A Pilgrim bold in Nature's care. 




And oft, the long year through, the heir 


The flaunting flowers our gardens yield. 


Of joy or sorrow, 


High sheltering woods and wa's maun 


Methinks that there abides in thee 


shield : 


Some concord with humanity, 


But thou beneath the random bield 


Given to no other Flower I see 


0' clod or stane. 


The forest through ! 


Adorns the histie stibble-field, 




Unseen, alane. 


And wherefore ? Man is soon deprest ; 


There, in thy scanty mantle clad. 


A thoughtless Thing ! who, once unblest, 


Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, 


Does little on his memory rest, 


Thou lifts thy unassuming head 


Or on his reason ; 


In humble guise ; 


But Thou wouldst teach him how to find 


But now the share uptears thy bed. 


A shelter under every wind. 


And low thou lies ! 


A hope for times that are unkind 




And every season. 


Such is the fate of artless maid. 




Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! 


Thou wander'st this wide world about. 


By love's simplicity betray'd. 

And guileless trust. 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid 


Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt, 


With friends to greet thee, or without, 


Low i' the dust. 


Yet pleased and willing; 




Meek, yielding to the occasion's call, 


Such is the fate of simple bard. 


And all things suffering from all. 


On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 


Thy function apostolical 


Unskilful he to note the card 


In peace fulfilling. 


Of prudent lore. 


William Wokdswortii. 


Till billows rage, and gales blow hard. 


^* 


And whelm him o'er ! 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



457 



Such fate to sufTering worth is given, 
Who long with wants aud woes lias striven, 
By human pride or cunning driven 

To Miisory's hrink, 
Till, wrench'd of every stay Ijiit Heaven, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 

Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine, — no distant date : 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, ehite. 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crusli'd beneath the furrow's weight 

Shall be thy doom ! 

RoBEKT Burns. 



The rhodoha. 

On being Asked, Whence is the 
Floweu ? 

In May, when sea-winds pierced our soli- 
tudes, 

I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods 

Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp 
nook, 

To please the desert and the sluggish 
brook : 

The purple petals fallen in the pool 

Made the black water with their beauty 

gay.— 

Here might the red-bird come his plumes 

to cool, 
And court the flower that cheapens his 

array. 
Rhodora I if the sages ask thee why 
This charm is wasted on the earth and 

sky, 
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for 

seeing. 
Then beauty is its own excuse for being. 
Why thou wert there, O rival of the 

rose! 
I never thought to a.sk, I never knew ; 
But in my sim|)le ignorance supjiose 
The self-same Power that brougiit me there 

brought you. 

R.ll.PII W.H,DO EUERSO.N. 



To THE FRrXGED GEXTIAX. 

THor blos.som. bright with autumn dew. 

And color'd with the heaven's own blue, I 



That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night; 

Thou comest not when violets lean 

O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen. 

Or columbines, in purple dress'd. 

Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 

Thou waitcst late, and com'st alone, 
When woods are bare and birds are liown. 
And frosts and shortening days portend 
The aged Year is near his end. 

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 
Blue— blue— as if that sky lei fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart. 
May look to heaven as I depart. 

William Clllkn Bkv.\.\t. 



The Use of flowers. 

God might have bade the earth bring forth 

Enough for great and small, 
The oak tree and the cedar tree. 

Without a flower at all. 
We might have had enough, enough, 

For every want of ours, 
For luxury, medicine, and toil, 

And yet have had no flowers. 

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, 

All dyed with rainbow-light. 
All fiishion'd with supremcst grace, 

Upspringing day and night: — 
Springing in valleys green and low, 

And on the mountains high. 
And in the silent wilderness 

Where no man passes by? 

Our outward life requires them not, — 

Then wherefore had they birth? — 
To minister delight to man. 

To beautify the earth ; 
To comfort man, — to whisper hope. 

Whene'er his faith is dim. 
For Who so careth for the flowers 

Will care much more for him ! 

Makv Howitt. 



458 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



A THOUGHT AMONG THE ROSES. 

The roses grew so thickly, 

I never saw the thorn, 
Nor deem'd the stem was prickly 

Until my hand was torn. 

Thus worldly joys invite us 

With rosy-color'd hue , 
But, ere they long delight us, 

We find they prick us too. 

Peter Spencer. 



'TIS THE Last Rose of Summer. 

'Tis the last rose of summer, 

Left blooming alone ; 
All her lovely companions 

Are faded and gone ; 
No flower of her kindred, 

No rosebud, is nigh 
To reflect back her blushes. 

Or give sigh for sigh. 

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one ! 
■ To pine on the stem ; 
Since the lovely are sleeping, 

Go sleep thou with them. 
Thus kindly I scatter 

Thy leaves o'er the bed 
Where thy mates of the garden 

Lie scentless and dead. 

So soon may / follow. 

When friendships decay, 
And from love's shining circle 

The gems drop away. 
When true hearts lie wither'd, 

And fond ones are flown, 
Oh, who would inhabit 

This bleak world alone ? 

Thomas Moore. 



The Ivy Green. 

Oh ! a dainty plant is the Ivy green, 

That creepeth o'er ruins old ! 
Of right choice food are his meals, I 
ween. 
In his cell so lone and cold. 
The walls must be crumbled, the stones 
decay'd, 
To pleasure his dainty whim ; 



And the mouldering dust that years have 
made 
Is a merry meal for him. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no 
wings. 
And a staunch old heart has he ! 
How closely he twineth, how tight he 
clings 
To his friend, the huge oak tree ! 
And slyly he traileth along the ground. 

And his leaves he gently waves. 
And he joyously twines and hugs around 
The rich mould of dead men's graves. 
Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

Whole ages have fled, and their works 
decay'd. 
And nations scatter'd been ; 
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade 

From its hale and hearty green. 
The brave old plant in its lonely days 

Shall fatten upon the past ; 
For the stateliest building man can raise 
Is the Ivy's food at last. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 
Charles Diokens. 



The Death of the Flowers. 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest 

of the year, 
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and 

meadows brown and sere. 
Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the 

autumn leaves lie dead ; 
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the 

rabbit's tread. 
The robin and the wren are flown, and from 

the shrubs the jay. 
And from the wood-top calls the crow 

through all the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flow- 
ers, that lately sprang and stood 

In brighter light and softer airs, a beaute- 
ous sisterhood ? 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



459 



Alas! they all are in their graves; the 

gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair 

and good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie ; but the 

cold November rain 
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the 

lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they per- 

ish'd long ago, 
And the brier-rose and the orchis died 

amid the summer glow ; 
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the 

aster in the wood. 
And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in 

autumn beauty stood, 
Till fell the frost from the clear cold 

heaven, as falls the plague on men, 
And the brightness of their smile was gone 

from upland, glade, and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm mild day, 

as still such days will come, 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out 

their winter home; 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, 

though all the trees are still. 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters 

of the rill. 
The south wind searches for the flowers 

whose fragrance late he bore. 
And sighs to find them in the wood and by 

the stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youth- 
ful beauty died, 

The fair meek blossom that grew up and 
faded by my side. 

In the cold moist earth we laid her when 
the forest cast the leaf, 

And we wept that one so lovely should 
have a life so brief; 

Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that 
young friend of ours, 

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish 
with the flowers. 

William Cullem Bkyant. 



To BLOSSOifS. 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree. 
Why do ye fall so fast? 
Your date is not so past 



But you may stay yet here a while 
To blush and gently smile, 
And go at Ia.st. 

What ! were ye born to be 
An hour or half's delight. 
And so to bid good-night? 

'Tis pity Nature brought ye forth, 
Merely to show your worth. 
And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave; 

And, after they have shown their pride 
Like you a while, they glide 
Into the grave. 

EODERT HeRKICK. 



Almond-Blossom. 

Blossom of the almond trees, 
April's gift to .\prirs bees, 
Birthday ornament of spring. 
Flora's fairest daughterling ; — 
Coming when no flowerets dare 
Trust the cruel outer air. 
When the royal king-cup bold 
Dares not don his coat of gold. 
And the sturdy blackthorn spray 
Keeps his silver for the May ; — 
Coming when no flowerets would, 
Save thy lowly sisterhood, 
Early violets, blue and white. 
Dying for their love of light, — 
Almond-blossom, sent to teach us 
Tiiat the spring days soon will reach us. 
Lest, with longing over-tried. 
We die as the violets died, — 
Blossom, clouding all the tree 
With thy crimson 'broidery. 
Long before a leaf of green 
On the bravest bough is seen, — 
Ah ! when winter winds are swinging 
All thy rod bells into ringing. 
With a bee in every bell. 
Almond-bloom, we greet thee well. 

Edwin Abnold. 



Song. 

V'svtr.v. the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me 



460 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



And tune his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird's throat, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither; 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 
But AVinter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun 
And loves to live i' the sun, 
Seeking the food he eats. 
And pleased with what he gets. 
Come hither, come hither, come hither; 
Here shall he see 
Ko enemy 
But Winter and rough weather. 

William Shakespeare. 



The Holly Tree. 

EEADEE ! hast thou ever stood to see 

The holly tree? 
The eye that coutemjjlates it well, per- 
ceives 

Its glossy leaves, 
Ordered by an intelligence so wise 
As might confound the atheist's sophis- 
tries. 

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen 

Wrinkled and keen ; 
No grazing cattle, through their prickly 
round. 

Can reach to wound ; 
But as they grow where nothing is to fear. 
Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves 
appear. 

1 love to view these things with curious 

eyes, 

And moralize ; 
And in this wisdom of the holly tree 

Can emblems see 
Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant 

rhyme, 
One which may profit in the after-time. 

Thus, though abroad, perchance I might 
appear 

Harsh and austere 
To those who on my leisure would intrude, 

Eeserved and rude ; 
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be. 
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. 



And should my youth, as youth is apt, I 
know, 

Some harshness show. 
All vain asperities I, day by day, 

Would wear away. 
Till the smooth temper of my age should 

be 
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. 

And as, when all the summer trees are 
seen 
So bright and green. 
The holly-leaves their fadeless hues dis- 
play 

Le.ss bright than they ; 
But when the bare and wintry woods we 

see, 
What then so cheerful as the holly tree? 

So, serious should my youth appear among 
The thoughtless throng ; 

So would I seem, amid the young and gay, 
More grave than they ; 

That in my age as cheerful I might be 

As the green winter of the holly tree. 

Robert Southey. 



The Aged Oak at Oakley, 
Somerset. 

I WAS a young fair tree: 
Each spring with quivering green 
j\Iy boughs were clad ; and far 
Down the deep vale a light 
Shone from me on the eyes 
Of those who pass'd, — a light 
That told of sunny days. 
And blossoms, and blue .sky ; 
For I was ever first 
Of all the grove to hear 
The soft voice under ground 
Of the warm-working spring ; 
And ere my brethren stirr'd 
Their sheathed buds, the kine, 
And the kine's keeper, came 
Slow up the valley-path. 
And laid them underneath 
My cool and rustling leaves; 
And I could feel them there 
As in the quiet shade 
They stood, with tender thoughts 
That pass'd along their life 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



461 



Like wings on a still lake, 
Blessing me ; and to God, 
The blessed God, who cares 
For all my little leaves, 
Went up the silent praise, 
And I was glad with joy 
Which life of laboring things 
111 knows, — the joy that sinks 
Into a life of rest. 

Ages have fled since then : 
But deem not my pierced trunk 
And scanty leafage serves 
No high behest; my name 
Is sounded far and wide ; 
And in the Providence 
Tliat guides the steps of men, 
Hundreds have come to view 
My grandeur in decay ; 
And there hath pass'd from me 
A quiet influence 
Into the minds of men : 
The silver head of age, 
The majesty of laws. 
The very name of God, 
And holiest things that are 
Have won upon the heart 
Of humankind tlie more, 
For that I stand to meet 
With vast and bleaching trunk 
The rudeness of the sky. 

Henry Alford. 



The Qvestiox. 

I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way 
Bare Winter suddenly was changed to 
Spring, 
And gentle odors led my steps astray, 

Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring 
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay 

Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 
Its green arms round the bosom of the 

stream, 
But kiss'd it and then fled, as thou might- 
est in dream. 

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets. 
Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the 
earth, 
The constellated flower that never sets ; 
Faint ox-lips ; tender blue-bells, at 
whose birth 



The sod scarce heaved; and that tall 

flower that wets 
Its mother's face with heaven collected 

tears, 
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, 

it hears. 

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglan- 
tine, 
Green cow-bind and the moonlight-col- 
or'd may, 
And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, 
whose wine 
Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by 
the day ; 
And wild roses, and ivy serpentine, 

With its dark buds and leaves, wander- 
ing astray ; 
And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with 

gold. 
Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold. 

And nearer to the river's trembling edge 
There grew broad flag-flowers, purple 
prankt with white. 
And starry river-buds among the sedge. 
And floating water-lilies, broad and 
bright. 
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge 
With moonlight beams of their own 
watery light ; 
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep 

green 
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober 
sheen. 

Methought that of these visionary flowers 
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way 
That the same hues, which in their natural 
bowers 
Were mingled or opposed, the like array 
Kept these imprison'd children of the 
Hours 
Within my hand, — and then, elate and 

gay, 

I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come 

That I might there present it — oh ! to 

whom ? 

Pf.rov Bvsshe Siiellky. 

O RIG IX OF THE OPAL. 

A DEWDRop came, with a spark of flame 
He had caught from the sun's last rav. 



462 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


To a violet's breast, where he lay at rest 


And here and there a lusty trout. 


Till the hours brought back the day. 


And here and there a grayling. 


The rose look'd down, with a blush and 


And here and there a foamy flake 


frown ; 


Upon me, as I travel. 


But she smiled all at once to view 


With many a silvery waterbreak 


Her own bright form, with its coloring 


Above the golden gravel ; 


warm. 
Reflected back by the dew. 


And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river; 


Then the stranger took a stolen look 


For men may come and men may go, 


At the sky so soft and blue ; 


But I go on for ever. 


And a leaflet green, with its silver sheen. 
Was seen by the idler too. 


I steal by lawns and grassy plots ; 
I slide by hazel covers ; 


A cold north wind, as he thus reclined, 


I move the sweet forget-me-nots 


Of a sudden raged around ; 


That grow for happy lovers. 


And a maiden fair, who was walking there. 
Next morning, an ojial found. 


I slip, I .slide, I gloom, I glance, 


Author Unknown. 


Among my skimming swallows, 




I make the netted sunbeam dance 


• o> 


Against my sandy shallows. 


Song of the Brook. 


I murmur under moon and stars 


I COME from haunts of coot and hern : 


In brarably wildernesses ; 


I make a sudden sally 


I linger by my .shingly bars ; 


And sparkle out among the fern, 


I loiter round my cresses ; 


To bicker down a valley. 


And out again I curve and flow 


By thirty hills I hurry down. 


To join the brimming river; 


Or slip between the ridges; 


For men may come and men may go, 


By twenty thorps, a little town. 


But I go on for ever. 


And half a hundred bridges. 


Alfred Tennyson. 


Till last by Philip's farm I flow 


*o« 


To join the brimming river; 


Arethusa. 


For men may come and men may go. 


Aeethusa arose 


But I go on for ever. 


From her couch of snows 


I chatter over stony ways. 


In the Acroceraunian mountains, — 


In little sharps and trebles; 


From cloud and from crag 


I buljble into eddying bays, 


With many a jag. 


I babble on the pebbles. 


Shepherding her bright fountains. 




She leapt down the rocks 


With many a curve my banks I fret 


With her rainbow locks 


By many a field and fallow. 


Streaming among the streams ; — ■ 


And many a fairy foreland set 


Her steps paved with green 


With willow-weed and mallow. 


The downward ravine 


I chatter, chatter, as I flow 


Which slopes to the western gleams : 


To join the brimming river ; 


And, gliding and springing, 


For men may come and men may go, 


She went, ever singing 


But I go on for ever. 


In murmurs as soft as sleep ; 

The Earth seem'd to love her. 


I wind about, and in and out, 


And Heaven smiled above her. 


With here a blossom sailing. 


As she linger'd toward the deep. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



463 



Then Alpheus bold, 

On his glacier cold, 
With his trident the mountains strook; 

And open'd a chasm 

In the rocks ; — with the spasm 
All Erymanthus shook. 

And the black south wind 

It conceal'd behind 
The urns of the silent snow, 

And earthquake and thunder 

Did rend in sunder 
The bars of the springs below; 

The beard and the hair 

Of the river-god were 
Seen through the torrent's sweep, 

As he follow'd the light 

Of the fleet nymph's flight 
To the brink of the Dorian deep. 

" Oh, save me ! Oh, guide me ! 

And bid the deep hide me, 
For he grasps me now by the hair !" 

The loud Ocean heard, 

To its blue depth stirr'd. 
And divided at her prayer; 

And under the water 

The Karth's white daughter 
Fled like a sunny beam ; 

Behind her descended, 

Her billows unblended 
With the brackish Dorian stream. 

Like a gloomy stain 

On the emerald main, 
Alpheus rusii'd behind, — 

As an eagle pursuing 

A dove to its ruin 
Down the streams of the cloudy wind. 

Under the bowers 

Where the Ocean Powers 
Sit on their pearled thrones ; 

Tlirough the coral woods 

Of the weltering floods, 
Over heaps of unvalued stones ; 

Througli the dim beams 

Which amid the streams 
Weave a network of color'd light; 

And under the caves. 

Where the shadowy waves 
Are as green as the forest's night — 

Outspceding the .shark. 

And the sword-fish dark, 



Under the ocean foam ; 

And up through the rifts 

Of the mountain-cliffs 
They pass'd to their Dorian home. 

And now from their fountains 

In Enna's mountains, 
Down one vale where the morning basks. 

Like friends once parted. 

Grown single-hearted, 
They ply their watery ta.sks. 

At sunrise they leap 

From their cradles steep 
In the cave of the shelving hill ; 

At noontide they flow 

Through the woods below. 
And the meadows of asphodel ; 

And at niglit they sleep 

In the rocking deep 
Beneath the Ortygian shore ; — 

Like spirits that lie 

In the azure sky, 
When they love, but live no more. 

PeKCY BVSSIIE .'^llELLEV. 



Song of the RivEn. 

Clear and cool clear and cool. 

By laughing .shallow and dreaming pool; 

Cool and clear, cool and clear. 

By shining shingle and foaming weir; 

Under the crag where the ouzel sings. 

And the ivied wall where the church-bell 

rings, 
Undefiled for the undcfiled ; 
Play by me, bathe in me, mother and 

child. 

Dank and foul, dank and foul. 
By the smoky town in its murky cowl ; 
Foul and dank, foul and dank, 
By wharf, and sewer, and slimy bank ; 
Darker and darker the further I go, 
Baser and baser the richer I grow; 
Who dare sport with the sin-defiled? 
Shrink from me, turn from me, mother 
and child. 

Strong and free, strong and free. 

The flood-gates are open, away to the 

sea: 
Free and strong, free and strong. 
Cleansing my streams a.s I hurry along 



464 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



To the golden sands and the leaping bar, 

And the taintless tide that awaits me afar, 

As I lose myself in the infinite main, 

Like a soul that has sinn'd and is pardou'd 

again, 

Undefiled for the undefiled ; 

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and 

child. 

Chakles Kingsley. 



The Sea. 

The sea ! the sea ! the open sea! 

The blue, the fresh, the ever free! 

Without a mark, without a bound, 

It runneth the earth's wide regions' round. 

It plays with the clouds; it mocks the 

skies ; 
Or like a cradled creature lies. 

I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! 

I am where I would ever be ; 

With the blue above, and the blue below, 

And silence wheresoe'er I go ; 

If a storm should come and awake the 

dee]), 
What matter? /shall ride and sleep. 

I love (oh how I love!) to ride 
On the fierce foaming, bursting tide, 
AVhen every mad wave drowns the moon, 
Or whistles aloft his tempest-tune, 
And tells how goeth the world below, 
And why the south-west blasts do blow. 

I never was on the dull tame shore 
But I loved the great sea more and more, 
And backward flew to her billowy breast. 
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; 
And a mother she was, and )s to me ; 
For I was born on the open sea ! 

The waves were white, and red the morn, 

III the noisy hour when I was born ; 

And the whale it whistled, the porpoise 

roU'd, 
And the dolphins bared their backs of 

gold ; 
And never was heard such an outcry wild 
As welcomed to life the ocean child ! 

I've lived since then, in calm and strife. 
Full fifty summers a sailor's life, 



With wealth to spend and a power to 

range. 
But never have sought, nor sigh'd for 

change ; 
And Death, whenever he come to me, 
Shall come on the wild unbounded sea ! 
Bryan Waller Pbocter 
(Barry* Cornwall). 

The Sea-Limits. 

CoxsirER the sea's listless chime : 
Time's self it is, made audible, — 
The murmur of the earth's own shell. 

Secret continuance sublime 

Is the sea's end : our sight may pass 
No furlong further. Since time was. 

This sound hath told the lapse of time. 

No quiet, which is death's, — it hath 
The mournfulness of ancient life, 
Enduring always at dull strife. 

As the world's heart of rest and wrath, 
Its painful pulse is in the sands. 
Last utterly, the whole sky stands. 

Gray and not known, along its path. 

Listen alone beside the sea. 

Listen alone among the woods ; 

Those voices of twin solitudes 
Shall have one sound alike to thee: 

Hark where the murmurs of throng'd 
men 

Surge and sink back and surge again, — 
Still the one voice of wave and tree. 

Gather a shell from the strown beach 
And listen at its lips : they sigh 
The same desire and mystery. 

The echo of the whole sea's speech. 
And all mankind is thus at heart 
Not anything but what thou art : 

And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each. 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 



The Tempest. 

The tempest has darken'd the face of the 
skies, 
The winds whistle wildly across the 
waste plain. 
The fiends of the whirlwind terrific arise. 
And mingle the clouds with the white 
foaming main. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



465 



All dark is the night and all gloomy the And shall not this night, and its long dis- 
shore, nial gloom, 



Save when the red lightnings the cllier 
divide; 
Then follows the thunder with loud-sound- 
ing roar, 

And echoes in concert the billowy tide. 

But though now all is murky and shaded 
with gloom, 
Hope, the soother, soft whispers the tem- 
pest sliall cease ; 
Then Nature again in her beauty shall 
bloom. 
And enamor'd embrace the fair, sweet- 
smiling Peace. 

For the bright blushing Morning, all rosy 
with light, 
Shall convey on her wings the creator of 
day ; 
He shall drive all the tempests and terrors 
of night. 
And Nature, enliven'd, again shall be 
gay- 
Then the warblers of Spring shall attune 
tlie soft lay, 
And again the bright floweret shall 
blush in the vale; 
On the breast of the ocean the zephyr shall 
play. 
And the sunbeam shall sleep on the hill 
and the dale. 

If the tempests of Nature so soon sink to 
rest, 
If her once-fadod beauties so soon glow 
again. 
Shall man be for ever by tempests op- 
press'd, — 
By the tempests of passion, of sorrow, 
and pain? 

.\h, no I for liis passions and sorrows shall 
cease 
When the troublesome fever of life shall 
be o'er : 
In tlie night of the grave he shall slumber 
in peace, 
And passion and sorrow shall ve.K him 
no more. 
30 



IJke the night of the tempest again 

pass away ? 
Yes ! the dust of the earth in bright 

beauty shall bloom, 

And rise to the morning of heavenlv 

day. 

Sir IIduphry Daw. 



Gulf- Weed. 

A WEARY weed, toss'd to and fro, 

Drearily drench'd in the ocean brine. 
Soaring high and sinking low, 

Lash'd along without will of mine ; 
Sport of the spoom of the surging sea: 

Flung on the foam, afar and ancar, 
Mark my manifold mystery, — 

Growth and grace in their place appear. 

I bear round berries, gray and red, 

Rootless and rover though I be ; 
My spangled leaves, when nicely spread, 

Arboresce as a trunkless tree ; 
Corals curious coat me o'er, 

White and hard in apt array ; 
'Mid the wild waves' rude uproar 

Gracefully grow I, night and day. 

Hearts there are on the sounding shore, 

Something whispers soft to me, 
Restless and roaming for evermore, 

Like this weary weed of the sea; 
Bear they yet on each beating breast 

The eternal type of the wondrous whole, 
Growth unfolding amidst unrest, 

Grace informing with silent soul. 

Cornelius George Fenser. 



The Treasures of the Deep. 

What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves 

and cells. 
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious 

main ? — 
Pale gli.stening pearls and rainbow-color'd 

shells. 
Bright things which gleam unreck'd-of 

and in vain ! — 
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea 1 
We ask not such from thee. 



466 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Yet more, the depths have more !^what 

wealth untold, 
Far down, and shining through their 

stillness lies ! 
Thou haat the starry gems, the burning 

gold. 
Won from ten thousand royal argosies ! — 
Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and 

wrathful main ! 
Earth claims not these again. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! thy 
waves have roll'd 
Above the cities of a world gone by ; 
Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old. 
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of rev- 
elry.— 
Dash o'er them. Ocean, in thy scornful 

play ! 
Man yields them to decay. 

Yet more, the billows and the depths have 

more ! 
High hearts and brave are gather'd to 

thy breast ! 
They hear not now the booming waters 

roar, 
The battle-thunders will not break their 

rest. — 
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy 

grave ! 
Give back the true and brave ! 

Give back the lost and lovely ! those for 
whom 
The place was kept at board and hearth 
so long ! 

The prayer went up through midnight's 
breathless gloom. 
And the vain yearning woke midst fes- 
tal song ! 

Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'er- 
thrown, — 

But all is not thine own. 

To thee the love of woman hath gone 
down. 
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble 
head, 
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's 
flowery crown ; 
Yet must thou hear a voice, — Restore 
the dead ! 



Earth shall reclaim her precious things 

from thee ! — 
Restore the dead, thou sea ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemaks. 



The Coral Grove. 

Deep in the wave is a coral grove. 
Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove; 
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of 

blue 
That never are wet with falling dew, 
But in bright and changeful beauty shine 
Far down in the green and glassy brine. 
The floor is of sand, like the mountain- 
drift, 
And the pearl-shells spangle the fli nty snow ; 
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 
Their boughs, where the tides and billows 

flow ; 
The water is calm and still below, 
For the winds and waves are absent there. 
And the sands are bright as the stars that 

glow- 
In the motionless fields of upper air. 
There, with its waving blade of green, 
The sea-flag streams through the silent 

water. 
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 
To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter. 
There with a light and easy motion 
The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, 

deep sea ; 
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 
Are bending like corn on the upland lea; 
And life, in rare and beautiful forms. 
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone. 
And is safe when the wrathful spirit of 

storms 
Has made the top of the wave his own. 
And when the ship from his fury flies, 
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar. 
When the wind-god frowns in the murky 

skies. 
And demons are waiting the wreck on 

shore ; 

Then, far below, in the peaceful sea, 

The purple mullet and gold-fish rove 

Where the waters murmur tranquilly, 

Through the bending twigs of the coral 

grove. 

James Gates Percival. 




\ 



^ 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



467 



THE Chambered Nautilus. 

Tmsistheshipof pearl, which, poets feign, 
Sails the unshadow'd main, — 
The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled 

wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare, 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their 
streaming hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 
Wreck'd is the ship of pearl ! 
And every chamber'd cell, 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to 

dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing 
shell. 
Before thee lies reveal'd, — 
Its iris'd ceiling rent, its sunless crypt 
unseal'd ! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 
That spread his lustrous coil ; 
Still, as the spiral grew. 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new. 
Stole with soft step its shining archway 
through. 
Built up its idle door, 
Stretch'd in his la.st-found home, and knew 
the old no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought 
by thee. 
Child of the wandering sea. 
Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wrcathi-d huru I 

While on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear 
a voice that sings : — 

Build thee more stately mansions, my 
soul. 
As the swift seasons roll ! 
Leave thy low-vaultcil past! 
Let each now temple. noMcr than the last, 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more 
va>t. 
Till thou at length art free. 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's un- 
resting sea ! 

Olivkr Wendell Ht>LMHs. 



The ANGLER'S Wish. 

I IN these flowery meads would be. 

These crystal streams should solace me ; 

To whose harmonious bubbling noise 

I, with my angle, would rejoice, 

Sit here, and see the turtle-dove 
Court his chaste mate to acts of love ; 

Or, on that bank, feel the west wind 
Breathe health and plenty ; please my 

mind. 
To see sweet dewdrops kiss these flowers. 
And then wash'd off by April showers; 
Here, hear my kenna sing a song : 
There, see a blackbird feed her young, 

Or a laverock build her nest ; 

Here, give my weary .spirits rest, 

And raise my low-pitch'd thoughts above 

Earth, or what poor mortals love. 

Thus, free from lawsuits, and the 
noise 

Of princes' courts, I would rejoice ; 

Or, with my Bryan and a book. 

Loiter long days near Shawford brook ; 

There sit by him, and eat my meat ; 

There see the sun both rise and set ; 

There bid good-morning to next day; 

There meditate my time away ; 

And angle on ; and beg to have 
A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 
IZAAK Walton. 



Verses in Praise of Angling. 

QrivF.RiN'G fears, heart-tearing cares. 
Anxious sighs, untimely tears. 
Fly, fly to courts, 
Fly to fond worldlings' sports. 
Where strain'd sardonic smiles are glosing 

still, 
And Grief is forced to laugh against her 
will, 
! Whore mirth's but mummery. 

And sorrows only real be. 

Fly from our country pa.stimes, fly, 
; Sad troops of human misery, 
Come, serene looks, 
Clear a.s the crystal brooks. 



468 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Or the pure azured heaven that smiles to 


Upon these downs, these meads, these 


see 


rocks, these mountains ; 


The rich attendance on our poverty ; 


And peace still slumber by these purling 


Peace and a secure mind, 


fountains. 


Which all men seek, we only find. 


Which we may every year 




Meet, when we come a-fishing here. 
Sir Henry Wotton. 


Abusfed mortals ! did you know 


Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow, 




You'd scorn proud towers. 


'-' 


And seek them in these bowers. 


THE Angler. 


Where winds, sometimes, our woods per- 




haps may shake. 


Oh the gallant fisher's life! 


But blustering care could never tempest 


It is the best of any : 


make ; 


'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife. 


Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us, 


And 'tis beloved by many ; 


Saving of fountains that glide by us. 


Other joys 




Are but toys ; 


Here's no fantastic mask nor dance, 


Only this 


But of our kids that frisk and prance; 


Lawful is ; 


Nor wars are seen. 


For our skill 


Unless upon the green 


Breeds no ill, 


Two harmless lambs are butting one the 


But content and pleasure. 


other, 




Which done, both bleating run, each to 


In a morning up we rise. 


his mother ; 


Ere Aurora's peeping; 


And wounds are never found. 


Drink a cup to wash our eyes. 


Save what the ploughshare gives the 


Leave the sluggard sleeping ; 


ground. 


Then we go. 


Here are no entrapping baits 
To hasten to, too hasty fates ; 
Unless it be 


To and fro. 
With our knacks 
At our backs, 


The fond credulity 
Of sillv fish, which (worldling-like) still 


To such streams 
As the Thames, 


look 


If we have the leisure. 


Upon the bait, but never on the hook ; 


When we please to walk abroad 


Nor envy, 'less among 


The birds, for the price of their sweet 


For our recreation. 




In the fields is our abode. 


song. 


Full of delectation, 


Go, let the diving negro .seek 


Where, in a brook, 


For gems, hid in some forlorn creek ; 


With a hook— 


We all pearls scorn 


Or a lake, — 


Save what the dewy morn 


Fish we take; 


Congeals upon each little spire of grass. 


There we sit 


Which careless shepherds beat down as 


For a bit, 


they pass; 


Till we fish entangle. 


And gold ne'er here appears. 




Save what the yellow Ceres bears. 


We have gentles in a horn. 




We have paste and worms too ; 


Blest silent groves, oh may you be. 


We can watch both night and morn. 


For ever, mirth's best nursery ! 


Suffer rain and storms too ; 


May pure contents 


None do here 


For ever pitch their tents 


Use to swear : 



POEMS 01 


^ NATURE. 4G9 


Oaths do fray 


Up, sweet thrushes, tell to me ! 


Fish away ; 


Is there wind up our willow tree? 


We sit still, 


Wind or calm at our trysting-tree? 


Watch our quill : 
Fishers must not wrangle. 




Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing ! 




Wile us with a merry glee ; 


If the sun's excessive heat 


To the flowery haunts of spring — 


Make our bodies swelter, 


To the angler's trysting-tree. 


To an osier hedge we get, 


Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me ! 


For a friendly shelter; 


Are there flow'rs 'neath our willow tree? 


Where — in a dyke, 


Spring and flowers at the trysting-tree? 


Perch or pike, 


Thomas Tod Stohdakt. 


Roach or dace. 


>Oi 


We do chase, 




Bleak or gudgeon. 


Address to Certain Gold- 


Without grudging; 


fishes. 


We are still contented. 


Restless forms of living light 


Or, we sometimes pass an hour 


Quivering on your lucid wings, 


Under a green willow 


Cheating still the curious sight 


That defends us from a shower. 


With a thousand .shadowings; 


Making earth our pillow ; 


Various as the tints of even. 


Where we may 


Gorgeous as the hues of heaven. 


Think and pray. 


Reflected on your native streams 


Before death 


In flitting, flashing, billowy gleams! 


Stops our breath ; 


Harmless warriors, clad in mail 


Other joys 
Are but toys. 


Of silver breastplate, golden scale — 


Mail of Nature's own bestowing. 


And to be lamented. 


With peaceful radiance mildly glowing — 


John Ciialkiiill. 


Fleet are ye as fleetest galley 




Or pirate rover sent from Sallee ; 




Keener than the Tartar's arrow. 


The ANGLER'S TrystingTree. 


Sport yc in your sea so narrow. 


Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! 


Wa.s the sun himself your sire? 


Meet the morn upon the lea ; 


Were ye born of vital fire? 


Are the emeralds of the spring 


Or of the shade of golden flowers 


On the angler's trysting-tree? 


Such as we fetch from Eastern bowers, 


Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me! 


To mock this murky clime of ours? 


Are there buds on our willow tree? 


Upward, downward, now ye glance. 


Buds and birds on our trysting-tree? 


Weaving many a mazy dance; 




Seeming still to grow in size 


Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! 


When ye would elude our eyes- 


Have you met the honey-bee. 


Pretty creatures! we might deem 


Circling upon rapid wing. 


Ye were happy as ye seem — 


'Round the angler's trysting-tree? 


As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe, 


Up, sweet thrushes, up and see! 


As light, a.s loving, and as lilhe. 


Are there bees at our willow tree? 


.Vs gladly earnest in your play. 


Birds and bees at the trysting-tree? 


As when ye gleam'd in far Cathay : 


Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! 


And yet since on this hapless earth 


.\re the fountains gushing free? 


There's small sincerity in mirth, 


Is the south wind wandering 


And laughter oft is but an art 


Through the angler's trysting-tree? 


To drown the outcry of the heart; 



470 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



It may be, that your ceaseless gambols, 
Your wheelings, dartings, divings, rambles, 
Your restless roving round and round 
The circuit of your crystal bound — 
Is but the task of weary pain, 
An endless labor, dull and vain ; 
And while your forms are gayly shining, 
Your little lives are inly pining ! 
Nay — but still I fain would dream, 
That ye are happy as ye seem. 

Hartley Coleridge. 



The Storsiy Petrel. 

A THOUSAND miles from land are we, 
Tossing about on the stormy sea — 
From billow to bounding billow cast, 
Like fleecy snow on the stormy l^last. 
The sails are scatter'd abroad like weeds ; 
The strong masts shake like quivering 

reeds ; 
The mighty cables and iron chains, 
The hull, which all earthly strength dis- 
dains, — 
They strain and they crack ; and hearts 

like stone 
Their natural, hard, proud strength disown. 

Up and down ! — up and down ! 

From the base of the wave to the billow's 

crown. 
And amidst the flashing and feathery 

foam 
The stormy petrel finds a home, — 
A home, if such a place may be 
For her who lives on the wide, wide sea, 
On the craggy ice, in the frozen air. 
And only seeketh her rocky lair 
To warm her young, and to teach them to 

spring 
At once o'er the waves on their stormy 

wing ! 

O'er the deep ! — o'er the deep ! 

Where the whale and the shark and the 

swordfish sleep, — 
Outflying the blast and the driving rain, 
The petrel telletb her tale — in vain ; 
For the mariner curseth the warning bird 
Whicli bringeth him news of the storm 

unheard ! 



Ah ! thus does the prophet of good or ill 
Meet hate from the creatures he serveth 

still ; 
Yet he ne'er falters, — so, petrel, spring 
Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy 

wing ! 

Bryan Waller Procter 
(Barky Cornwall), 



The Little Beach-Bird. 

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the 
sea. 
Why takest thou its melancholy voice. 
And with that boding cry 
O'er the waves dost thou fly ? 
Oh ! rather, bird, with me 
Through the fair land rejoice ! 

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and 
pale. 
As driven by a beating storm at sea ; 
Thy cry is weak and scared, 
As if thy mates had shared 
The doom of us. Thy wail — 
What does it bring to me ? 

Thou call'st along the sand, and hauut'st 
the surge. 
Restless and sad ; as if, in strange accord 
With the motion and the roar 
Of waves that drive to shore, 
One spirit did ye urge — 
The Mystery— the Word. 

Of thousands thou both sepulchre and 
pall, 
Old Ocean, art ! A requiem o'er the 
dead 
From out thy gloomy cells 
A tale of mourning tells— 
Tells of man's woe and fall. 
His sinless glory fled. 

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy 
flight 
Where the complaining sea shall sadness 
bring 
Thy spirit never more. 
Come, quit with me, the shore 
For gladness, and the light 
Where birds of summer sing. 

Richard Henry Dana. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



471 



To A Waterfowl. 

WuiTliER, 'midst falling dew, 
While glow the heavens with the last 

steps of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou 
pursue 
Thy solitary way? 

A'ainly the fowler's eye 
Miglit mark thy distant flight to do thee 

wrong, 
As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide. 
Or where the rocking billows rise and 
sink 

On the chafed ocean side ? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless 

coast. 
The desert and illimitable air. 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fann'd. 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmo- 
sphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome 
land, 
Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end ; 
Soon shall thou find a summer home and 

rest, 
And scream among thy fellows; reeds 
shall bend 
Soon o'er thy sbelter'd nest. 

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 

Hath swallow'd up thy form ; yet, on my 

heart, 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast 

given. 
And shall not soon depart. 

lie who, from zone to zone, 
Guides througli the boundless sky thy cer- 
tain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 
Will lead my steps aright. 

William Cl'llen Bkyant. 



To A Bird 

THAT FlAtJNTED THE AVaTERS OF LAAKEN 
IX THE WlNTEK. 

O MELAXCHOLY bird ! a winter's day 
Thou staudest by the margin of the 

pool. 
And, taught by God, dost thy whole 
being school 
To patience, which all evil can allay. 
God has ajjpointed thee the lish thy prey, 
And given thyself a lesson to the fool 
L'nthrifty, to submit to moral rule. 
And his unthinking course by thee to 
weigh. 
There need not schools nor the profes- 
sor's chair. 
Though these be good, true wisdom to im- 
part; 
lie who has not enough for these to 
spare 
Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart, 
And teach his soul by brooks and rivers 
fair, — 
Nature is always w^ise in every part. 

Loud Thlrlow. 



SOXG. 

The lark now leaves his watery nest. 
And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings ; 

He takes this window for the cast ; 
And to implore your light, he sings, — 

Awake, awake, the morn will never rise, 

Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. 

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star. 

The ploughman from the sun his season 

takes. 

But still the lover wonders what they are 

Who look for day before his mistress 

wakes. 

Awake, awake, break through your veils 

of lawn. 

Then draw your curtains, and begin the 

dawn. 

Sir William Davenaxt. 



SOXG. 

'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark, 
That bids a blithe good-morrow ; 



47: 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



But sweeter to hark, in the twinkling dark, 
To the soothing song of sorrow. 

nightingale ! What doth she ail ? 
And is she sad or jolly ? 

For ne'er on earth was sound of mirth 
So like to melancholy. 

The merry lark, he soars on high, 

No worldly thought o'ertakes him ; 
He sings aloud to the clear blue sky. 

And the daylight that awakes him. 
As sweet a lay, as loud, as gay, 

The nightingale is trilling ; 
With feeling bliss, no less than his, 

Her little heart is thrilling. 

Yet ever and anon, a sigh 

Peers through her lavish mirth ; 
For the lark's bold song is of the sky, 

And her's is of the earth. 
By night and day, she tunes her lay. 

To drive away all sorrow ; 
For bliss, alas ! to-night must pass, 

And woe may come to-morrow. 

Hartley Coleridge. 



To A Skylark. 

Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 

For thy song, Lark, is strong ; 

Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! 

Singing, singing, 

With clouds and sky about thee ringing. 

Lift me, guide me till I find 

That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 

I have walk'd through wildernesses dreary. 

And to-day my heart is weary ; 

Had I now the wings of a Faery, 

Up to thee would I fly. 

There's madness about thee, and joy divine 

In that song of thine ; 

Lift me, guide me high and high 

To thy banqueting-place in the sky. 

Joyous as morning, 

Thou art laughing and scorning ; 

Tliou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest. 

And, though little troubled with sloth. 

Drunken Lark! thou wouldst be loth 

To be such a Ti-aveller as L 



Happy, happy Liver, 

With a soul as strong as a mountain River 
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, 
Joy and jollity be with us botli ! 

William Wokdswoktii. 



To A Skylark. 

Ethereal Minstrel ! Pilgrim of the sky ! 
Dost thou despise the earth where cares 

abound? 
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and 

eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy 

ground? — 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at 

will, 
Those quivering wings composed, that 

music still ! 
To the last point of vision, and beyond, 
Mount, daring Warbler ! that love- 
prompted strain 
('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing 

bond) 
Thrills not the less the bosom of the 

plain : 
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! 

to sing 
All independent of the leafy spring. 

Leave to the Nightingale her shady wood ; 

A privacy of glorious light is tliinc; 
Whence thou dost pour upon tlie world a 
flood 
Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 
Type of the wise who soar, but never 

roam ; 
True to the kindred points of Heaven and 

Home! 

William Wokdswortii. 



The Skylark. 

Bird of the wilderness. 
Blithesome and cumberless. 

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and 
lea! 
Emblem of happiness. 
Blest is thy dwelling-place — 

Oh to abide in the desert with thee ! 
Wild is thy laj', and loud. 
Far in the downy cloud ; 



POEMS OF NATURE. 473 


Love gives it energy — love gave it birth. 


All the earth and air 


Where, on thy dewy wing — 


With thy voice is loud, 


AVhere art tliou journeying ? 


As, when night is bare. 


Thy lay is in heaven— thy love is on earth. 


From one lonely cloud 




The moon rains out her beams, and heaven 


O'er fell and fountain sheen. 
O'er moor and mountain green. 


is ovcrflow'd. 


O'er the red streamer that heralds the day ; 


What thou art we know not ; 


Over the cloudlet dim, 


What is most like thee? 


Over the rainbow's rim, 


From rainbow clouds there flow not 


Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ! 


Drops so bright to see, 


Then, wlien the gloaming comes. 


As from thy presence showers a rain of 


Low in the heather blooms. 


melody. 


Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love 
be ! 


Like a poet bidden 


Emblem of happiness, 
Blest is thy dwelling-place — 
Oh to abide in the desert with thee ! 

James Hogg. 


In the light of thought. 
Singing hymns unbidden, 
Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it 


y, 


heeded not; 


To A Skylark. 


Like a high-born maiden 
In a palace tower. 


Hail to thee, blithe spirit — 


Soothing her love-laden 


Bird thou never wert — 


Soul in secret hour 


That from heaven, or near it. 


With music sweet as love, which overflows 


Pourest thy full heart 


her bower ; 


In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 






Like a glow-worm golden, 


Higher still and higher 


In a dell of dew, 


From the earth thou springest, 


Scattering unbeholden 


' Like a cloud of fire ; 


Its aerial hue 


1 The blue deep thou wingest, 


Among the flowers and grass which screen 


And singing still dost soar, and soaring 


it from the view ; 


ever singest. 


Like a rose embower'd 


In the golden lightning 


In its own green leaves. 


Of the setting sun. 


By warm winds deflower'd, 


O'er which clouds are bright'ning, 


Till the scent it gives 


Thou dost float and run ; 


Makes faint with too much sweet these 


Like an embodied joy whose race is just 


hea\-y-wingfed thieves. 


begun. 


Sound of vernal showers 


The pale purple even 


On the twinkling grass. 


Melts around thy flight ; 


Rain-awaken'd flowers, 


Like a star of heaven, 


AH that ever was 


In the broad daylight 


Joyous and fresh and clear, thy music doth 


Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill 


surpass. 


delight — 


Teach us, sprite or bird. 


Keen as arc the arrows 


What sweet thoughts are thine ; 


Of that silver sphere, 


I have never heard 


1 Whose intense lamp narrows 


Praise of love or wine 


In the white dawn clear, 


That panted forth a flood of rapture so 


Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there. 


divine. 



474 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF rOETRY. 


Chorus hymeneal, 


The Early Blue-Bird. 


Or triumphant chaunt, 




Match'd with thine, would be all 


Blue-bird ! on yon leafless tree. 


But an empty vaunt, — 


Dost thou carol thus to me. 


A thing wherein we feel there is some 


"Spring is coming! Spring is here!" 


hidden want. 


Say'st thou so, my birdie dear? 




What is that, in misty shroud, 


AV'hat objects are the fountains 


Stealing from the darken'd cloud ? 


Of thy happy strain ? 


Lo! the snow-flakes' gathering mound 


What fields, or waves, or mountains? 


Settles o'er the whiten'd ground, 


What shapes of sky or plain? 


Yet thou singest, blithe and clear, 


What love of thine own kind? What 


"Spring is coming ! Spring is here !" 


ignorance of pain ? 






Strik'st thou not too bold a strain ? 


With thy clear, keen joyance 


Winds are piping o'er the plain ; 


Languor cannot be ; 


Clouds are sweeping o'er the sky 


Shadow of annoyance 


With a black and threatening eye ; 


Never came near thee ; 


Urchins, by the frozen rill. 


Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad 


W^rap their mantles closer still ; 


satiety. 


Yon poor man, with doublet old. 


W^aking, or asleep, 


Doth he shiver at the cold ? 


Thou of death must deem 


Hath he not a nose of blue ? 


Things more true and deep 


Tell me, birdling, tell me true. 


Than we mortals dream. 




Or how could thy notes flow in such a 


Spring's a maid of mirth and glee, 


Rosy wreaths and revelry : 


crystal stream ? 


Hast thou woo'd some wingfed love 


We look before and after, 


To a nest in verdant grove ? 


And pine for what is not ; 


Sung to her of greenwood bower. 


Our sincerest laughter 


Sunny skies that never lower ? 


With some pain is fraught; 


Lured her with thy promise fair 


Our sweetest songs are those that tell of 


Of a lot that knows no care? 


saddest thought. 


Pr'ythee, bird, in coat of blue. 




Though a lover, tell her true. 


Yet if we could scorn 




Hate and pride and fear. 


Ask her if, when storms are long, 


If we were things born 


She can sing a cheerful song? 


Not to shed a tear, 


When the rude winds rock the tree, 


I know not how thy joy we ever should 


If she'll closer cling to thee ? 


come near. 


Tlien the blasts that sweep the sky. 


Better than all measures 


Unappall'd shall pass thee by ; 


Of delightful sound, 


Though thy curtain'd chamber show 


Better than all treasures 


Sittings of untimely snow, 


That in books are found, 


AVarm and glad thy heart shall be. 


Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the 


Love shall make it Spring for thee. 


ground ! 


Lydia Huntley Sigourney. 


Teach me half the gladness 




That thy brain must know. 


The Thrush s Nest. 


Such harmonious madness 




From my lips would flow, 


Within a thick and spreading hawthorn 


The world sliould listen then, as I am lis- 


bush. 


tening now. 


That overhung a molehill large and 


Percy Bysshe Shelley. 


round. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



475 



I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush 
Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank 
the sound 
With joy, and oft, an uuiiitruding guest, 
I watch'd her secret toils from day to 
day ; 
How true she warp'd the moss to form her 
nest, 
And modell'd it within with wood and 
clay. 
And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with 
dew. 
There lay her shining eggs as bright as 
flowers. 
Ink -spotted over, shells of green and blue : 
And there I witness'd in the summer 
hours 
A brood of Nature's minstrels chirp and 

fly, 

Glad as the sunshine and the laughing 

sky. 

John Clare. 



Sonnet. 

To THE Redbreast. 

When that the fields put on their gay 
attire, 
Thou silent sitt'st near brake or river's 

brim, 
Wliilst the gay thrush sings loud from 
covert dim ; 
But when pale Winter lights the social 

fire. 
And meads with slime are sprent and 

ways with mire, 
Thou charm'st us with thy soft and solemn 

hymn, 
From battlement or barn, or haystack trim ; 
And now not seldom tun'st, as if for hire, 
Thy thrilling pipe to me, waitiug to 
catch 
The pittance due to thy well-warbled song : 
Sweet bird, sing on ! for oft near lonely 
hatch. 
Like thee, myself have pleased the rustic 
throng. 
And oft for entrance, 'neath the peaceful 
thatch. 
Full many a tale have told and ditty 
long. 

John Baupfyldb. 



Robin Redbreast. 

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer ! 

For Summer's nearly done ; 
The garden smiling faintly. 

Cool breezes in the sun ; 
Our thrushes now are silent. 

Our swallows flown away, — 
But llobin's here in coat of brown. 

And scarlet breast-knot gay. 
Eobin, Robin Redbreast, 

O Robin dear! 
Eobin sings so sweetly 

In the falling of the year. 

Bright yellow, red, and orange, 

The leaves come down in hosts ; 
I The trees are Indian princes, 

But soon they'll turn to ghosts; 
The leathery pears and api)les 

Hang russet on the bougli ; 
It's autumn, autumn, autumn late, 

'Twill soon be winter now. 
Robin, Robin Redbreast, 

O Robin dear! 
And what will this poor Robin do? 

For pinching days are near. 

The fireside for the cricket. 

The wheat-stack for the mouse. 
When trembling night-winds whistle 

And moan all round the house. 
The frosty ways like iron. 

The branches plumed with snow, — 
Alas ; in winter dead and dark, 

Wiiere can poor Robin go? 
Robin, Robin Redbreast, 

O Robin dear! 
And a crumb of broad for Robin, 

His little heart to cheer. 

William Allinuiiam. 



To A NlGHTINOALE. 

Sweet bird ! that sing'st away the early 
hours 
Of winters pa.st or coming, void of 

care; 
Well pleasfed with delights which pres- 
ent are. 
Fair sea-sons, budding sprays, sweet-smell- 
ing flowers — 



476 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy 
bowers 
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost de- 
clare, 
And what dear gifts on thee He did not 
spare, 
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. 
What soul can be so sick which by thy 
songs 
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not 
driven 
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, 
and wrongs, 
And lift a reverend eye and thought to 
Heaven ! 
Sweet, artless songster ! thou my mind 

dost raise 
To airs of spheres — yes, and to angels' 
lays. 

William Drusimond. 



To THE Nightingale. 

Dear chorister, who from those shadows 
sends — 
Ere that the blushing morn dare show 
her light — ■ 
Such sad lamenting strains, that night at- 
tends, 
Become all ear, stars stay to hear thy 
plight : 
If one whose grief e'en reach of thought 
transcends, 
Who ne'er (not in a dream) did taste 
delight, 
May thee importune who like case pre- 
tends, 
And seems to joy in woe, in woe's de- 
spite ; 
Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try. 
And long, long, sing!) for what thou thus 
complains, 
Since winter's gone, and sun in dappled 
sky 
Enamor'd smiles on woods and flowery 
plains ? 
The bird, as if my questions did her 

move, 
With trembling wings sigh'd forth, " I 

love, I love." 

William Drvmmond. 



To THE NIGHTINGALE. 

O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy 
spray, 
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are 

still. 
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart 
dost fill. 
While the jolly hours lead on propitious 

May. 
Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of 
day. 
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's 

bill, 
Portend success in love. Oh, if Jove's 
will 
Have link'd that amorous power to thy 
soft lay, 
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of 
hate 
Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove 
nigh ; 
As thou from year to year hast sung too 
late 
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why. 
Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his 
mate, 
Both them I serve, and of their train am I. 

John Milton. 



Ode to a Nightingale. 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness 
pains 
IMy sense, as though of hemlock I had 
drunk. 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the dr.ains 
One minute past, and Lethe-ward had 
sunk. 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 
But being too happy in thy happiness, 
That thou, light- winged Dryad of the trees. 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows number- 
less, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 

Oh, for a draught of vintage, that hath been 
Cool'd a long age in the deep delved 
earth, 
Tasting of Flora and the country green, 
Dance, and Provcnfal song, and sun- 
burn'd mirth ! 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



477- 



Oh, for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful IIij>po- 
crene. 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim. 
And |)urplc-staint'd mouth, — 
That I miglit drink, and leave the world 
unseen, 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim! 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
What thou among the leaves hast never 
known, 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
Here, where men sit and hear each other 
groan, 
Where palsy shakes a few sad, last gray 
hairs, 
Where youth grows pale, and spectre- 
thin, and dies. 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And lea<len-eyed despairs. 
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous 
eyes, 
Or new love pine at them beyond to-mor- 
row. 

Away I away '. for I will fly to thee. 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
Though the dull brain perplexes and re- 
tards : 
Already with thee ! tender is the night, 
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her 
throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her starry fays ; 
But here there is no light. 
Save what from heaven is with the 
breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding 
mossy ways. 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 
Nor what soft incense bangs upon the 
boughs ; 
But, in embalmiid darkness, giiess each 
sweet 
Wherewith the seasonable month en- 
dows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit tree 
wild,— 
White hawthorn and the pastoral eglan- 
tine; 



Fast-fading violets, cover'd up in leaves, 
And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy 
wine. 
The murmurous haunt of flics on summer 
eves. 

Darkling I listen, and for many a time 
I have been h.ilf in love with easeful 
Death, 
Call'd him soft names in many a mus^d 
rhyme, 
To take into the air my quiet breatli : 
Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die. 
To cease upon the midniglit, with no 
piiin, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul 
abroad 
In such an ecstasy ! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears 
in vain, — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal 
bird ! 
No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was 
heard 
In ancient days by emperor and clown ; 
Perhaps the selfsame song that found a 
path 
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, 
sick for home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that ofttimes hath 
Charm'd magic easements opening on 
the foam 
Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn. 

Forlorn I the very word is like a bell 
To toll me back from thee to mv sole 
self? 
Adieu ! the Fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu! adieu! thy jilaintivc anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still 
stream. 
Up the hillside, and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades; 
Was it a vision or a waking dream ? 
Fled is that music, — do I wake or sleep ? 

JoII.N' KllATS. 



478 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



The Nightingale. 

As it fell upon a day 

In the merry month of May, 

Sitting in a jileasant shade 

Which a grove of myrtles made, 

Beasts did leap and birds did sing. 

Trees did grow and plants did spring, 

Everything did banish moan 

Save the nightingale alone. 

She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 

Lean'd her breast against a thorn. 

And there sung the dolefullest ditty 

That to hear it was great pity. 

Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry ; 

Tereu, tereu, by and by : 

That to hear her so complain 

Scarce I could from tears refrain ; 

For her griefs so lively shown 

Made me think upon mine own. 

— Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain. 

None takes pity on thy pain : 

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee. 

Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee ; 

King Pandion, he is dead, 

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead : 

All thy fellow-birds do sing 

Careless of thy sorrowing : 

Even so, poor bird, like thee 

None alive will pity me. 

Richard Barsefield. 



The Songs of Birds. 

What bird so sings, yet so does wail ? 
Oh 'tis the ravish'd nightingale — 
Jug, jug, jug, jug,— tern— she cries, 
And still her woes at midnight rise. 
Brave prick-song ! who is't now we hear ? 
None but the lark so shrill and clear ; 
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings. 
The morn not waking till she sings. 
Hark, hark ! with what a pretty throat 
Poor Robin Redbreast tunes his note ; 
Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing 
" Cuckoo !" to welcome in the spring. 



On the Departure of the 
Nightingale. 

Sweet poet of the woods — a long adieu I 
Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year ! 



Ah ! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing 
anew. 
And pour thy music on " the night's 
dull ear." 
Whether on Spring thy wandering flights 
await. 
Or whether silent in our groves you 
dwell, 
The pensive Muse shall own thee for her 
mate. 
And still protect the song she loves so 
well. 
With cautious step the love-lorn youth 
shall glide 
Through the long brake that shades thy 
mossy nest ; 
And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall 
hide 
The gentle bird who sings of pity best : 
For still thy voice shall soft aftections 

move, 
And still be dear to sorrow, and to love ! 
Charlotte Smith. 



To THE Cuckoo. 

O BLITHE new-comer ! I have heard, 

I hear thee and rejoice. 
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, 

Or but a wandering Voice? 

While I am lying on the grass 

Thy twofold shout I hear. 
That seems to fill the whole air's space. 

As loud far ofl" as near. 

Though babbling only to the Vale, 
Of sunshine and of flowers. 

Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! 

Even yet thou art to me 
No Bird : but an invisible Thing, 

A voice, a mystery ; 

The same whom in my Schoolboy days 

I listen'd to ; that Cry 
Which made me look a thousand ways 

In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 

Through woods and on the green ; 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



479 



And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 
Still loug'cl for, never seen. 

And I can listen to thee yet ; 

Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 

That golden time again. 

O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 

Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, faery place; 

That is (it home for Thee ! 

William Wordsworth. 



To THE CUCKOO. 

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! 

Thou messenger of Spring ! 
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, 

And woods thy welcome sing. 

Soon as the daisy declcs the green, 

Thy certain voice we hear. 
Hast thou a star to guide thy path. 

Or mark the rolling year? 

Delightful visitant! with thee 

I hail the time with flowers, 
And hear the sound of music sweet 

From birds among the bowers. 

The schoolboy, wandering through the 
wood 

To pull the primrose gay. 
Starts, tliy most curious voice to hear. 

And imitates thy lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom, 

Thou fliest tliy vocal vale. 
An annual guest in other lands. 

Another Spring to hail. 

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, 

Thy sky is ever clear ; 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 

No Winter in tliy year! 

Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! 

We'd make, with joyful wing. 
Our annual visit o'er the globe. 

Attendants on the Spring. 

John Ixxian, 



TiTE Black Cock. 

Good-morrow to thy sable beak. 
And glossy plumage dark and sleek. 
Thy crimson moon and azure eye. 
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy I 
I see thee, slyly cowering, through 
That wiry web of silvery dew. 
That twinkles in the morning air. 
Like casement of my lady fair. 

A maid there is in yonder tower, 
AVTio, peeping from her early bower, 
Half shows, like thee, with simple wile. 
Her braided hair and morning smile. 
The rarest things, with wayward will. 
Beneath the covert hide them still ; 
The rarest things to light of day 
Look shortly forth, and shrink away. 

One fleeting moment of delight 
I sunn'd me in her cheering sight ; 
And short, I ween, the term will be 
That I shall parley hold with thee. 
Through Snowdon's mist red beams the 

day. 
The climbing herd-boy chants his lay. 
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring, — 
Thou art already on the wing. 

Joanna Baillie. 

SONG. 

On welcome, bat and owlet gray. 
Thus winging low your airy way ! 
And welcome, moth and drowsy fly. 
That to mine ear come humming by ! 
And welcome, shadows dim and deep, 
And stars that through the pale sky 

peep ! 
Oh welcome all ! to me ye say, 
My woodland love is on her way. 

Upon the soft wind floats her hair ; 
Her breath is in the dewy air ; 
Her steps are in the whisper'd sound 
That steals along the stilly ground. 
dawn of day, in rosy bower, 
What art thou to this witching hour'? 
O noon of day, in sunshine bright. 
What art thou to the fall of night? 

Joanna Baillie. 



480 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



To THE Butterfly. 

Child of the sun ! pursue thy rapturous 

flight, 
Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of 

light ; 
And, where the flowers of Paradise unfold. 
Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of 

gold. 
There shall thy wings, rich as an evening 

sky. 
Expand and shut with silent ecstasy ! 
— Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that 

crept 
On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb 

and slept. 
And such is man ; soon from his cell of clay 
To burst a seraph in the blaze of day ! 

Samuel Rogers. 



o.v the grasshopper and 
Cricket. 

The poetry of earth is never dead : 
When all the birds are faint with the hot 

sun 
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown 

mead. 
That is the Grasshopper's— he takes the 

lead 
In summer luxury, — he has never done 
With his delights ; for, when tired out with 

fun, 
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant 

weed. 
The poetry of earth is ceasing never : 
On a lone winter evening, when the frost 
Has wrought a silence, from the stove 

there shrills 
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing 

ever, 

And seems, to one in drowsiness half lost, 

The Grasshopper's among some grassy 

hills. 

John Keats. 



To the Grasshopper and 
Cricket. 

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass. 
Catching your heart up at the feel of 
June — 



Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy 
noon 
When even the bees lag at the summoning 

brass ; 
And you, warm little housekeeper, who 
class 
With those who think the candles come 

too soon. 
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome 
tune 
Nick the glad silent moments as they 
pass; 

O sweet and tiny consins, that belong. 

One to the fields, the other to the 

hearth. 

Both have your sunshine: both, though 

small, are strong 

At your clear hearts; and both seem 

given to earth 

To ring in thoughtful ears this natural 

song— 

In doors and out, summer and winter. 

Mirth. 

Leigh Hunt. 



The Eumble-Bee. 

Burly, dozing humble-bee. 
Where thou art is clime for me. 
Let them sail for Porto Rique, 
Far-ofl" heats through seas to seek ; — 
I will follow thee alone. 
Thou animated torrid zone ! 
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer. 

Let me chase thy waving lines : 
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer. 

Singing over shrubs and vines. 

Insect lover of the sun, 
Joy of thy dominion ! 
Sailor of the atmosphere, 
Swimmer through the waves of air. 
Voyager of light and noon. 
Epicurean of June, 
Wait, I prithee, till I come 
Within earshot of thy hum,— 
All without is martyrdom. 

When the south wind, in Jlay days, 
With a net of shining haze 
Silvers the horizon wall ; 
And, with softness touching all, 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



481 



Tints the human countenance 
Willi the color of romance ; 
And infusing subtle heats 
Turns the sod to violets, — 
Thou in sunny solitudes, 
Rover of the underwoods. 
The green silence dost displace 
With thy mellow breezy bass. 

Hot Jlidsummer's petted crone, 
Sweet to nu> thy drowsy tone 
Tells of countless sunny hours. 
Long days, and solid banks of flowers; 
Of gull's of sweetness without bound 
In Indian wildernesses found ; 
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, 
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 

Aught unsavory or unclean 
Hath my insect never seen ; 
But violets, and bilberry bells. 
Maple sap, and daflbdils, 
Gntss with green flag half-mast high. 
Succory to match the sky. 
Columbine with horn of honey, 
Scented fern, and agrimony, 
Clover, catch-fly, adder's-tongue. 
And brier-roses, dwelt among: 
All beside was unknown waste, 
All was ]iicture as he pass'd. 
AViser far than human seer, 
Yellow-brecch'd philosopher! 
Seeing only what is fair, 

Sip|>ing only what is sweet. 
Thou dost mock at fate and care. 

Leave the chafl' and take the wheat. 
When the fierce north-western blast 
Cools sea and land so far and fa.st. 
Thou already slumberest deep ; 
Woe and want thou canst outsleep ; 
Want and woe, which torture us. 
Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 

Ralph Waldo Emebson. 



Soya, 

MADE Extempore by a Gentleman, oc- 
casioned BY A Fly dkixkino out or 
HIS Cup of Ale. 

Busy, curious, thirsty fly, 
Drink with me, and drink an I ; 
Freely welcome to my cup, 
Could'st thou sip and sij) it up. 
.tl 



Make the most of life you may ; 
Life is short and wears away. 

Both alike are mine and thine. 
Hastening quick to their decline ; 
Thine's a summer, mine no more. 
Though repeated to threescore ; 
Threescore summers, when they're gone, 
Wilt appear as short as one. 

William Oldys. 



SOXXKT TO THE GLOW-WORH. 

Tasteful illumination of the night. 
Bright scatter'd, twinkling star of span- 
gled earth ! 
Hail to the nameless color'd dark and light. 
The witching nurse of thy illumined 
birth. 
In thy still hour how dearly I delight 

To rest my weary bones, from labor free ; 
In lone spots out of hearing, out of sight. 
To sigh day's smother'd pains ; and 
pause on thee. 
Bedecking dangling brier and ivied tree, 

Or diamonds tipping on the grassy spear ; 
Thy pale-faced glimmering light I love to 
see, 
Gilding and glistering in the dew-drop 
near : 
O still-hour's mate ! my easing heart sobs 
free. 
While tiny bents low bend with many 
an added tear. 

John Tlake. 



To A Mouse, 

ON TURNiNO Her up in Her Nest with 
the Plough, November, 178-5. 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie. 
Oh, what a panic 's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa' sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' nnird'ring pattle ! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union. 
An' justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee starlle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 

An' fellow-mortal 1 



482 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
A daimen icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, 

And never miss 't. 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 
An' naething now to big a new ane 

O' foggage green ! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell and keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin' last, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast. 

Thou thought to dwell, 
'Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out through thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble. 

An' cranreuch cauld I 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane. 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men 

Gang aft agley, 
An' lea'e us naught but grief and pain, 

For promised joy. 

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me ! 

The present only toucheth thee : 

But, och ! I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects drear ! 

An' forward, though I canna see, 

I guess an' fear. 

Robert Burns. 



The KiTTEy. 

Wantox droll, whose harmless play 
Beguiles the rustic's closing day. 
When, drawn the evening fii-e about, 
Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout, 
And child upon his three-foot stool. 
Waiting until his supper cool ; 
And maid, whose cheek outblooms the 

rose. 
As bright the blazing fagot glows, 



Who, bending to the friendly light. 
Plies her task with busy sleight ; 
Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces. 
Thus circled round with merry faces. 

Backward coil'd, and crouching low. 
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, 
The housewife's spindle whirling round, 
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground 
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly 
Held out to lure thy roving eye ; 
Then onward stealing, fiercely spring 
Upon the tempting, faithless thing. 
Now, wheeling round with bootless skill, 
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, 
As still beyond thy curving side 
Its jetty tip is seen to glide ; 
Till, from thy centre starting far, 
Thou sidelong veer'st, with rump in air, 
Erected stiff, and gait awry, 
Like madam in her tantrums high. 
Though ne'er a madam of them all. 
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall. 
More varied trick and whim displays 
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze. 

Doth power in measured verses dwell. 

All thy vagaries wild to tell ? 

Ah, no ! the start, the jet, the bound, 

The giddy scamper round and round. 

With leap and toss and high curvet, 

And many a whirling somerset 

(Permitted by the modern Muse 

Expression technical to use). 

These mock the deftest rhymester's skill. 

But poor in art, though rich in will. 

The featest tumbler, stage-bedight. 
To thee is but a clumsy wight, 
Who every limb and sinew strains 
To do what costs thee little pains ; 
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd 
Requite him oft with plaudits loud. 

But, stopp'd the while thy wanton play. 
Applauses, too, thy feats repay ; 
For then beneath some urchin's hand 
With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand, 
While many a stroke of kindness glides 
Along thy back and tabby sides. 
Dilated swells thy glossy fur. 
And loudly croons thy busy purr. 
As, timing well the equal sound. 
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



483 



And all their harmless claws disclose, 
Like ])rickles of an early rose; 
While softly from thy whisker'd cheek 
Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek. 

But not alone by cottage fire 
Do rustics rude thy feats admire; 
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore 
The widest range of human lore, 
Or, with unfctter'd fancy, fly 
Through airy heights of poesy. 
Pausing, smiles with alter'd air 
To see thee climb his elbow-chair. 
Or, struggling on the mat below, 
Hold warfare with his slipper'd toe. 
The widow'd dame, or lonely maid. 
Who in the still but cheerless shade 
Of home unsocial spends her age. 
And rarely turns a letter'd page, 
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall 
The rounded cork or paper ball, 
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch 
The ends of ravell'd skein to catch. 
But lets thee have thy wayward will, 
Perple.xing oft her better skill. 

E'en he, whose mind of gloomy bent. 
In lonely tower or prison pent. 
Reviews the coil of former days. 
And loathes the world and all its ways, 
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam 
Doth rouse him from his moody dream. 
Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat, 
His heart of pride less fiercely beat, 
And smiles, a link in thee to find 
That joins it still to living kind. 

Whence ha.st thou, then, thou witless Puss, 
The magic power to charm us thus? 
Is it that in thy glaring eye 
And rapid movements we descry — 
Whilst we at ease, secure from ill, 
The chimney-corner snugly fill — 
A lion darting on his prey, 
A tiger at his ruthless play? 
Or is it that in thee we trace. 
With all thy varied wanton grace. 
An emblem, view'd with kindred eye. 
Of tricky, restless infancy? 
Ah, many a lightly sportive child. 
Who hath like thee our wits beguiled. 
To dull and sober manhood grown, 
With strange recoil our hearts disown. 



And so, poor Kit, must thou endure 
When thou becom'st a cat demure. 
Full many a curt" and angry word, 
Cha.sed roughly from the tempting board. 
But yet, for that thou hast, I ween, 
So oft our favor'd playmate been ; 
Soft be the change which thou shalt prove I 
When time hath spoil'd thee of our love, 
Still be thou deem'd by housewife fat 
A comely, careful, mousing cat. 
Whose dish is, for the public good, 
Replenish'd oft with savory food. 
Nor, when thy sjjan of life is past. 
Be thou to pond or dunghill cast. 
But, gently borne on good man's sp.ide, 
Beneath the decent sod be laid. 
And children show, with glistening eyes. 
The place where poor old Pussy lies. 

Joanna Baillie. 



Tjie Kitten Ayn the Fallixg 
Lea ves. 

Th.\t way look, my Infant, lo ! 
What a pretty baby-show ! 
See the Kitten on the Wall, 
Sporting with the leaves that foil, 
Wither'd leaves — one — two — and three — 
From the lofty Elder tree ! 
Through the calm and frosty air. 
Of this morning bright and fair. 
Eddying round and round they sink 
Softly, slowly : one might think. 
From the motions that are made, 
Every little leaf convey'd 
Sylph or Faery hither tending, — 
To this lower world descending. 
Each invisible and mute. 
In his wavering parachute. 

But the Kitten, how she starts, 

Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts I 
First at one, and then its fellow- 
Just as light and just as yellow ; 
There are many now — now one — 
Now they stop, and there are none ; 
What intenseness of desire 
In her upward eye of fire! 
With a tiger-leap half way 
Now she meets the coming prey. 
Lets it go as fiust, and then 
Has it in her power again : 



484 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Now she works with three or four, 


If you look to vale or hill, 


Like an Indian Conjuror ; 


If you listen, all is still, 


Quick as he in feats of art, 


Save a little neighboring Rill, 


Far beyond in joy of heart. 


That from out the rocky ground 


Were her antics play'd in the eye 


Strikes a solitary sound. 


Of a thousand standers-by, 


Vainly glitter hill and plain. 


Clapping hands with shout and stare, 


And the air is calm in vain ; 


What would little Tabby care 


Vainly Morning spreads the lure 


For the plaudits of the crowd? 


Of a sky serene and pure ; 


Over-happy to be proud, 


Creature none can she decoy 


Over-wealthy in the treasure 


Into open sign of joy : 


Of her own exceeding pleasure ! 


Is it that they have a fear 




Of the dreary season near? 


'Tis a pretty Baby-treat ; 


Or that other pleasures be 


Nor, I deem, for me unmeet ; 


Sweeter even than gayety ? 


Here, for neither Babe nor me, 




Other playmate can I see. 


Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell 


Of the countless living things. 


In the impenetrable cell 


That with stir of feet and wings 


Of the silent heart which Nature 


(In the sun or under shade, 


Furnishes to every Creature ; 


Upon bough or grassy blade) 


Whatsoe'er we feel and know 


And with busy revellings, 


Too sedate for outward show. 


Chirp and song, and murmurings, 


Such a light of gladness breaks. 


Made this Orchard's narrow space, 


Pretty Kitten ! from thy freaks, — 


And this Vale so blithe a place ; 


Spreads with such a living grace 


Multitudes are swept away, 


O'er my little Laura's face ; 


Never more to breathe the day : 


Yes, the sight so stirs and charms 


Some are sleeping ; some in Bands 


Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms. 


Travell'd into distant Lands ; 


That almost I could repine 


Others slunk to moor and wood. 


That your transports are not mine. 


Far from human neighborhood ; 


That I do not wholly fare 


And, among the Kinds that keep 


Even as ye do, thoughtless Pair ! 


With us closer fellowship, 


And I will have my careless season 


With us openly abide. 


Spite of melancholy reason. 


All have laid their mirth aside. 


Will walk through life in such a way 


— Where is he, that giddy Sprite, 


Tliat, when time brings on decay, 


Blue cap, with his colors bright, 


Now and then I may possess 


Who was blest as bird could be, 


Hours of perfect gladsoraeness. 


Feeding in the apple tree • 


— Pleased by any random toy ; 


Made such wanton spoil and rout. 


By a Kitten's busy joy, 


Turning blossoms inside out; 


Or an Infant's laughing eye 


Hung with head toward the ground, 


Sharing in the ecstasy ; 


Flutter'd, perch'd, into a round 


I would fare like that or this. 


Bound himself, and then unbound : 


Find my wisdom in my bliss ; 


Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin I 


Keep the sprightly soul awake, 


Prettiest Tumbler ever seen ! 


And have faculties to take. 


Light of heart and light of limb ; 


Even from things by sorrow wrought. 


What is now become of him ? 


Matter for a jocund thought, 


Lambs, that through the mountains went 


Spite of care, and spite of grief, 


Frisking, bleating merriment, 


To gambol with Life's falling Leaf. 


When the year was in its prime, 


William Wordsworth. 


They are sober'd by this time. 





POEMS OF NATURE. 



485 



The Pet lamb. 

A Pastoral. 

The dew was falling fast, the stars began 

to blink ; 
I heard a voice; it saiil, "Drink, pretty 

Creature, drink I" 
And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I 

espied 
A snow-white mountain Lamb with a 

Maiden at its side. ] 

I 
No other sheep were near, the Lamb was . 

all alone, 
And by a slender cord was tether'd to a 

stone ; 
With one knee on the gra.ss did the little 

Maiden kneel. 
While to tliat Mountain Lamb she gave its 

evening meal. 

The Lamb, while from her hand he thus 

his svip]ier took, 
Seem'd to feast with head and ears; and 

his tail with jtleiusure shook. 
" Drink, pretty Creature, drink," she said 

in such a tone 
That I almost received her heart into my 

own. 

'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a Child 

of beauty rare! 
I wateh'd them witli delight, they were a 

lovely pair. 
Now with her empty Can tlie Maiden 

turn'd away: 
But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps 

did she stay. 

Right toward the Lamb she look'd ; and 

from a shady place 
I unobserved could see the workings of 

her face: 
If Nature to her tongue could measured 

numbers bring, 
I Thus, thought L to her Lamb that little 

Maid might sing: 

"What ails thee. Young One? what? 

Wliy pull so at thy cord? 
Is it not well with thee? well both for bed 

and board ? 



Thy plot of grass is .soft, and green as 

gra.ss can be; 
Rest, little Young One, rest ; what is't that 

aileth thee ? 

" What is it thou would'st seek ? What 
is wanting to thy heart? 

Thy limbs are they not strong? And beau- 
tiful thou art : 

This grass is tender grass ; these flowers 
they have no peers ; 

And that green corn all day is rustling in 
thy cars ! 

" If the Sun be shining hot, do but stretch 

thy woollen chain. 
This beech is standing by, its covert thou 

canst gain ; 
For rain and mountain-storms, the like 

thou needest not fear — 
The rain and storm are things that scarcely 

can come here. 

" Rest, little Young One, rest ; thou hast 
forgot the day 

\\'hen my Father found thee first in places 
far away ; 

Many flocks were on the hills, but thou 
wcrt own'd by none, 

And thy mother from thy side for ever- 
more was gone. 

"lie took thee in bis arms, and in l>ity 

brouglit thee home : 
A blessed day for thee ! then whither 

wouldst thou roam? 
A faithful Nurse thou hast ; the dam that 

did thee yean 
Vpon the mountain-tops no kinder could 

have been. 

" Thou knowest that twice a day I brought 

thee in this Can 
Fresh water from the brook, as clear as 

ever ran ; 
And twice in the day, when the ground is 

wet with dew, 
I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk 

it is and new. 

" Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout 

as they are now. 
Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony 

in the plough ; 



486 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



My Playmate thou shalt be ; and when the 

wind is cold 
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house 

shall be thy fold. 

" It will not, will not rest ! — Poor Creature, 
can it be 

That 'tis thy mother's heart which is work- 
ing so in thee? 

Things that I know not of belike to thee 
are dear, 

And dreams of things which thou canst 
neither see nor hear. 

" Alas, the mountain-tops that look so 

green and fair! 
I've heard of fearful winds and darkness 

that come there ; 
The little brooks that seem all jiastime and 

all play. 
When they are angry, roar like Lions for 

their prey. 

"Here thou needest not dread the raven in 

the sky ; 
Night and day thou art safe, — our cottage 

is hard by. 
Why bleat so after me ? Why pull so at 

thy chain? 
Sleep — and at break of day I will come to 

thee again !" 

— As homeward through the lane I went 
with lazy feet. 

This song to myself did I oftentimes re- 
peat; 

And it seem'd, as I retraced the ballad 
line by line, 

That but half of it was hers, and one half 
of it was mine. 

Again, and once again, did I repeat the 

song; 
" Nay," said I, " more than half to the 

Damsel must belong. 
For she look'd with such a look, and she 

spake with such a tone, 

That I almost received her heart into my 

own." 

William Wordswoktu. 



The Blood Horse. 

Gamaeea is a dainty steed, 
Strong, black, and of a noble breed, 
Full of fire, and full of bone. 
With all his line of fathers known ; 
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin. 
But blown abroad by the pride within I 
His mane is like a river flowing. 
And his eyes like embers glowing 
In the darkness of the night. 
And his pace as swift as light. 

Look, — how round his straining throat 
Grace and shifting beauty float ; 
Sinewy strength is in his reins, 
And the red blood gallops through his 

veins, — 
Richer, redder, never ran 
Through the boasting heart of man. 
He can trace his lineage higher 
Than the Bourbon dare aspire, — 
Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, 
Or O'Brien's blood itself! 

He, who hath no peer, was born 
Here, upon a red March morn ; 
But his famous fathers dead 
Were Arabs all, and Arab-bred, 
And the last of that great line 
Trod like one of a race divine ! 
And yet, he was but friend to one, 
Who fed him at the set of sun 
By some lone fountain fringed with green ; 
With him, a roving Bedouin, 
He lived (none else would he obey 
Through all the hot Arabian day). 
And died untamed upon the sands 
Where Balkh amidst the desert stands ! 
Bkvan W'aller Procter 
(Barry Cornwall). 



The High-mettled Racer. 

See the course throng'd with gazers, the 

sports are begun ; 
The confusion but hear: "I'll bet you, 

sir." " Done, done!" 
Ten thousand strange murmurs resound 

far and near, 
Lords, hawkers, and jocke3's assail the 

tired ear. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



487 



While with neck like a rainbow, erecting ] And now, cold and lifeless, exposed to the 

liis crest, | view 

Pamper'J, prancing, and pleased, his head In the very same cart which he yesterday 

touching his breast, drew. 

Scarcely snuUiug the air, he's so proud and While a pitying crowd his sad relics sur- 

elate, rounds, 



The high-mettled racer first starts for the 
plate. 

Now Reynard's turn'd out, and o'er hedge 

and ditch rush 
Hounds, horses, and huntsmen, all hard at 

his brush ; 
They run him at length, and they have 

him at bay, 
And by scent and by view cheat a long, 

tedious way, 
While, alike born for sports of the field 

and the course. 
Always sure to come thorough a stanch and 

fleet horse. 
When fairly run down the fox yields up 

his breath, 
The high -mettled racer is in at the 

death. 



Grown aged, used up, and turn'd out of 

the stud, 
l.ame, spavin'd, and windgall'd, but yet 

with some blood ; 
While knowing postilions his pedigree 

trace, 
Tell his dam won that sweepstakes, his 

sire gain'd that race. 
And what matches he won to the ostlers 

count o'er. 
As they loiter their time at some hedge 

ale-house door, 
While the harness sore galls, and the 

spurs his sides goad. 
The high-mettled racer's a hack on the 

road. 



The high-mettled racer is sold for the 
hounds ! 

CUARLES DiBDIK. 



The Houses a ck Ride. 

When troubled in spirit, when weary of 

life. 
When I faint 'neath its burdens, and shrink 

from its strife. 
When its fruits, turn'd to ashes, are mock- 
ing my taste. 
And its fairest scene seems but a desolate 

waste, 
Then come ye not near me, my sad heart 

to cheer 
With friendship's soft accents or sympa- 
thy's tear. 
No pity I ask, and no counsel I need. 
But bring me, oh, bring me my gallant 

young steed. 
With his high archfed neck, and his nostril 

spread wide, 
His eye full of fire, and his stej) full of 

pride ! 
As I spring to his back, as I seize the 

strong rein. 
The strength to my spirit roturncth 

again ! 
The bonils arc all broken that fottcr'd my 

mind, 
And my cares borne away on the wings of 

the wind ; 
My pride lifts its head, for a season bow'd 

down. 
And the queen in my nature now puts on 

her crown ! 



Till at last, having labor'd, drudged early Now we're off— like the winds to the plains 

and late, whence they came ; 

Bow'd down by degrees, he bends on to \ And the rapture of motion is thrilling my 

his fate ! ' frame ! 

Blind, old, lean and feeble, he tugs round On, on speeds my courser, scarce printing 

a mill, i the sod. 

Or draws sand till the sand of his hour- ■ Scarce crushing a daisy to mark where he 

glass stands still ; trod ! 



488 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



On, on like a deer, when the hound's early 

bay 
Awakes the wild echoes, away, and away ! 
Still faster, still farther, he leaps at my 

cheer. 
Till the rush of the startled air whirs in 

my ear ! 
ISfow 'long a clear rivulet lieth his track, — 
See his glancing hoofs tossing the white 

pebbles back ! 
Now a glen dark as midnight — what 

matter? — we'll down 
Though shadows are round us, and rocks 

o'er us frown ; 
The thick branches shake as we're hurry- 
ing through. 
And deck us with spangles of silvery dew ! 

What a wild thought of triumph, that this 

girlish hand 
Such a steed in the might of his strength 

may command ! 
What a glorious creature I Ah ! glance at 

him now, 
As I check him a while on this green hil- 
lock's brow ; 
How he tosses his mane, with a shrill joy- 
ous neigh, 
And paws the firm earth in his proud, 

stately play ! 
Hurrah! oft" again, dashing on as in ire, 
Till the long, flinty pathway is flashing 

with fire! 
Ho ! a ditch ! — Shall we pause ? No ; the 

bold leap we dare, 
Like a swift-winged arrow we rush through 

the air ! 
Oh, not all the pleasures that poets may 

praise. 
Not the 'wildering waltz in the ball-room's 

blaze, • 
Nor the chivalrous joust, nor the daring 

race, 
Nor the swift regatta, nor merry chase, 
Nor the sail, high heaving waters o'er. 
Nor the rural dance on the moonlight 

shore. 
Can the wild and thrilling joy exceed 
Of a fearless leap on a fiery steed ! 

Sara Jane Lippincott 
(Grace Greenwood). 



Afar in the Desert. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my 

side, 
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, 
And, sick of the present, I cling to the 

past ; 
When the eye is suffiised with regretful 

tears. 
From the fond recollections of former 

years ; 
And shadows of things that have long 

since fled 
Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the 

dead : 
Bright visions of glory that vanish'd too 

soon ; 
Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood's 

noon ; 
Attachments by fate or falsehood reft ; 
Companions of early days lost or left — 
And my native land — whose magical name 
Thrills to the heart like electric flame ; 
The home of my childhood ; the haunts 

of my prime ; 
All the passions and scenes of that rap- 
turous time 
When the feelings were young and the 

world was new, 
Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding 

to view ; 
All — all now forsaken — forgotten — fore- 
gone ! 
And I — a lone exile remember'd of none — 
My high aims abandon'd, — my good acts 

undone — 
Aweary of all that is under the sun — 
With that sadness of heart which no 

stranger may scan, 
I fly to the desert afar from man. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride. 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my 

side. 
When the wild turmoil of this wearisome 

life. 
With its scenes of oppression, corruption, 

and strife — 
The proud man's frown and the base man's 

fear — 
The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's 

tear — 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



480 



And nuilice, and meanness, and falsehood, 

and folly, 
Dispose me to musing and dark melan- 
choly ; 
When ray bosom is full and my tliouglits 

are liigh. 
And my soul is sick with the bondman's 

sigh— 
Oh I then there is freedom, and joy, and 

pride, 
Afar in the desert alone to ride ! 
There is rapture to vault on the champing 

steed, 
And to bound away with the eagle's speed. 
With the death-fraught firelock in my 

hand — 
The only law of the Desert Land ! 

Afar in the desert I love to ride. 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. 
Away — away from the dwellings of men. 
By the wild deer's haunt, by the buflalo's 

glen; 
By valleys remote where the oribi [ilays. 
Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartfe- 

beest graze, 
And the kudu and eland unhunted recline 
By the skirts of gray forest o'erhung with 

wild vine ; 
Where the elephant browses at peace in 

his wood, 
And the river-horse gambols unscared in 

the flood, 
And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will 
In the fen where the wild ass is drinking 

his fill. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride. 

With the silent Rush-boy alone by my side. 

O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating 
cry 

Of the springbok's fawn sounds plain- 
tively ; 

And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling 
neigh 

Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray ; 

Where the zebra wantonly tosses his 
mane. 

With wild hoof scouring the desolate 
plain ; 

And the fleet-footed ostrich over the wa-ste 

Speeds like a horseman who travels in 
haste, 



Hieing away to the home of her rest, 
Where she and her mate have .scoop'd 

their nest, 
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's 

view 
In the pathless depths of the parcli'd 

karroo. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride. 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my 

side. 
Away — away — in the wilderness vast 
Where the white man's foot hath never 

pass'd, 
And the quiver'd Coranna or Bechuan 
Hath rarely cross'd with his roving clan : 
A region of emi>tiness liowling and drear, 
Which man hath abandou'd I'roui I'aniiue 

and fear ; 
Which the snake and the lizard iuhabit 

alone, 
With the twilight bat from the yawning 

stone ; 
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes 

root. 
Save poisonous thorns that inerce the 

foot ; 
And the bitter melon for food and drink. 
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's 

brink ; 
A region of drought, where no rivorglides. 
Nor rippling brook with osier'd sides; 
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount. 
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount. 
Appears to refresh the aching eye ; 
But the barren earth and the burning 

sky. 
And the blank horizon, round and round, 
Spread — void of living sight or sound. 
And here, while the night-winds round me 

sigh. 
And the stars burn bright in the midnight 

.sky, 
.\s I sit apart by the desert stone. 
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone, 
" A still small voice" comes through the 

wild 
(Like a father consoling his fretful child), 
Which banishes bitternes-s, wrath, and 

fear. 
Saying — Man is distant, but God is near ! 
Thomas Prlsole. 



490 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



The ARAB'S Farewell to his 
Horse. 

My beautiful ! my beautiful ! that standest 

meekly by, 
With thy i^roudly arch'd and glossy neck, 

and dark and fiery eye. 
Fret not to roam the desert now, with all 

thy wing&d speed ; 
I may not mount on thee again, — thou'rt 

sold, my Arab steed ! 
Fret not with that impatient hoof, — snuff 

not the breezy wind, — 
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am 

I behind : 
The stranger hath thy bridle-rein, — thy 

master hath his gold, — 
Fleet-limb'd and beautiful, farew-ell; 

thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold. 

Farewell ! those free, untired limbs full 

many a mile must roam, 
To reach the chill and wintry sky which 

clouds the stranger's home ; 
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy 

corn and bread prepare. 
The silky mane, I braided once, must be 

another's care! 
The morning sun shall dawn again, but 

never more with thee 
Shall I gallop through the desert paths, 

where we were wont to be ; 
Evening shall darken ou the earth, and o'er 

the sandy plain 
Some other steed, with slower step, shall 

bear me home again. 

Yes, thou must go ! the wild, free breeze, 

the brilliant sun and sky, 
Thy master's home, — from all of these my 

exiled one must fly ; 
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, 

thy step become less fleet. 
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy 

master's hand to meet. 
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, 

glancing bright ; — 
Only in sleep shall hear again that .step so 

firm and light ; 
And when I raise my dreaming arm to 

check or cheer thy speed. 
Then must I, starting, wake to feel — 

thou'rt sold, my Arab steed! 



Ah ! rudely, then, unseen by me, some 

cruel hand may chide, 
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, 

along thy panting side : 
And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in 

thy indignant pain, 
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may 

count each started vein. 
Will they ill use thee? If I thought— but 

no, it cannot be, — 
Thou art so swift, yet easy curb'd ; so gen- 
tle, yet so free ; 
And yet, if haply, when thou'rt gone, my 

lonely heart should yearn, — 
Can the hand which casts thee from it now 

command thee to return? 

Return ! alas ! my Arab steed ! what shall 

thy master do. 
When thou, who wast his all of joy, hast 

vanish'd from his view? 
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, 

and through the gathering tears. 
Thy bright form, for a moment, like the 

false mirage appears ; 
Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with 

weary step alone, 
Where, with fleet step and joyous bound, 

thou oft hast borne me on ; 
And sitting down by that green well, I'll 

pause and sadly think, 
" It was here he bow'd his glossy neck 

when last I saw him drink !" 

When last I saw thee drink! — Away! the 

fever'd dream is o'er, — 
I could not live a day, and hww that we 

should meet no more ! 
They tempted me, my beautiful ! — for 

hunger's power is strong, — 
They tempted me, my beautiful ! but I 

have loved too long. 
Who said that I had given thee up ? who 

said that thou wast sold? 
'Tis false, — 'tis false ! my Arab steed ! I 

fling them back their gold ! 
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour 

the distant plains ; 
Away ! who overtakes us now shall claim 

thee for his pains ! 

Caroline Norton. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



491 



Tjie Trooper to tiis Mare. 

Old girl that has borne me far and fast 

On ]in\ving hoofs that were never loath, 
Our gallop lo-duy may be the last 
For thee, or for me, or perhaps for 
both ! 
As I tighten your girth do you nothing 
daunt? 
Do you catch the hint of our forming 
"line? 
And now the artillery move to the front, 
Have you never a qualm. Bay Bess of 
mine? 

It is dainty to see you sidle and start 
As you move to the battle's cloudy 
marge, 
And to feci the swells of your wakening 
heart 
When our sonorous bugles sound a 
charge ; 
At the scream of the shell and the roar of 
the drum 
You feign to be frighten'd with roguish 
glance ; 
But up the green slopes where the bullets 
hum, 
Coquettishly, darling, I've known you 
dance. 

Your skin is satin, your nostrils red, 
Your eyes are a bird's, or a loving 
girl's; 
And from delicate fetlock to stately head 
A throbbing vein-cordage around you 
curls ; 
O joy of my heart! if you tlioy slay. 

For triumph or rout I little care, 
For there isn't in all the wide valley to- 
day 
Such a dear little bridle-wise, thorough- 
bred mare ! 

Charles G. Ualpine. 



The Horse and his Rider. 

Braced in the sinewy vigor of thy breed. 
In pride of generous strength, thou stately 

steed ; • 

Thy broad chest to the battle's front is given, 
Thy mane fair floating to the winds of 

heaven ; 



Thy stamping hoofs the flinty pebbles 
break ; 

Graceful the rising of thine archfed neck ; 

Thy bridle-bits white flakes of foam en- 
lock; 

From thy moved nostrils bursts the curl- 
ing smoke ; 

Thy kindling eye-balls brave the glaring 
south, 

And dreadful is the thunder of thy 
mouth : 

Whilst low to earth thy curving haunches 
bend. 

Thy swcepy tail involved in chmds of sand, 

Erect in air thou rear'st thy front of i)ride, 

And ring'st the plated harness on thy side ! 

Rutlo! what creature, goodly to the sight. 
Dares thus bestride thee, chafing in thy 

might ; 
Of portly stature and determined mien, 
Whose dark eye dwells beneath a brow 

serene. 
And forward looks unmoved to scenes of 

death, 
Who, smiling, gently strokes thee in thy 

wrath : 
Whose right hand doth its flashing falchion 

wield ? 
A British soldier girded for the field ! 

JOA.SXA BaILLIE. 

To 3IY Horse. 

With a glancing eye and curving mane 
He neighs and champs on the l>ridle-rein ; 
One spring, and his saddled back I press, 
And ours is a common happiness 1 
'Tis the rapture of motion ! a hurrying 

cloud 
When the loosen'd winds are breathing 

loud : — 
A shaft from the painted Indian's bow, 
A bird — in the pride of speed we go. 

Dark thoughts that haunt me, where are 

ye now ? 
While the cleft air gratefully cools my 

brow. 
Ami the dizzy earth seems reeling by. 
Anil naught is at rest but the arching sky ; 
And the tramp of my steed, so swift and 

strong, 
Is dearer than fame and sweeter than song ! 



492 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


There is life in the breeze as we hasten 


By the might of the sounding hoof to win 


on; 


Beauty without and joy within ; 


With each bound some care of earth has 


Beauty else to my eyes unseen. 


gone, 


And joy, that then had a stranger been. 


And the languid pulse begins to play, 


AuTHOK Unknown. 


And the night of my soul is turn'd to day; 




A richer verJure the earth o'erspreads. 




Sparlcles the streamlet more bright in the 


The Tiger. 


meads ; 




And its voice to the flowers that bond 


Tiger! tiger! burning bright. 


above 


In the forest of the night, 


Is soft as the whisper of early love ; 


AVhat immortal hand or eye 


With fragrance sjiring flowers have bur- 


Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 


den'd tlie air. 




And the blue-bird and robin are twittering 


In what distant deeps or skies 


clear. 


Burn'd the ardor of thine eyes? 




On what wings dare he aspire ? 


Lovely tokens of gladness, I mark'd ye 

not 
When last I roam'd o'er this self-same 


What the hand dare seize the fire? 


And what shoulder, and what art. 


spot. 


Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 


Ah ! then the deep shadows of sorrow's 


And when thy heart began to beat, 


mien 


What dread hand forged thy dread feet? 


Fell, like a blight, on the happy scene ; 




And Nature, with all her love and grace. 


What the hammer, what the chain ? 


In the depths of the spirit could find no 


In what furnace was thy brain? 


place. 


What the anvil ; what dread grasp 




Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 


So the vex'd breast of the mountain-lake. 




When wind and rain mad revelry make. 


Wlien tlie stars threw down their spears, 


Turbid and gloomy, and wildly tost. 


And water'd heaven with their tears. 


Ketain no trace of the beauty lost. 


Did He smile His work to see? 


But when through the moist air, bright 


Did He who made the lamb make thee? 


and warm. 




The sun looks down with his golden 


Tiger! tiger! burning bright, 


charm. 


In the forest of the night. 


And clouds have fled, and the wind is 


What immortal hand or eye 


lull. 


Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 


Oh ! then the changed lake, how beautiful ! 


William Blake. 


The glistening trees, in their shady ranks, 


•<>. 


And the ewe with its lamb along the 


TffE Hunter of the Prairies. 


banks. 




And the kingfisher perch'd on the with- 


Ay, this is freedom ! — these pure skies 


er'd bough. 


Were never stain'd with village smoke ; 


And the pure blue heaven all pictured 


The fragrant wind, that through them 


below ! 


flies. 


Bound proudly, my steed, nor bound proud- 


Is breatlied from wastes by plough un- 


ly in vain, 


broke. 


Since thy master is now himself again. 


Here, with my rifle and my steed. 


And thine be the praise when the leech's 


And her who left the world for me, 


power 


I plant me, where the red-deer feed 


Is idle, to conquer the darken'd hour. 


In the green desert — and am free. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



493 



For here the fair savannas know 

No barriers in tlie bloomy grass; 
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow, 

Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. 
In pastures, measureless as air, 

The bison is my noble game ; 
The bounding elk, whose antlers tear 

The branches, falls befi)re my aim. 

Mine are the river-fowl that scream 

From tlie long stripe of waving sedge ; 
The bear that marks my weajion's gleam 

Hides vainly in the forest's edge; 
In vain the she-wolf stands at bay; 

The brinded latamouut, that lies 
High in the boughs to watch his i)rey, 

Even in the act of springing dies. 

AVith what free growth the elm and plane 

Fling their huge arms across my way, 
Gray, old, and cumber'd with a train 

Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray ! 
Free stray the lucid streams, and find 
No taint in these fresh lawns and 
shades ; 
Free spring the flowers that scent the 
wind 
Where never scythe has swept the 
glades. 

Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere 

The heavy herbage of the ground, 
Gathers his annual harvest here. 

With roaring like the battle's sound. 
And hurrying flames that sweep the 
plain. 

And smoke-streams gushing up the sky. 
I meet the flames with flames again, 

And at my door they cower and die. 

Here, from dim woods, the aged Past 

Speaks solemnly ; and I behold 
The boundless Future in the vast 

And lonely river, seaward roll'd. 
Who feeds its founts with rain and dew? 

Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass. 
And trains the bordering vines whose blue 

Bright clusters tempt me as I pa.ss'? 

Broad are these streams — my steed obeys, 
Plunges, and bears me through the tide: 

Wide are these wood.s — I thread the maze 
Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. 



I hunt till day's last glimmer dies 
O'er woody vale and grassy height; 

And kind the voice and glad the eyes 
That welcome my return at niglit. 

William Cclles Bryant. 



FOLDIXG THE FLOCKS. 

Shepherds all, and maidens fair, 

Fold your flocks up ; for the air 

'Gins to thicken, and the sun 

Already his great course hath run. 

See the dewdrops, how they kiss 

75very little flower that is ; 

Hanging on their velvet heads, 

Like a string of crystal beads. 

See the heavy clouds low falling 

And bright Hcispcrus down calling 

The dead night from under ground ; 

At whose rising, mists unsound, 

Damps and vapors, fly apace, 

.\nd hover o'er the smiling face 

Of these pastures ; where they come, 

Striking dead both bud and bloom. 

Therefore from such danger lock 

Every one his lov^d flock ; 

And let your dogs lie loose without. 

Lest the wolf come as a scout 

From the mountain and, ere day. 

Bear a lamb or kid away ; 

Or the crafty, thievish fox 

Break upon your simple flocks. 

To secure yourself from these. 

Be not too secure in ease ; 

So shall you good shepherds prove. 

And deserve your master's love. 

Now, good-night ! may sweetest slumbers 

And soft silence fall in numbers 

On your eyelids. So farewell : 

Thus I end my evening knell. 

Beaumont and Flktchrr. 



The RETiRR.nr.xT. 

I'arewei.L, thou busy world, and may 

We never meet again ; 
Here I can eat. and sleep, and pray. 
And do more good in one short day 
Than he who his whole age out-wears 
Upon the most conspicuous theatres. 
Where naught but vanity and vice appears. 



494 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Good God ! how sweet are all things here ! 
How beautiful the fields appear ! 

How cleanly do we feed and lie ! 
Lord ! what good hours do we keep ! 
How quietly we sleep ! 

What peace, what unanimity ! 
How innocent from the lewd fashion 
Is all our business, all our recreation ! 

Oh, how happy here's our leisure ! 
Oh, how innocent our pleasure ! 
O ye valleys ! O ye mountains ! 
O ye groves, and crystal fountains ! 
How I love at liberty 
By turns to come and visit ye ! 

Dear solitude, the soul's best friend. 
That man acquainted with liimself dost 
make. 
And all his Maker's wonders to intend. 
With thee I here converse at will 
And would be glad to do so still, 
For it is thou alone that keep'st the soul 
awake. 

How calm and quiet a delight 

Is it, alone 
To read, and meditate, and write. 

By none offended, and offending none ! 
To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own 

ease ; 
And, pleasing a man's self, none other to 
displease. 

my belovfed nymph, fair Dove, 
Princess of rivers, how I love 

Upon thy flowery banks to lie. 
And view thy silver stream, 
When gilded by a Summer's beam ! 
And in it all thy wanton fry 
Playing at liberty, 
And witli my angle upon them 
The all of treachery 

1 ever learn 'd industriously to try ! 

Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot 

show. 
The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po ; 
The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine, 
Are puddle -water, all, compared with 

thine ; 
And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted 

are 
With thine, much purer, to comp.ire ; 



The rapid Garonne and the winding 
Seine 

Are both too mean. 
Beloved Dove, with thee 
To vie priority ; 
Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoined, sub- 
mit. 
And lay their trophies at thy silver feet. 

my beloved rocks that rise 

To awe the earth and brave the skies, 

From some aspiring mountain's crown 
How dearly do I love. 

Giddy with pleasure, to look down, 
And, from the vales, to view the noble 

heights above ! 
my beloved caves ! from dog-star's 

heat, 
And all anxieties, my safe retreat ; 
What safety, privacy, what true delight. 
In the artificial night 

Your gloomy entrails make, 

Have I taken, do I take ! 
How oft, when grief has made me fly, 
To hide me from society 
E'en of my dearest friends, have I, 

In your recesses' friendly shade. 

All my sorrows open laid. 
And my most secret woes entrusted to your 
privacy ! 

Lord ! would men let me alone, 
What an over-happy one 

Should I think myself to be, 
Might I in this desert place 
(Which most men in discourse disgrace) 

Live but undisturb'd and free ! 
Here, in this despised recess, 

Would I, maugre Winter's cold. 
And the Summer's worst excess. 

Try to live out to sixty full years old ; 
And, all the while. 

Without an envious eye 
On any thriving under Fortune's smile. 

Contented live, and then contented die. 
Charles Cotto.v. 



The Praise of a Countryman's 
Life. 

Oh, the sweet contentment 
The countrvman doth find, 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



495 



High trolollic, loUie, lol ; high trolollie, 
Iff ; 

That quiet contemplation 

Possesseth all my mind : 
Then care away, and wend alonsr with me. 

For courts are full of flattery, 

As hath too oft been tried, 
High trolollie, loUic, lol; liigh trolollie, 
lee; 

The city full of wantonness, 

And both are full of pride ; 
Then care away, and wend along with me. 

Hut. oh I the honest countryman 

Speaks truly from his heart, 
High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, 
lee; 

His pride is in his tillage, 

His horses and his cart: 
Then care away, and wend along with me. 

Our clothing is good sheep-skins, 

Gray russet for our wives. 
High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, 
lee; 

'Tis warmth and not gay clothing 

That doth prolong our lives : 
Then care away, and wend along with me. 

The ploughman, though he labor 

hard. 
Yet on the holy day. 
High trolollie, lollie, lol ; high trolollie, 
lee; 
No emperor so merrily 
Docs pass his time away : 
Then care away, and wend along with me. 

To recompense our tillage 
The heavens afford us showers. 

High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, 
lee; 
And for our sweet refreshments 
The earth affords us bowers ; 

Then care away, and wend along with me. 

The cuckoo and the nightingale 

Full merrily do sing. 
High trolollie, lollie, lol ; high trolollie, 
lee; 

And with their pleasant roundelays 

Bid welcome to the spring : 
Then care away, and wend along with me. 



This is not half the happiness 
The countryman enjoys, 
High trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, 
lee ; 
Though others think they have as 

much, 
Yet he that .says so lies : 
Then care away, and wend along with me. 
John Ciialkiiill. 



Tn OUGHTS IN A GARDEX. 

How vainly men themselves amaze 
To win the palm, the oak, or bays, 
And their incessant labors see 
Crown'd from some single herb or tree, 
Whose short and narrow vcrgfed sliade 
Does prudently their toils upbraid ; 
While all the flowers and trees do close 
To weave the garlands of Repose. 

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, 
And Innocence thy sister dear? 
Mistaken long, I sought you then 
In busy companies of men : 
Your sacred plants, if here below, 
Only among the plants will grow : 
Society is all but rude 
To this delicious solitude. 

No white nor red was ever seen 

So amorous as this lovely green. 

Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, 

Cut in these trees their mistress' name: 

Little, alas, they know or heed 

How far these beauties her exceed I 

Fair trees ! where'er your barks I wound. 

No name shall but your own be found. 

When we have run our passion's heat 
Love hither makes his best retreat : 
The gods, who mortal beauty chase, 
Still in a tree did end their race: 
Apollo hunted Daphne so 
Only that she might laurel grow ; 
And Pan did after Syrinx speed 
Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 

What wondrous life is this I lead ! 
Ripe apples drop about my head ; 
The luscious clusters of the vine 
Upon my mouth do crush their wine; 



496 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



The nectarine and curious peach 
Into my hands themselves do reach ; 
Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 
Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less 

Withdraws into its happiness — 

The mind, that ocean where each kind 

Does straight its own resemblance find ; 

Yet it creates, transcending these. 

Far other worlds, and other seas ; 

Annihilating all that's made 

To a green thought in a green shade. 

Here at the fountain's sliding foot 
Or at some fruit tree's mossy root, 
Casting the body's vest aside 
My soul into the boughs does glide ; 
There, like a bird, it sits and sings. 
Then whets and claps its silver wings. 
And, till prepared for longer flight. 
Waves in its plumes the various light. 

Such was that happy Garden state 
While man there walk'd without a mate : 
After a place so pure and sweet, 
What other help could yet be meet ? 
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 
To wander solitary there : 
Two paradises are in one, 
To live in Paradise alone. 

How well the skilful gardener drew 
Of flowers and herbs this dial new ! 
Where, from above, the milder sun 
Does through a fragrant zodiac run : 
And, as it works, th' industrious bee 
Computes its time as well as we. 
How could such sweet and wholesome 

hours 
Be reckon'il. but with herbs and flowers! 
Andrew JIauvell. 



The Braes o' Balquhither. 

Let us go, lassie, go, 

To the Braes o' Balquhither, 
Where the blae-berries grow 

'Mang the bonnie Highland heather ; 
Where the deer and the rae, 

Lightly bounding together, 
Sport the lang summer day 

Ou the braes o' Balquhither. 



I will twine thee a bower 

By the clear siller fountain, 
And I'll cover it o'er 

Wi' the flowers o' the mountain ; 
I will range through the wilds. 

And the deep glens sae drearie, 
And return wi' their spoils 

To the bower o' my dearie. 

When the rude wintry win' 

Idly raves round our dwelling. 
And the roar of the linn 

On the night-breeze is swelling, 
So merrily we'll sing. 

As the storm rattles o'er us. 
Till the dear shieling ring 

Wi' the light lilting chorus. 

Now the simmer's in prime 

Wi' the flowers richly blooming. 
And the wild mountain-thyme 

A' the moorlands perfuming ; 
To our dear native scenes 

Let us journey together, 
Where glad innocence reigns 

'Mang the braes o' Balquhither. 

KODEET TaNNAHILL. 



An Italian Song. 

Dear is my little native vale. 

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; 
Close by my cot she tells her tale 

To every passing villager. 
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, 
And shells his nuts at liberty. 

In orange-groves and myrtle bowers, 
That breathe a gale of fragrance round, 

I charm the fairy-footed liours 

With my loved lute's romantic sound ; 

Or crowns of living laurel weave 

For those that win the race at eve. 

The shepherd's horn at break of day. 
The ballet danced in twilight glade, 

The canzonet and roundelay 

Sung in the silent greenwood shade, — 

These simple joys that never fail 

Shall bind me to my native vale. 

Samuel Rogeks. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 



497 



SoyyET. 

To one who has been long in city pent, 
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair 
Ami open face of heaven, — to breathe a 
[irayer 
Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 
Who is more happy, when, with heart 
content. 
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant 

lair 
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 
And gentle tale of love and Tanguish- 
ment? 
Returning home at evening, with an ear 
Catching the notes of Philomel,— an eye 
Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright 
career, 
He mourns that day so soon has glided 
by: 
E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
That falls through the clear ether silently. 

JouN Keats. 



Morning Song. 

Up I quit thy bower ; late wears the hour ; 
Long have the rooks caw'd round thy 

tower ; 
On flower and tree loud hums the bee; 
The wilding kid sports merrily : 
A day so bright, so fresh, so clear, 
Showeth when good fortune's near. 

Up : lady fair, and braid thy hair. 

And rouse thee in the breezy air ; 

The lulling stream that soothed thy dream 

Is dancing in tlie sunny beam ; 

And hours so sweet, so bright, so gay. 

Will waft good fortune on its way. 

Up I time will tell : the friar's bell 
Its service sound hath chimfcd well; 
The aged crone keeps house alone. 
And reapers to the field.s are gone ; 
The active day, so boon and bright, 
May bring good fortune ere the night. 

JOAHNA BaILLIE. 



The Invitation. 

Best and brightest, come away ! 
Fairer far than this fair Day, 
32 



Which, like thee, to those in sorrow 

Conies to bid a sweet good-morrow 

To the rough Year just awake 

In its cradle on the brake. 

The brightest hour of unborn Spring 

Througli the winter wandering. 

Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn 

To hoar February born; 

Bending from heaven, in azure mirth, 

It kiss'd the forehead of the Earth, 

And smiled upon the silent sea. 

And bade the frozen streams be free. 

And waked to music all their fountains. 

And breathed upon the frozen mountains, 

And like a prophetess of May 

Strcw'd flowers upon the barren way, 

Making the wintry world appear 

Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. 

Away, away, from men and towns 
To the wild wood and the downs — 
To the silent wilderness 
Where the soul need not repress 
Its music, lest it should not find 
An echo in another's mind. 
While the touch of Nature's art 
Harmonizes heart to heart. 
I leave this notice on my door 
For each accustom'd visitor: — 
" I am gone into the fields 
To take what this sweet hour yields. 
Reflection, you may come to-morrow; 
Sit by the fireside with Sorrow. 
You with the unpaid bill. Despair, — 
You tiresome verse-reciter. Care, — 
I will pay you in the grave, — 
Death will listen to your stave. 
Expectation too, be ofl"! 
To-day is for itself enough. 
Hope, in pity, mock not Woe 
With smiles, nor follow where I go; 
Long having lived on your sweet food, 
At length I find one moment's good 
After long pain : with all your love, 
This you never told me of." 

Radiant Sister of the Day, 
Awake ! arise ! and come away ! 
To the wild woods and the plains. 
And the pools where winter rains 
Image all their roof of leaves, 
Where the pine its garland weaves 



498 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Of sapless green, and ivy dun, 


She will bring, in spite of frost, 


Eound stems that never kiss tlie sun. 


Beauties that the earth hath lost ; 


Where the lawns and pastures be 


She will bring thee, all together. 


And the sand-hills of the sea. 


All delights of .summer weather ; 


Where the melting hoar-frost wets 


All the buds and bells of May 


The daisy-star that never sets, 


From dewy sward or thorny spray ; 


And wind-flowers and violets 


All the heapfed Autumn's wealth. 


Which yet join not scent to hue 


With a still, mysterious stealth ; 


Crown the pale year weak and new; 


She will mix these pleasures up 


When the night is left behind 


Like three fit wines in a cup, 


In the deep east, dun and blind, 


And thou shalt quaflT it ;— thou shalt 


And the blue noon is over us. 


hear 


And the multitudinous 


Distant harvest-carols clear ; 


Billows murmur at our feet. 


Rustle of the reaped corn ; 


Where the earth and ocean meet. 


Sweet birds antheming the morn ; 


And all things seem only one 


And in the same moment — hark ! 


In the universal Sun. 


'Tis the early April lark, 


Pekcy Bvsshe Shklley. 


Or the rooks, with busy caw. 




Foraging for sticks and straw. 


K>* ■ 


Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 


Fancy. 


The daisy and the marigold ; 




White-plumed lilies, and the first 


Ever let the Fancy roam, 


Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ; 


Pleasure never is at home : 


Shaded hyacinth, alway 


At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth. 


Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; 


Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; 


And every leaf, and every flower 


Then let winged Fancy wander 


Pearled with the selfsame shower. 


Through the thought still spread beyond 


Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 


her : 


Meagre from its cellfed sleep ; 


Open wide the mind's cage-door, 


And the snake all winter-thin 


She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 


Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 




Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 




Hatching in the hawthorn tree. 


sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 


When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 


Summer's joys are spoilt by use. 




Quiet on her mossy nest ; 


And the enjoying of the Si)ring 
Fades as does its blossoming : 


Then the hurry and alarm 

When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; 


Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too. 
Blushing through the mist and dew, 




Acorns ripe down-pattering 
While the autumn breezes sing. 


Cloys with tasting. What do then? 




Sit thee by the ingle, when 




The sere fagot blazes bright. 


sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 


Spirit of a winter's night ; 


Everything is spoilt by use : 


AVhen the soundless earth is muffled. 


AVhere's the cheek that doth not fade. 


And the caked snow is shuttled 


Too much gazed at ? Where's the maid 


From the ploughboy's heavy shoon ; 


Whose lip mature is ever new ? 


When the Night doth meet the Noon 


Where's the eye, however blue. 


In a dark conspiracy 


Doth not weary ? Where's the face 


To banish Even from her sky. 


One would meet in every place ? 


— Sit thee there, and send abroad 


Where's the voice, however soft, 


With a mind self-overawed 


One would hear so very oft ? 


Fancy, high-commission'd : — send her I 


At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 


She has vassals to attend her ; 


Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 



POEMS OF NATURE. 499 


Let then wingfed Fancy find 
Thcc a mistress to tliy mind: 


Said he, " Look how your huntsman here 
Hath tauglit a fawn to hunt his deer !" 


Dukot-eyed as Ceres' daugliter, 
Ere tlie god of torment tauglit her 
How to frown and how to chide ; 
Witli a waist and with a side 


But Sylvio soon had me beguiled — 
This wa.xfed tame, while he grew wild. 
And, quite regardless of my smart, 
Left me his fawn, but took his heart. 


White as Hebe's, when her zone 


Thenceforth, I set myself to play 


Slipt its golden clasp, and down 
Fell her kirtle to her feet 


My solitary time away, 

With this, and, very well content, 


While she held the goblet sweet, 

And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 

Of the Fancy's silken leash ; 


Could so mine idle life have spent. 
For it was full of sport, and light 
Of foot and heart, and did invite 


Quickly break her prison-string, 

And such joys as these she'll bring : 

— Let the wingfed Fancy roam, 

Pleasure never is at home. 

Joii.N Keats. 

The NYJtPH Complaining of the 
Dka tii of her Fa wn. 


Me to its game. It seem'd to bless 
Itself in me. How could I less 
Than love it? Oh, I cannot be 
Unkind to a beast that loveth me. 

Had it lived long, I do not know 
Whether it, too, might have done so 
As Sylvio did— his gifts might be 
Perhaps as false, or more, than he. 
For I am sure, for aught that I 


The wanton troopers, riding by, 
Have shot my fawn, and it will die. 
Ungentle men I they cannot thrive 
Who kill'd thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive, 


Could in so short a time espy. 
Thy love was far more better than 
The love of false and cruel man. 
With sweetest milk and sugar first 


Them any harm ; alas! nor could 


I it at mine own fingers nursed ; 


Thy death yet do them any good. 
Fm sure I never wish'd them ill. 
Nor do I for all this, nor will ; 


And as it grew, so every day 

It wa.\'d more white and sweet than they. 

It had so sweet a breath ! and oft 


But, if my simple prayers may yet 
Prevail with Heaven to forget 
Thy murder, I will join my tears, 
Kafjier than fail. But, oh my fears! 


I blush'd to see its foot more soft 
And white— shall I say than my hand ? 
Nay, any lady's of the land. 
It is a wondrous thing how fleet 


It ciinnot die so. Heaven's king 


'Twas on those little silver feet ! 


Keeps register of everything; 
.\ud nothing may w'c use in vain; 
Even bea-sts must be with justice slain, 
Else men are made their deodands. 


With what a pretty, skipping grace 
It oft would challenge me the race ! 
And when 't had left me far away, 
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay ; 


Though they should wash their guilty 
hands 


For it was nimbler, much, than hinds, 
And trod as if on the four winds. 


In this warm life-blood, which doth part 


I have a garden of my own — 


From thine and wound me to the heart, 
Yet could they not be clean — their .stain 
Is dyed in such a purple grain ; 
There is not such another in 


But so with roses overgrown. 
And lilies, that you would it guess 
To be a little wilderne.ss ; 
And all the spring-time of the year 


The world to offer for their sin. 

Inconstant Sylvio, when yet 

I had not found him counterfeit, 


It Idved only to be there. 

Among the beds of lilies I 

Have .xought it oft, where it should lie; 


(Jne morning (I remember well) 
Tied in this silver chain and bell, 
Gave it to me ; nay, and I know 
What he said then — I'm sure I do; 


Yet could not, till itself would rise. 
Find it, although before mine eyes ; 
For in the flaxen lilies' shade 
It like a bank of lilies laid. 



500 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Upon the roses it would feed, 
Until its lips ev'n seem'd to bleed ; 
And then to me 'twould boldly trip, 
And print those roses on my lip. 
But all its chief delight was still 
On roses thus itself to fill ; 
And its pure virgin limbs to fold 
In whitest sheets of lilies cold. 
Had it lived long, it would have been 
Lilies without, roses within. 

Oh help ! oh help ! I see it faint. 
And die as calmly as a saint. 
See how it weeps ! the tears do come. 
Sadly, slowly, dropping like a gum. 
So weeps the wounded balsam ; so 
The holy frankincense doth flow ; 
The brotherless Heliades 
Melt in such amber tears as these. 

I in a golden vial will 
Keep these two crystal tears ; and fill 
It, till it do o'erflow, with mine ; 
Then place it in Diana's shrine. 

Now my sweet fawn is vanish'd to 
Whither the swans and turtles go ; 
In fair Elysium to endure, 
With milk-white lambs, and ermines pure. 
Oh do not run too fast ! for I 
Will but bespeak thy grave, and die. 

First my unhappy statue shall 
Be cut in marble ; and withal, 
Let it be weeping too ! But there 
Th' engraver sure his art may spare, 
For I so truly thee bemoan 
That I shall weeji though I be stone ; 
Until my tears, still drooping, wear 
My breast, themselves engraving there. 
There at my feet shalt thou be laid. 
Of purest alaliaster made ; 
For I would have thine image be 
White as I can, though not as thee. 

Andrew Marvell. 



Echo and Silence. 

In eddying course when leaves began to 

fly, 

And Autumn in her lap the store to 

strew, 
As 'mid wild scenes I chanced the muse 

to woo. 
Through glens untrod, and woods that 

frown'd on high, 



Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I 
spy! 
And, lo, she's gone ! — In robe of dark- 
green hue 
'Twas Echo from her sister Silence 
flew. 
For quick the hunter's horn resounded to 

the sky ! 
In shade affrighted Silence melts away. 
Not so her sister. — Hark ! for onward 
still. 
With far-heard step, she takes her listen- 
ing way, 
Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to 
hill. 
Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful 
play, 
With thousand mimic tones the laughing 
forest fill ! 

Sir Egeeton Brydges. 



Bugle Song. 

The splendor falls on castle-walls 

And snowy summits old in story : 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes fly- 
ing, 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 

dying. 



Oh hark ! oh hear ! how thin and clear. 

And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
Oh sweet and far, from cliff" and scar. 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens reply- 
ing : 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky. 

They faint on hill or field or river : 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes fly- 
ing, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, 

dying. 

ALFRED Tennyson. 



PART IX. 



Poems of Places, 




Poems of Places. 



The Chimes of Exgla.xd. 

The chimes, the chimes of Motherland, 

Of England green and old, 
That out from fane and ivied tower 

A thousand years have toU'd — 
How glorious must their music be 

As breaks the hallow'd day, 
And calleth with a seraph's voice 

A nation up to pray ! 

Those chimes that tell a thousand tales — 

Sweet tales of olden time ! — 
And ring a thousand memories 

At vesper, and at prime : 
At bridal and at burial. 

For cottager and king — 
Those chimes — those glorious Christian 
chimes, 

How blessedly they ring! 

Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland, 

Upon a Christmas morn. 
Outbreaking, ;is the angels did. 

For a Redeemer born, — 
How merrily they call afar. 

To cot and baron's hall. 
With holly deck'd and misletoe, 

To keep the festival I 

The chimes of England, how they peal 

From tower and (iothic pile. 
Where hymn and swelling anthem fill 

The dim cathedral aisle ; 
Where windows bathe the holy light 

On priestly heads that falls, 
And stain the florid tracery 

And banner-dighted walls! 

And then, those Easter bells, in Spring, 
Those glorious Easter chimes, — 

How loyally they hail thee round, 
Old queen of holy times ! 



From hill to hill, like sentinels, 

Responsively they cry. 
And sing the rising of the Lord, 

From vale to mountain high. 

I love ye, chimes of Motherland, 

With all this soul of mine, 
And bless the Lord that I am sprung 

Of good old English line! 
And, like a son, I sing the lay 

That England's glory tells; 
For she is lovely to the Lord, 

For you, ye Christian bells I 

And heir of ber ancestral fame, 

And happy in my birth. 
Thee, too, I love, my forest-land. 

The joy of all the earth ; 
For thine thy mother's voice shall be. 

And here, where God is King, 
With English chimes, from Christian 
spires. 

The wilderness shall ring. 

Arthur Cleveland Coxe. 



Sonnet. 

Composed upok Westminster Bridge. 

Earth has not anything to show more 
fair ; 
Dull would he be of soul who could 

pa.ss by 
A sight so touching in its majesty : 
This city now doth like a garment wear 
The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare. 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and tem- 
ples lie 
Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; 
All bright and glittering in the smokeless 
air. 

503 



504 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Never did sun more beautifully steep 
In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill ; 

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
The river glideth at his own sweet will ; 

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep. 
And all that mighty heart is lying still. 
William Wordsworth. 



On the Tombs in Westminster 
Abbey. 

Mortality, behold and fear 
AV^hat a change of flesli is here ! 
Think how many royal bones 
Sleep within these heaps of stones ! 
Here they lie, had realms and lands. 
Who now want strength to stir their 

hands, 
Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust 
They preach, " In greatness is no trust." 
Here's an acre sown indeed 
With the richest, royallest seed 
That the earth did e'er suck in 
Since the first man died for sin ; 
Here the bones of birth have cried, 
" Though gods they were, as men they 

died !" 
Here are sands, ignoble things, 
Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings ; 
Here's a world of pomp and state 
Buried in dust, once dead by fate. 

Francis Beaumont. 



Lines on the Mekmaid Tavern. 

Souls of poets dead and gone, 
Wliat Elysium have ye known — • 
Happy field or mossy cavern — 
Choicer tlian the Mermaid Tavern? 
Have ye tippled drink more fine 
Than mine host's Canary wine? 
Or are fruits of Paradise 
Sweeter than those dainty pies 
Of venison ? O generous food ! 
Brest as though bold Robin Hood 
Would, with his maid Marian, 
Sup and bowse from horn and can. 

I have heard that on a day 
Mine host's signboard flew 
Nobody knew whither, till 
An astrologer's old quill 



To a sheepskin gave the story : 
Said he saw you in your glory 
Underneath a new old-sign. 
Sipping beverage divine. 
And pledging with contented smack 
The mermaid in the Zodiac ! 
Souls of poets dead and gone. 
What Elysium have ye known — 
Happy field or mossy cavern — 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 
John Keats. 

Sonnet. 

Written after seeing Windsor Castle. 

From beauteous Windsor's high and stor- 
ied halls 
Where Edward's chiefs start from the 

glowing walls. 
To my low cot from ivory beds of state, 
Pleased I return unenvious of the great. 
So the bee ranges o'er the varied scenes 
Of corn, of heaths, of fallows, and of 

greens, 
Pervades the thicket, soars above the hill, 
Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring 

rill: 
Now haunts old hollow'd oaks, deserted 

cells, 
Now seeks the low vale lily's silver bells ; 
Sips the warm fragrance of the greenhouse 

bowers, 
And tastes the myrtle and the citron's 

flowers ; 
At length returning to the wonted comb. 
Prefers to all his little straw-built home. 
Thomas Warton. 



On a Distant Prospect of Eton 
College. 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 

That crown the wat'ry glade. 
Where grateful Science still adores 

Her Henry's holy shade ; 
And ye that from the stately brow 
Of Windsor's heights th' e.xpanse below 

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey. 
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers 

among 
Wanders the hoary Thames along 

His silver winding way : 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



605 



Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade ! 

Ah, fields bclovoil in vain ! — 
Where once my careless childhood stray'd, 

A stranger yet to pain ! 
I feel the gales that from ye blow 
A momentary bliss bestow, 

As, waving fresh their gladsome wing, 
My weary soul they seem to soothe, 
And, redolent of joy and youth. 

To breathe a second spring. 

Say, Father Thames — for thou hast seen 

Full many a sprightly race, 
Disporting on thy margent green, 

The paths of pleasure trace — 
Who foremost now delight to cleave, 
With pliiiiit arm, thy glassy wave? 

The captive linnet which enthrall? 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase the rolling circle's speed, 

Or urge the flying ball ? 

While some, on urgent business bent, 

Their murmuring labors ply 
'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint 

To sweeten liberty ; 
Some bold adventurers disdain 
The limits of their little reign, 

And unknown regions dare descry ; 
Still as they run they look behind. 
They hear a voice in everj' wind, 

And snatch a fearful joy. 

Gay hope is theirs by Fancy fed, 

Less pleasing when possest; 
The tear forgot as soon as shed, 

The sunshine of the breast: 
Theirs bu.xom health, of rosy hue. 
Wild wit, invention ever new. 

And lively cheer, of vigor born ; 
The thoughtless day, the easy night, 
The spirits pure, the slumbers light. 

That fly th' approach of morn. 

Alas I regardless of their doom. 

The little victims play ; 
No sense have they of ills to come, 

Nor care beyond to-day ; 
Yet see, how all around them wait 
The ministers of human fate. 

And black Misfortune's baleful train! 
Ah, show them where in ambush stand, 
To seize their prey, tlie murderous band! 

Ah, tell them, they are men ! 



These shall the fury Passions tear, 

The vultures of the mind, 
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 

And Shame that skulks behind ; 
Or pining Love shall waste their youth, 
Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth, 

That inly gnaws the secret heart: 
And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair, 

And Sorrow's piercing dart. 

Ambition this shall tempt to rise, 

Then whirl the wretch from high. 
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, 

And grinning Infamy. 
The stings of Falsehood those shall try. 
And hard Uukindness' alter'd eye. 

That mocks the tears it forced to flow 
And keen Remorse, with blood defiled. 
And moody Madness, laughing wild 

Amid severest woe. 

Lo ! in the vale of years beneath 

A grisly troop are seen. 
The painful family of Death, 

More hideous than their queen ; 
This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 
That every laboring sinew strains. 

Those in the deeper vitals rage: 
Lo ! Poverty, to fill the band. 
That numbs the soul with icy hand. 

And slow-consuming Age. 

To each his suff'rings : all are men, 

Condemn'd alike to groan ; 
The tender for another's pain, 

Th' unfeeling for his own. 
Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate, 
Since sorrow never comes too late. 

And happiness too swiftly flies? 
Thought would destroy their paradise. 
No more : — where ignorance is bliss, 

'Tis folly to be wise ! 

Thomas Gray. 



Elegiac Stanzas. 

SrOOESTKD BY A PICTURE OF PeELE CaS- 

TLE IN- A Storm, painted by Sik George 
Beaumont. 

I WAS thy Neighbor once, thou rugged Pile ! 
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of 
thee : 



506 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



I saw thee every day ; and all the while 
Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! 

So like, so very like, was day to day ! 
Whene'er I look'd, thy Image still was 
there ; 

It trembled, but it never pass'd away. 

How perfect was the calm ! it seem'd no 
sleep ; 
No mood, which season takes away or 
brings : 
I could have fancied that the mighty 
Deep 
Was even the gentlest of all gentle 
Things. 

Ah ! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's 
hand. 
To express what then I saw ; and add 
the gleam, 
The light that never was on sea or land. 
The consecration, and the Poet's dream ; 

I would have planted thee, thou Hoary 
Pile! 

Amid a world how different from this ! 
Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ; 

On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 

A Picture bad it been of lasting ease, 
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife ; 

No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, 
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart. 
Such Picture would I at that time have 
made. 
And seen the soul of truth in every part; 
A faith, a trust, that could not be be- 
tray'd. 

So once it would have been , — 'tis so no more ; 

I have submitted to a new control : 
A power is gone, which nothing can re- 
store ; 
A deep distress hath humanized my 
Soul. 

Not for a moment could I now behold 
A smiling sea, and be what I have been : 

The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old ; 
This, which I know, I speak with mind 
serene. 



Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would have 
been the Friend, 
If he had liv'd, of him whom I deplore, 
This Work of thine I blame not, but com- 
mend ; 
This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 

Oh 'tis a passionate Work ! — yet wise and 
well ; 
Well chosen is the spirit that is here ; 
That Hulk which labors in the deadly 
swell, 
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 

And this huge Castle, standing here sub- 
lime, 
I love to see the look with which it 
braves, 
Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time, 
The lightning, the fierce wind, and 
trampling waves. 

Farewell, farewell the heart that lives 
alone. 
Housed in a dream, at distance from 
the Kind ! 
Such happiness, wherever it be known, 
Is to be pitied ; for 'tis suiely blind. 

But welcome, fortitude and patient cheer, 

And frequent sights of what is to be 

borne ! 

Such sights, or worse, as are before me 

here, — 

Not without hope we suffer and we 

mourn. 

William Wordsworth. 



Geongar Hill. 

Silent nymph, with curious eye ! 
Who, the purple eve, dost lie 
On the mountain's lonely van, 
Beyond the noise of busy man. 
Painting fair the form of things. 
While the yellow linnet sings, 
Or the tuneful nightingale 
Charms the forest with her tale, — 
Come, with all thy various lines, 
Come and aid thy sister Muse. 
Now, while Phosbus, riding high, 
Gives lustre to the land and sky, 
Grongar Hill invites my song, — 
Draw the landscape bright and strong ; 



POEMS OF PLACES. 507 


Grongar, in whose mossy cells 


On which a dark hill, steep and high, 


Sweetly musing Quiet dwells ; 


Holds and charms the wandering eye. 


CTrongar, in wliose silent shade, 


Deep are his feet in Towy's flood : 


For the modest Muses made, 


His sides are clothed with waving 


So oft I have, the evening still, 


wood. 


At the fountain of a rill. 


And ancient towers crown his brow. 


Sat upon a flowery bed, 


That ca-st an awful look below ; 


With my hand beneath my head, 


Whose ragged wall the ivy creeps. 


While stray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood, 


And with her arms from falling keeps; 


Over mead and over wood. 


So both a safety from the wind 


From house to house, from hill to hill, 


In mutual dependence find. 


Till Contemplation had her fill. 


'Tis now the raven's bleak abode ; 


About his checker'd sides I wind. 


'Tis now the apartment of the toad ; 


And leave his brooks and meads behind, 


And there the fo.\ securely feeds ; 


And groves and grottos where I lay. 


And there the poisonous adder breeds. 


And vistas shooting beams of day. 


Conceal'd in ruins, moss, and weeds ; 


Wide and wider spreads the vale. 


While, ever and anon, there fall 


As circles on a smooth canal. 


Huge heaps of hoary moulder'd wall. 


The mountains round, unhappy fate ! 


Yet Time liiis seen, — that lifts the low 


Sooner or later, of all height. 


And level lays the lofty brow, — 


Withdraw their summits from the skies, 


Has seen this broken pile complete, 


And lessen as the others rise. 


Big with the vanity of state. 


Still the prospect wider spreads. 


But transient is the smile of Fate 1 


Adds a thousand woods and meads ; 


A little rule, a little sway. 


Still it widens, widens still. 


A sunbeam in a winter's d.iy. 


And sinks the newly-risen hill. 


Is all the proud and mighty have 


Now I gain the mountain's brow ; 


Between the cradle and the grave. 


What a landscape lies below ! 


-Vnd see the rivers, how they run 


No clouds, no vapors intervene ; 


Through woods and meads, in shade and 


But the gay, the open scene 


sun. 


Does the face of Nature show. 


Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, — 


In all the hues of heaven's bow ; 


Wave succeeding wave, they go 


And, swelling to embrace the light, 


A various journey to the deep. 


Spreads ar-iund beneath the sight. 


Like human life to endless sleep ! 


Old e;Lstles on the cliffs arise. 


Thus is Nature's vesture wrought. 


Proudly towering in the skies ; 


To instruct our wandering thought: 


Rushing from the woods, the spires 


Thus she dresses green and gay, 


Seem from hence ascending fires ; 


To disperse our cares away. 


Half his beams Apollo sheds 


Ever charming, ever new, 


On the yellow mountain-heads. 


When will the landscape tire the view? 


Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, 


The fountain's fall, the river's flow; 


And glitters (m the broken rocks. 


The woody valleys, warm and low ; 


Below me trees unnumher'd rise, 


The windy summit, wild and high. 


Beautiful in various dyes : 


Roughly rushing on the sky ; 


The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, 


The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tower, 


The yellow beech, the sable yew. 


The naked rock, the shady bower ; 


The slender fir that tai)er grows. 


The town and village, dome and farm — 


Thesturdyoak with broad-spread boughs; 


ICai-h gives each a double charm. 


And. beyond the [lurple grove. 


As pearls upon an Kthio|)'s arm. 


Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love ! 


See on the mountain's southern side 


Gaudy as the opening dawn. 


Where the prospect opens wide, 


Lies a long and level lawn. 


Where the evening gilds the tide ; 



508 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


How close and small the hedges lie ! 


When first my Muse to lisp her notes be- 


What streaks of meadow cross the eye! 


gun. 


A step, methinks, may pass the stream, 


While pensive memory traces back the 


So little distant dangers seem ; 


round 


So we mistake the Future's face, 


Which fills the varied interval between ; 


Eyed through Hope's deluding glass ; 


Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the 


As yon summits, soft and fair, 


scene. 


Clad in colors of the air. 


Sweet native stream ! those skies and suns 


Which, to those who journey near. 


so pure, 


Barren, brown, and rough appear ; 


No more return to cheer my evening 


Still we tread the same coarse way, 


road : 


The present's still a cloudy day. 


Yet still one joy remains, that not ob- 


Oh, may I with myself agree. 


scure 


And never covet what I see ; 


Nor useless, all my vacant days have 


Content me with an humble shade, 


flow'd 


My passions tamed, my wishes laid ; 


From youth's gay dawn to manhood's 


For while our wishes wildly roll. 


prime mature. 


We banish quiet from the soul : 


Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestow'd. 


'Tis thus the busy beat the air, 


Thomas Warton. 


And misers gather wealth and care. 




Now, even now, my joys run high. 




As on the mountain-turf I lie ; 


The Cataract of Lodore. 


While the wanton Zephyr sings. 




And in the vale perfumes his wings ; 


" How does the water 


While the waters murmur deep ; 


Come down at Lodore ?" 


While the shepherd charms his sheep. 


My little boy ask'd me 


While the birds unbounded fly, 


Thus, once on a time ; 


And with music fill the sky, 


And moreover he task'd me 


Now, even now, my joys run high. 


To tell him in rhyme. 


Be full, ye courts : be great who will ; 


Anon at the word. 


Search for Peace with all your skill : 


There first came one daughter, 


Open wide the lofty door, 


And then came another. 


Seek her on the marble floor. 


To second and third 


In vain you search ; she is not there ! 


The request of their brotlier. 


In vain you search the domes of Care ! 


And to hear how the water 


Grass and flowers Quiet treads. 


Comes down at Lodore, 


On the meads and mountain-heads. 


With its rush and its roar. 


Along with Pleasure, close allied. 


As many a time 


Ever by each other's side ; 


They had seen it before. 


And often, by the murmuring rill, 


So I told them in rhyme. 


Hears the thrush, while all is still 


For of rhymes I had store ; 


Within the groves of Grongar Hill. 


And 'twas in my vocation 


John Dyer. 


For their recreation 




That so I should sing-; 


On Revisiting the River 


Because I was Laureate 


L ODD ON. 


To them and the King. 


Ah ! what a weary race my feet have run 




Since first I trod thy banks with alders 


From its sources which well 


crown'd. 


In the tarn on the fell ; 


And thought my way was all through 


From its fountains 


fairy ground. 


In the mountains. 


Beneath the azure sky and golden sun — ■ 


Its rills and its gills ; 



POEMS OF PLACES. 509 


Through moss and through brake 


And shining and twining, 


It runs and it creeps 


And rattling and battling, 


For a while, till it sleeps 


And shaking and quaking, 


In its own little lake. 


And pouring and roaring. 


And thence at departing, 


And waving and raving. 


Awakening and starting, 


And tossing and crossing, 


It runs through the reeds, 


And flowing and going. 


And away it proceeds. 


And running and stunning, 


Through meadow and glade, 


And foaming and roaming. 


In sun and in shade, 


And dinning and spinning, 


And through the wood-shelter, 


And dropping and hopping, 


Among crags in its flurry. 


And working and jerking. 


Helter-skelter, 


And guggling and struggling. 


Hurry -skurry. 


And heaving and cleaving. 


Here it comes sparkling, 


And moaning and groaning; 


And there it lies darkling. 




Now smoking and frothing 


And glittering and frittering, 


Its tumult and wrath in, 


And gathering and feathering. 


Till in this rapid race 


And whitening and brightening, 


On which it is bent, 


And quivering and shivering. 


It reaches the place 


And hurrying and skurrying. 


Of its steep descent. 


And thundering and floundering; 


The cataract strong 


Dividing and gliding and sliding. 


Then plunges along, 


And falling and brawling and sprawling. 


Striking and raging 


And driving and riving and striving, 


As if a war waging 


And sprinkling and twinkling and wrink- 


Its caverns and rocks among; 


ling. 


Rising and leaping. 


And sounding and bounding and round- 


Sinking and creeping, 


ing. 


Swelling and sweeping. 


And bubbling and troubling and doub- 


Showering and springing, 


ling. 


Flying and flinging. 


And grumbling and rumbling and tumb- 


Writhing and ringing, 


ling. 


Eddying and whisking, 


And clattering and battering and shat- 


Spouting and frisking, 


tering; 


Turning and twisting. 




Around and around 


Retreating and beating and meeting and 


Witli endless rebound; 


sheeting. 


Smiting and fighting, 


Delaying and straying and playing and 


A sight to delight in ; 


spraying. 


Confounding, astounding, 


Advancing and prancing and glancing and 


Dizzying and deafening the ear with its 


dancing. 


sound. 


Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and 




boiling, 


Collecting, projecting, 


And gleaming and streaming and steaming 


Receding and speeding, 


and beaming. 


And shocking and rocking. 


And riLshing and flushing and brushing 


And darting and parting. 


and gushing. 


And threading and spreading, 


And flapping and rapping and clapping 


And whizzing and hissing. 


an<l shijiping. 


And dripping and skipping, 


And curling and whirling and purling and 


And hitting and splitting, 


twirling, 



510 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



And thumping and plumping and bumping 
and jumping, 

And dashing and flashing and splashing 
and clashing ; 

And so never ending, but always descend- 
ing, 

Sounds and motions for eVer and ever are 
blending. 

All at once and all o'er, with a mighty 
uproar, 

And this way the water comes down at 
Lodore. 

ROBEKT SOUTHEY. 



YARRO iV UN VISITED. 

From Stirling Castle we had seen 

The mazy Forth unravell'd ; 
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, 

And with the Tweed had travell'd ; 
And when we came to Clovenford, 

Then said my " winsome Marroxo," 
" Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, 

And see the Braes of Yarrow." 

" Let Yarrow Folk, frae Selkirk Town, 

Who have been buying, selling, 
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own; 

Each Maiden to her Dwelling ! 
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 
But we will downward with the Tweed, 

Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 

" There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 

Both lying right before us ; 
And Dryborough, where with the chiming 
Tweed 

The Lintwhites sing in chorus ; 
There's pleasant Tiviotdale, a land 

Made blithe with plough and harrow : 
Why throw away a needful day 

To go in search of Yarrow? 

"What's Yarrow but a River bare. 

That glides the dark liills under? 
There are a thousand such elsewhere 

As worthy of your wonder." 
— Strange words they seem'd of slight and 
scorn : 

My true-love sigh'd for sorrow ; 
And look'd me in the face, to think 

I thus could speak of Yarrow I 



"Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's 
Holms 

And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 

But we will leave it growing. 
O'er hilly path, and open Stratli, 

We'll wander Scotland thorough ; 
But, though so near, we will not turn 

Into the Dale of Yarrow. 

" Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 

The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; 
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake 

Float double, swan and shadow I 
We will not see them ; will not go, 

To-day, nor yet to-morrow ; 
Enough if in our hearts we know 

There's such a place as Yarrow. 

" Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown ! 

It must, or we shall rue it : 
We have a vision of our own ; 

Ah, why should we undo it? 
The treasured dreams of times long past. 

We'll keep them, winsome Marrow ! 
For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 

'Twill be another Yarrow ! 

" If Care with freezing years should come. 

And wandering seem but folly, — 
Should we be loath to stir from home, 

And yet be melancholy ; 
Should life be dull, and spirits low, 

'Twill soothe us in our sorrow. 
That earth has something yet to show. 

The bonny Holms of Yarrow!" 

William VVoedsworth. 



YARRO]y Visited. 

And is this— Yarrow?— 7%ts the Stream 

Of which my fency cherish'd. 
So faitlifully, a waking dream? 

An image that hath perish'd! 
Oh that some Minstrel's harp were near. 

To utter notes of gladness, 
And chase this silence from the air. 

That fills my heart with sadness! 

Yet why ? — a silvery current flows 
With uncontroU'd meanderings; 

Nor have these eyes by greener hills 
Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



511 



And, through her depths, Saint Mary's 
Luk-c 

Is visibly dolightcd ; 
For not a feature of those hills 

Is in the mirror slisrhted. 

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale, 

Save where that pearly whiteness 
Is round the rising sun dilliised, 

A tender hazy brightness ; 
Mild dawn of promise! that excludes 

All profitless dejection ; 
Though not unwilling here to admit 

A pensive recollection. 

Where was it that the famous Flower 

Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? 
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 

Oh which the herd is feeding : 
And haply from this crystal pool, 

Now peaceful as the morning. 
The Water-wraith ascended thrice, — 

And gave his doleful warning. 

Delicious is the Lay that sings 

The haunts of happy Lovers, 
The path that leads them to the grove, 

The leafy grove that covers: 
And Pity sanctifies the verse 

That paints, by strength of sorrow, 
The unconquerable strength of love ; 

Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 

But thou, that didst appear so fair 

To fond Imagination, 
Dost rival in the light of day 

Her delicate creation : 
Meek loveliness is round thee sjjread, 

A softness still and holy ; 
The grace of forest charms decay'd. 

And p.astoral melancholy. 

That region left, the Vale unfolds 

Rich groves of lofty stature, 
With Yarrow winding through the pomp 

Of cultivated Nature ; 
And, rising from those lofty groves, 

Behold a ruin hoary ! 
The shattcr'd front of Newark's Towers, 

Kcnown'd in Border story. 

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom. 
For sportive youth to stray in ; 



For manhood to enjoy his strength ; 

And age to wear away in ! 
Y^on Cottage seems a l)ower of bliss, 

A covert for protection 
Of tender thoughts that nestle there. 

The brood of chaste affection. 

How sweet, on this autumnal day, 

The wild-wood fruits to gather. 
And on my True-love's forehead plant 

A crest of blooming heather I 
And what if I en wreathed my own? 

'Twere no offence to reason ; 
The sober Hills thus deck their brows 

To meet the wintry season. 

I see — but not by sight alone. 

Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 
A ray of Fancy still survives — 

Her sunshine plays upon thee! 
Thy ever-youthful waters keep 

A course of lively pleasure ; 
And gladsome notes my lips can breathe. 

Accordant to the measure. 

The vapors linger round the Heights, 
They melt — and soon must vanish ; 

One hour is theirs, nor more is mine- 
Sad thought, which I would banish. 

But that I know, where'er I go, 
Thy genuine image. Yarrow! 

Will dwell with me — to heighten joy. 
And cheer my mind in sorrow. 

William Wordsworth. 



Yarrow Revisited. 

The gallant Youth who may have gain'd. 

Or seeks, a " Winsome Marrow," 
Was but an Infant in the lap 

When first I look'd on Yarrow ; 
Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate 

Long left without a Warder. 
I stood, look'd, listen'd, and with Thee, 

Great Minstrel of the Border ! 

Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, 

Their dignity installing 
In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves 

"Were on the bough, or falling ; 
But breezes play'd, and sunshine gleam'd — 

The forest to embolden ; 
Redden'd the fiery hues, and shot 

Transparence through the golden. 



512 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



For busy thoughts the Stream fkiw'd on 

In foamy agitation ; 
And slept in many a crystal pool 

For quiet contemplation : 
Xo public and no jn-ivate care 

The freeborn mind enthralling, 
We made a day of happy hours, 

Our happy days recalling. 

Brisk Youth appear'd, the Morn of youth, 

With freaks of graceful folly, — 
Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, 

Her Night not melancholy. 
Past, present, future, all appear'd 

In harmony united. 
Like guests that meet, and some from far, 

By cordial love invited. 

And if, as Yarrow, through the woods 

And down the meadow ranging. 
Did meet us with unalter'd face. 

Though we were changed and changing ; 
If, then, some natural shadows spread 

Our inward prospect over. 
The soul's deep valley was not slow 

Its brightness to recover. 

Eternal blessings on the Muse, 

And her divine employment I 
The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons 

For hope and calm enjoyment ; 
Albeit sickness lingering yet 

Has o'er their j)illow brooded. 
And Care waylay their steps — a sprite 

Not easily eluded. 

For thee, O Scott ! compell'd to change 

Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot 
For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes ; 

And leave thy Tweed and Teviot 
For mild Sorrento's breezy waves ; 

May classic Fancy, linking 
With native Fancy her fresh aid. 

Preserve thy heart from sinking ! 

Oh ! while they minister to thee. 

Each vying with the other, 
"May Health return to mellow Age, 

With Strength, her venturous brother; 
And Tiber, and each brook and rill 

Renown'd in .song and story. 
With unimagined beauty shine. 

Nor lose one ray of glory ! 



For Thou, ujion a hundred streams, 

By tales of love and sori'ow. 
Of faithful love, undaunted truth. 

Hast shed the power of Yarrow ; 
And streams unknown, hills yet un.seen. 

Where'er thy path invite thee. 
At parent Nature's grateful call. 

With gladness must requite Thee. 

A gracious welcome shall be thine, 

Such looks of love and honor 
As thy own Yarrow gave to me 

When first I gazed upon her ; 
Beheld what I had fear'd to see. 

Unwilling to surrender 
Dreams treasured up from early days, 

The holy and the tender. 

And what, for this frail world, were all 

That mortals do or suffer 
Did no responsive harp, no pen. 

Memorial tribute offer? 
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self, 

Her features, could they win us, 
Unhelp'd by the poetic voice 

That hourly speaks within us ? 

Nor deem that localized Romance 

Plays false with our affections ; 
Unsanctifies our tears — made sport 

For fanciful dejections : 
Ah, no ! the visions of the past 

Sustain the heart in feeling 
Life as she is — our changeful Life, 

With friends and kindred dealing. 

Bear witness. Ye, whose thoughts that day 

In Yarrow's groves were centred ; 
Who through the silent portal arch 

Of mouldering Newark enter'd. 
And clomb the winding stair that once 

Too timidly was mounted 
By the " Last Minstrel " (not the last). 

Ere he his Tale recounted. 

Flow on for ever. Yarrow Stream ! 

Fulfil thy pensive duty, 
AVell pleased that future Bards should 
chant 

For simple hearts thy beauty. 
To dreamlight dear while yet unseen, 

Dear to the common sunshine, 
And dearer still, as now I feel. 

To memory's shadowy moonshine ! 

William Wordsworth. 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



513 



Alnwick Castle. 

Home of the Percy's high-born race, 

Home of their beautiful ami brave, 
Alike their birth- and burial-plaee. 

Their cradle and their grave ! 
Still sternly o'er the castle-gate 
Their house's Lion stands in state. 

As in his proud departed hours, 
And warriors frown in stone on high, 
And feudal banners " flout the sky " 

Above his princely towers. 

A gentle hill its side inclines. 

Lovely in England's fadeless green. 
To meet the quiet stream which winds 

Through this romantic scene 
As silently and sweetly still. 
As when, at evening, on that hill. 

While summer's wind blew soft and 
low. 
Seated by gallant Hotspur's side. 
His Katherine was a happy bride, 

A thousand years ago. 

Gaze on the Abbey's ruin'd pile: 

Does not the succoring ivy, keeping 
Her watch around it, seem to smile. 

As o'er a loved one sleeping? 
One solitary turret gray 

Still tells, in melancholy glory. 
The legend of the Cheviot day, 

The Percy's proudest border-story. 

That day its roof was triumph's arch ; 

Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome. 
The light step of the soldier's march. 

The music of the trump and drum ; 
And babe and sire, the old, the young, 
And the monk's hymn, and minstrel's 
1 song. 

And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long, 

Welcomed her warrior home. 

Wild roses by the Abbey towers 

Are gay in their young bud and bloom ; 
They were born of a race of funeral flowers 
That garlanded, in long-gone hours, 

A templar's knightly tomb. 
He died, h\< sword in his mailed hand, 
On the holiest spot of the Blessed Land, 
Where the Cross was damp'd with his 
dying breath, 
When blood ran free as festal wine, 
33 



And the sainted air of Palestine 
Was thick with the darts of death. 

Wise with the lore of centuries. 

What tales, if there be " tongues in trees," 

Those giant oaks could tell 
Of beings born and buried here; 
Talcs of the peasant and the peer. 
Tales of the bridal and the bier, 

The welcome and farewell, 
Since on their boughs the startled bird 
First, in her twilight slumbers, heard 

The Norman's curfew-bell ! 

I wander'd through the lofty halls 

Trod by the Percys of old fame. 
And traced upon the chapel walls 

Each high, heroic name, 
From him who once his standard set 
Where now, o'er mosque and minaret, 

Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons, 
To him who, when a younger son, 
Fought for King George at Lexington, 

A major of dragoons. 

That last half stanza — it has dash'd 

From my warm lip the sparkling cup ; 
The light that o'er my eyebeam ttash'd, 

The power that bore my spirit up 
Above this bank-note world — is gone ; 
And Alnwick's but a market-town, 
And this, alas! its market-day, 
.Vnd beasts and borderers throng the way ; 
0.\en and bleating lambs in lots, 
Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots, 

Jlen in the coal and cattle line ; 
From Teviot's bard and hero land. 
From royal Berwick's beach of sand. 
From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and 

Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 

These are not the romantic times 
So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes. 

So dazzling to the dreaming boy : 
Ours are the days of fact, not fable. 
Of knights, but not of the Round Table, 

Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy : 
'Tis what " our President," Monroe, 

Hius called " the era of good feeling :" 
Tlie Highlander, the bitterest foe 
To modern laws, has felt their blow. 
Consented to be tax'd, and vote. 
And put on pantaloons and coat. 

And leave off cattle-stealing: 



514 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt, 


On the right, Striden-edge round the Red- 


The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt, 


tarn was bending, 


The Douglass in red herrings ; 


And Catchedicam its left verge was defend- 


And noble name and cultured land. 


ing, 


Palace, and park, and vassal-band, 


One huge nameless rock in the front was 


Are powerless to the notes of hand 


ascending. 


Of Rothschild or the Barings. 


When I mark'd the sad spot where the 




wanderer had died. 


The age of bargaining, said Burke, 




Has come : to-day the turban'd Turk 


Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown 


(Sleep, Richard of the lion heart! 


mountain-heather. 


Sleep on, nor from your cerements start) 


Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay 


Is England's friend and fast ally ; 


stretch'd in decay. 


The Moslem tramjjles on the Greek, 


Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd 


And on the Cross and altar-stone. 


to weather. 


And Christendom looks tamely on. 


Till the mountain-winds wasted the 


And hears the Christian maiden shriek. 


tenantless clay. 


And sees the Christian father die ; 


Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely ex- 


And not a sabre-blow is given 


tended. 


For Greece and fame, for faith and heav- 


For, faithful in death, his mute favorite 


en. 


attended, 


By Europe's craven chivalry. 


The much-loved remains of her master de- 




fended, 




And chased the hill-fox and the raven 


You'll ask if yet the Percy lives 


away. 


In the arm'd pomp of feudal state? 




The present representatives 


How long didst thou think that his silence 


Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate " 


was slumber ? 


Are some half dozen serving-men 


When the wind waved his garment, how 


In the drab coat of William Penn ; 


oft didst thou start? 


A chambermaid, whose lip and eye. 


How' many long days and long weeks didst 


And cheek, and brown hair, bright and 


thou number, 


curling 


Ere he faded before thee, the friend of 


Spoke Nature's aristocracy ; 


thy heart? 


And one, half groom, half seneschal. 


And, oh, was it meet, that — no requiem 


Who bowed me through court, bower, and 


read o'er him. 


hall. 


No mother to weep, and no friend to de- 


From donjon-keep to turret wall, 


plore him, 


For teu-and-sixpence sterling. 


And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd 


Fitz-Gkeene Halleck. 


before him, — • 


• Ci 


Unhonor'd the Pilgrim from life should 




depart? 


ffELLVELLYN. 




I climb'd the dark brow of the mighty 


When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant 


Hellvellyn. 


has yielded. 


Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd 


The tapestry waves dark round the dim- 


misty and wide ; 


lighted hall ; 


All was still, save by fits, when the eagle 


With scutcheons of silver the coiBn is 


was yelling. 


shielded, 


And starting around me the echoes re- 


And pages stand mute by the canopied 


plied. 


pall : 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



515 



Through the courts at deep midnight the 

torches are gleaming ; 
In tlio proudly-areli'd chapel the banners 

are beaming ; 
Far adiiwn the long aisle sacred music is 

streaming, 
Lamenting a Chief of the People should 

fall. 

But mceter for thee, gentle lover of Nature, 

To lay down thy head like the meek 

mountain-lamb. 

When, 'wilder'd, he drops from some cliff 

huge in stature, 

And draws his last sob by the side of his 

dam. 

And more stately thy couch by this desert 

lake lying, 

Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover 

flying. 

With one faithful friend but to witness thy 

dying. 

In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catche- 

dicam. 

SiE Walter Scott. 



Ode to Leven Water. 

Ox Leven's banks, while free to rove, 
And tune the rural pipe to love, 
I envied not the happiest swain 
That ever trod the Arcadian plain. 

I'uro stream, in whose trans[)arent wave 
My youtliful limbs I wont to lave; 
No torrents stain thy limpid source, 
No rocks impede thy dimpling course, 
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, 
Witli white round polish'd pebbles spread ; 
While, lightly poised, the scaly brood 
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood ; 
The springing trout in speckled pride, 
The salmon, monarch of the tide ; 
The ruthless pike, intent on war. 
The silver eel, and mottled par. 
Devolving from thy parent lake, 
A charming maze thy waters make. 
By bowers of birch and groves of pine. 
And hedges flower'd with eglantine. 

Still on thy banks, so gayly preen, 
May numerous flocks and herds be seen : 
And lasses chanting o'er the pail. 
And shepherds piping in the dale ; 



And ancient faith that knows no guile, 
And industry embrown'd with toil ; 
And hearts resolved and hands prepared 
The blessings they enjoy to guard ! 

Tobias Smollett. 



Flow Gently, Sweet Afton. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy 

green braes. 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy 

praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring 

stream. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 

dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds 
through the glen. 

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny 
den. 

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy scream- 
ing forbear, 

I charge you disturb not my slumbering 
fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring 

hilis, 
Far mark'd with the courses of clear 

winding rills ; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high. 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my 

eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys 
below. 

Where wild in the woodlands the prim- 
roses blow ; 

There, oft as mild Evening weeps over the 
lea, 

The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary 
and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it 
glides. 

And winds by the cot where my Mary re- 
sides ; 

How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 

As, gathering sweet flow'rets, she stems 
thy clear wave ! 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes. 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my 

lays; 



516 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring 

stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 

dream. 



Robert Burns. 



The Bells of Shaxdon. 

Sahhata pango ; 
Fit nera plango ; 
Sotemnia clango. 
Inscription on as Old Bell. 

With deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think of 

Those Shandon bells, 
Whose sounds so wild would, 
In the days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle 

Their magic spells. 

On this I ponder 
Where'er I wander, 
And thus grow fonder. 

Sweet Cork, of thee — 
With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chiming 
Full many a clime in, 
Tolling sublime in 

Cathedral shrine. 
While at a glibe rate 
Brass tongues would vibrate ; 
But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine. 

For memory, dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of tlie belfry knelling 

Its bold notes free. 
Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells tolling 
Old Adrian's Mole in, 
Their thunder rolling 
From the Vatican — 
And cymbals glorious 
Swinging uproarious 



In the gorgeous turrets 
Of Notre Dame ; 

But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly. 
Oh ! the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

There's a bell in Moscow ; 
While on tower and kiosk, oh. 
In Saint Sophia 

The Turkman gets, 
And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer 
From the tapering summit 

Of tall minarets. 

Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them ; 
But there's an anthem 

More dear to me — 
'Tis the Bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

Francis Mahony ("Father Prout"). 



THE Groves of Blarney. 

The groves of Blarney they look so charm- 
ing, 
Down by the purliugs of sweet silent 
brooks — 
All deck'd by posies, that spontaneous 
grow there. 
Planted in order in the rocky nooks. 
'Tis there the daisy, and the sweet carna- 
tion. 
The blooming pink, and the rose so 
fair; 
Likewise the lily, and the daffodilly — 
All flowers that scent the sweet, open 
air. 

'Tis Lady Jeffers owns this plantation ; 

Like Alexander, or like Helen fair, 
There's no commander in all the nation 

For regulation can with her compare. 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



517 



Such walls surround her, that no nine- 
pounder 

Could ever plunder her place of strength ; 
But Oliver Cromwell, lie did her pommel, 

And made a breacli in her battlement. 

There's gravel-walks there for speculation. 

And conversation in sweet solitude; 
'Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or 

The gentle plover, in the afternoon. 
And if a young lady should be so engaging 

As to walk alone in those shady bowers. 
'Tis there her courtier he may transport 
her 

In some dark fort, or under the ground. 

For 'tis there's the cave where no daylight 
enters, 
But bats and badgers are for ever bred ; 
Being moss'd by Natur', that makes it 
sweeter 
Than a coach and six, or a feather bed. 
'Tis there's the lake that is stored with 
perches, 
And comely eels in the verdant mud ; 
Besides the leeches, and the groves of 
beeches, 
All standing in order for to guard the 
flood. 

'Tis there's the kitchen hangs many a flitch 
in, 
With the maids a-stitching upon thestair; 
The bread and biske', the beer and whis- 
key. 
Would make you frisky if you were 
there. 
'Tis there you'd see Peg Murphy's daugh- 
ter 
A-washing praties forenent the door, 
With Roger Cleary, and Father Healy, 
All blood relations to my Lord Donough- 
more. 

There's statues gracing this noble place in. 

All heathen goddesses so fair — 
Bold N'eptune, Plutarch, and Nicodemus, 

All standing naked in the open air. 
So now to finish this brave narration, 

Which my poor geni' could not entwine; 
But were I Homer, or Xebuchadnczzar, 

'Tis in every feature I would make it 

shine. 

Richard Alfred Mili.ikin. 



SWBET iNNISFALLElf. 

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well, 

May calm and sunshine long be thine ! 

How iair thou art let others tell — 
To feel how fair shall long be mine. 

Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell 
In memory's dream that sunny smile, 

AVhich o'er thee on that evening fell 
When first I saw thy fairy isle. 

'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one. 
Who had to turn to paths of care — 

Through crow^ded haunts again to run, 
And leave thee bright and silent there ; 

No more unto thy shores to come. 
But, on the world's rude ocean tost. 

Dream of thee sometimes as a home 
Of sunshine he had seen and lost. 

Far better in thy weeping hours 
To part from thee, as I do now, 

When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers. 
Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow. 

For, though unrivall'd still thy grace, 
Thou dost not look, as then, too blest. 

But thus in shadow, seem'st a place 
Where erring man might hope to rest — 

Might hope to rest, and find in thee 
A gloom like Eden's, on the day 

He left its shade, when every tree, 

Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way. 

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle ! 

And all the lovelier for thy tears — 
For tho' but rare thy sunny smile, 

'Tis heaven's own glance when it ap- 
pears. 

Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few, 
But, when Indeed they come, divine — 

The brightest life the sun e'er threw 
[ Is lifeless to one gleam of thine ! 
' Thomas Moork. 



The Meeting of tue Waters. 

There is not in the wide world a valley 

so sweet 
As that vale, in whose bosom the bright 

waters meet ; 



518 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 


Oh, the last rays of feeling and life must 


What knowing thought, ever-moaning 


depart 


sea. 


Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade 


Haunts thy perturbed breast. 


from my heart ! 


What dark crime weighs upon thy memory 




And spoils thy rest? 


Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er 


the scene 


Thy soft swell lifts and swings the new- 


Her purest of crystal and brightest of 


launch'd yacht 


green ; 


With polish'd spars and deck, 


'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or 


But crawls and grovels where the bare ribs 


hill — 


rot 


Oh, no ! it was something more exquisite 


Of the old wreck. 


still. 


treacherous courtier ! thy deceitful lie 


'Twas that friends, the beloved of my 


To youth is gayly told. 


bosom, were near. 


But in remorse I see thee cringingly 


Who made every dear scene of enchant- 


Crouch to the old. 


* 


William Wetmore Story. 


ment more dear, 




And who felt how the best charms of 


K>. 


Nature improve 


ON THE Rhine. 


When we see them reflected from looks 




that we love. 


'Twas morn, and beautiful the mountain's 




brow — 


Sweet Vale of Avoca ! how calm could I 


Hung with the clusters of the bending 


rest 


vine — 


In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I 


Shone in the early light, when on the 


love best : 


Bhine 


Where the storms that we feel in this cold 


We sail'd, and heard the waters round the 


world should cease. 


prow 


And our hearts, like thy waters, be min- 


In murmurs parting; varying as we go. 


gled in peace. 


Rocks after rocks come forward and re- 


Thomas Mooke. 






tire. 


. »o* 


As some gray convent wall or sunlit spire 


At Dieppe. 


Starts up along the banks, unfolding slow. 




Here castles, like the prisons of despair. 


The shivering column of the moonlight 


Frown as we pass ! — there, on the vine- 


lies 


yard's side, 


Upon the crumbling sea ; 


The bursting sunshine pours its .stream- 


Down the lone shore the flying curlew 


ing tide ; 


cries 


While Grief, forgetful amid scenes so fair, 


Half humanly. 


Counts not the hours of a long summer's 


With hoarse, dull wash the backward drag- 


day, 


ging surge 


Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds 


Its rancid pebbles rakes. 


away. 

William Lisle Bowles. 


Or swelling dark runs down with toppling 
verge, 






And flashing breaks. 


Hymn. 


The lighthouse flares and darkens from 
the cliff". 


Before Sunrise in the Vale of 
Chamouni. 


And stares with lurid eye 


Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 


Fiercely along the sea and shore, as if 


In his steep course ? So long he seems to 


Some foe to spy. 


pause 



POEMS OF PLACES. 



519 



On thy bald awful head, sovran Blanc ! 

The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 

Kave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful 

Form, 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pinea, 
How silently ! Around thee and above, 
Deep is the air and dark ; substantial, 

black. 
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it. 
As with a wedge I But, when I look 

again. 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal 

shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon 

thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense. 
Didst vanish from my thought: entranced 

in prayer, 

1 worshipp'd the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody. 

So sweet, we know not we are listening to 
it. 

Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with 
my thought. 

Yea, with my life, and life's own secret 
joy : 

Till the dilating Soul, enwrapt, trans- 
fused. 

Into the mighty vision passing — there, 

As in her natural form, swell'd vast to 
Heaven I 

Awake, my soul ! Not only passive praise 
Thou owest! not alone these swelling 

tears, 
M\itc thanks, and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my Heart, 

awake. 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my 

Hymn. 

Thou, first and chief, sole sovran of the 

Vale ! 
Oh struggling with the darkness all the 

night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky, or when they 

sink : 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn. 
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the 

dawn 



Co-herald : wake ! oh wake 1 and utter 

praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in 

Earth? 
Who fiU'd thy countenance with rosy 

light? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual 

streams? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who call'd you forth from night and utter 

death. 
From dark and icy caverns call'd you 

forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged 

Rocks, 
For ever shatter'd, and the same for ever ? 

Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
Your strength, your speed, your fiiry, and 

your joy, 
Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam ? 
And who commanded (and the silence 

came), 
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? 

Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's 
brow 

Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty 
voice. 

And stopp'd at once amid their maddest 
plunge ! 

Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! 

Who made you glorious as the gates of 
Heaven 

Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade 
the sun 

Clothe you with rainbows? Who witli 
living flowers 

Of loveliest blue spread garlands at your 
feet? 

God ! let the torrents, like a shout of 
nations. 

Answer: and let the ice-plains echo, God I 

God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with glad- 
some voice ! 

Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul- 
like sounds ! 

And they, too, have a voice, yon piK's of 
snow. 

And in their perilous fall shall tliUMilor, 
God! 



520 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Ye living flowers tliat skirt the eternal 

frost ! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's 

nest! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain- 

storin ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the 

clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the element ! 
Utter forth God! and fill the hills with 

praise ! 

Thou, too, hoar Mount! with thy sky- 
pointing peaks, 

Oft from whose feet the avalanche, un- 
heard, 

Shoots downward, glittering through the 
pure serene 

Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy 
breast — 

Thou, too, again, stupendous Mountain ! 
thou 

That as I raise my head, a while bow'd 
low 

In adoration, upward from thy base 

Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with 
tears, 

Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 

To rise before me — Kise, oh ever rise, 

Rise like a cloud of incense, from the 
Earth ! 

Thou kingly Spirit throned among the 
hills,' 

Thou dread ambassador from Earth to 
Heaven, 

Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 

And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 

Earth with her thousand voices praises 

God. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



j/oA'r Blanc. 

Mont Blanc is the monarch of moun- 
tains ; 

They crown'd him long ago 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, 

With a diadem of snow. 
Around his waist are forests braced, 

The avalanche in his hand. 
But ere it fall, that thundering ball 

Must pause for my command. 



The glacier's cold and restless mass 

Moves onward day by day, 
But I am he who bids it pass, 

Or with its ice delay. 
I am the spirit of the place. 

Could make the mountain bow 
And quiver to his cavern'd base, — 

And what with me wouldst Thou f 

Lord Byron. 



The Arsenal at Spkingfield. 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceil- 
ing, 
Like a huge organ, rise the burnish'd 
arms. 
But from their silent pipes no anthem 
pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise — how wild 
and dreary — 
When the death-angel touches those 
swift keys ! 
What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful sympho- 
nies ! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, 
The cries of agony, the endless groan, 

^Vhich, through the ages that have gone 
before us. 
In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon 
hammer, 
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norse- 
man's song. 
And loud, amid the universal clamor. 
O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar 
gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his pal- 
ace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful 
din. 
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 
Beat the wild war-drums made of ser- 
pent's skin ; 

The tumult of each sack'd and burning 
village. 
The shout that every prayer for mercy 
drowns. 



i 



P0E3IS OF PLACES. 



521 



The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage, 
The wail of famine in beleaguer'd towns; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrench'd 
asunder, 
The rattling musketry, the clashing 
blade. 
And ever and anon, in tone of thunder. 
The diapason of the cannonade. 

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, 
With such accurs^d instruments :is these. 

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly 
voices, 
And jarrest the celestial harmonies? 

Were half the power that fills the world 
with terror, 
Were half the wealth bestow'd on camps 
and courts. 
Given to redeem the human mind from 
error, 
There were no need of arsenals or 
forts: 

The warrior's name would be a name ab- 
horred. 
And every nation that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 
Would wear for evermore the curse of 
Cain ! 

Down the dark future, through long gene- 
rations, 
The echoing sounds grow fainter and 
then cease ; 
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibra- 
tions, 
I hear once more the voice of Christ 
say, " Peace !" 

Peace ! — and no longer from its brazen 
portals 
The blast of War's great organ shakes 
the skies. 
But, beautiful as songs of the immortals. 
The holy melodies of love arise. 

Henry Wadswortii Lonopellow. 



T/rE Lake of the Dis3ial Swamp. 

" TiiEY made her a grave too cold and 
damp 
For a soul so warm and true; 



And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal 

Swamp, 
Where all night long, by a firefly lamp. 
She paddles her white canoe. 

"And her firefly lamp I soon shall see, 

And her paddle I soon shall hear; 
Long and loving our life shall be. 
And I'll liide the maid in a cypress tree, 
When the I'ootstep of death is near." 

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds, — 

His path was rugged and sore, 
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds. 
Through many a fen where the serpent 
feeds. 
And man never trod before. 

And when on the earth he sank to sleep. 

If slumber his eyelids knew. 
He lay where the deadly vine doth weep 
Its venomous tckr, and nightly steep 

The flesh with blistering dew ! 

And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the 
brake. 
And the copper-snake breathed in his 
ear. 
Till he starting cried, from his dream 

awake, 
" Oh when shall I see the dusky Lake, 
And the white canoe of my dear '?" 

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright 

Quick over its surface play'd, — 
" Welcome," he said, " my dear one's 

light !" 
And the dim shore echo'd for many a 
night 
The name of the death-cold maid. 

Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen 
bark. 
Which carried him off from shore; 
Far, far he foUow'd the meteor spark. 
The wind was high and the clouds were 
dark. 
And the boat return'd no more. 

But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp, 

This lover and maid so true 
Are seen at the hour of midnight damp 
To cross the Lake by a firefly lamp. 

And paddle their white canoe ! 

TUOMAS JIOORE. 



522 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



INDIAN Names. 

Ye say they all have pass'd away, 

That noble race and brave, 
That their light canoes have vanish'd 

From off the crested wave ; 
That, 'mid the forests where they roam'd, 

There rings no hunter's shout ; 
But their name is on your waters, 

Ye may not wash it out. 

'Tis where Ontario's billow 

Like ocean's surge is curl'd ; 
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake 

The echo of the world ; 
Where red Missouri bringeth 

Rich tribute from the West, 
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps 

On green Virginia's breast. 

Ye say their conelike cabins, 

That cluster'd o'er the vale, 
Have fled away like wither'd leaves 

Before the autumn's gale : 



But their memory liveth on your hills. 
Their baptism on your shore ; 

Your everlasting rivers speak 
Their dialect of yore. 

Old Massachusetts wears it 

Within her lordly crown, 
And broad Ohio bears it 

'Mid all her young renown ; 
Connecticut hath wreathed it 

Where her quiet foliage waves, 
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse 

Through all her ancient caves. 

Wachuset hides its lingering voice 

Within his rocky heart, 
And Alleghany graves its tone 

Throughout his lofty chart ; 
Monadnock on his forehead hoar 

Doth seal the sacred trust : 
Your mountains build their monument, 

Though ye destroy their dust. 

Lydia Huntley Sigourney. 



I -3 
3 > 




PART X, 



"Psalms and Hymns 



AND 



Spiritual Songs, 



Eph. V. 19. 




"Psalms and Hymns and Spiritual Songs." 

Epii. v. 19. 



Wa tchmax, Tell us of the Night. 

Watchman, tell us of the night — 

What its signs of promise are ! 
Traveller, o'er yon mountain's height 

See that glory-beaming star ! 
Watchman, docs its beauteous ray 

Aught of hope or joy foretell ? 
Traveller, yes ; it brings the day — 

Promised day of Israel. 

Watchman, tell us of the night — 

Higher yet that star ascends ! 
Traveller, blessedness and light, 

Peace and truth, its course portends. 
Watchman, will its beams alone 

Gild the spot that gave them birth ? 
Traveller, ages are its own — 

See, it bursts o'er all the earth ! 

Watchman, tell us of the night. 

For the morning seems to dawn. 
Traveller, darkness takes its Hight — 

Doubt and terror are withdrawn. 
Watchman, let thy wandering cesise ; 

Hie thee to thy quiet home. 
Traveller, lo! the Prince of Peace — 

Lo I the Son of God, is come. 

Sir John Bowriko. 



Oy THE Morning of Cnmsrs 
Nativity. 

I. 

Thls is the month, and this the ha|)py 

morn. 
Wherein the .Son of heav'n's eternal King, 
Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born. 
Our great redemption from above did 

bring ; 
For 80 the holy sages once did sing, 



That He our deadly forfeit should release, 
And with His Father work us a perpetual 
peace. 

II. 
That glorious form, that light unsufTerable, 
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty. 
Wherewith He wont at heav'n's high coun- 
cil-table 
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, 
He laid aside ; and here with us to be. 
Forsook the courts of everlasting day. 
And chose with us a darksome house of 
mortal clay. 



Say, heav'nly JIuse, shall not thy sacred 

vein 
Afford a present to the Infant God? 
Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn 

strain. 
To welcome Him to this His new abode, 
Now while the heav'n, by the sun's team 

untrod, 
Hath took no print of the approaching 

light. 
And all the spangled host keep watch in 

squadrons bright ? 



See how from far ujion the eastern road 
The star-led wizards haste with odors 

sweet : 
Oh run, prevent them with tliy humble ode, 
-Vnd lay it lowly at His blessed feet; 
Have thou the honor first thy Lord to 

greet. 
And join thy voice unto the Angel quire. 
From out His secret altar touch'd with hal- 

low'd fire. 

52.i 



626 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


THE HYMN. 


V. 


I. 


But peaceful was the night. 


It was the winter wild, 


Wherein the Prince of Light 


While the heav'n-born Child 


His reign of peace upon the earth be- 


All meanly wrapt in the rude manger 


gan : 


lies ; 


The winds with wonder wliist 


Nature in awe to Him 


Smoothly the waters kist. 


Had dofft her gaudy trim, 


Whisp'ring new joys to the mild ocean. 


With her great Master so to sympathize : 


Who now hath quite forgot to rave. 


It was no season then for her 


While birds of calm sit brooding on the 


To wanton with the sun, her lusty para- 


charmfed wave. 


mour. 




II. 


VI. 


Only with speeches fair 


The stars with deep amaze 


She woos the gentle air 


Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze. 


To hide her guilty front with innocent 


Bending one way their precious influ- 


snow, 


ence. 


And on her naked shame. 


And will not take their flight. 


Pollute with sinful blame. 


For all the morning light. 


The saintly veil of maiden white to 


Or Lucifer that often warn'd them 


throw ; 


thence ; 


Confounded that her Maker's eyes 


But in their glimmering orbs did glow. 


Should look so near upon her foul de- 


Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid 


formities. 


them go. 


III. 


VII. 


But He her fears to cease, 


And though the shady gloom 


Sent down the meek-eyed Peace ; 


Had given day her room. 


She, crown'd with olive green, came 


The sun himself withheld his wonted 


softly sliding 


speed. 


Down through the turning sphere 


And hid his head for shame. 


His ready harbinger, 


As his inferior flame 


With turtle wing the amorous clouds 


The new enlighten'd world no more 


dividing ; 


should need ; 


And waving wide her myrtle wand, 


He saw a greater Sun appear 


She strikes a universal peace through sea 


Than his bright throne, or burning axle- 


and land. 


tree could bear. 


IV. 

No war or battle's sound 


VIII. 


Was heard the world around : 


The shepherds on the lawn, 


The idle spear and shield were high up 


Or e'er the point of dawn. 


hung. 


Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; 


The hooked chariot stood 


Full little thought they then 


Unstain'd with hostile blood, 


That the mighty Pan 


The trumpet spake not to the armfed 


Was kindly come to live with them be- 


throng. 


low ; 


And kings sat still with awful eye, 


Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, 


As if they surel3' knew their sov'reign Lord 


Was all that did their silly thoughts so 


was by. 


busy keep. 



"PSALMS AND HYMXS AND SPIRITUAL SOXGS." 



527 



IX. 

When such music sweet 

Thfir hearts anil ears did greet, 

As never was by mortal linger strook, 
Divinely- warbled voice 
Answering the stringed noi e, 

As all their souls in blissful rapture 
took ; 
The air such pleasure loath to lose, 
Witli thousand echoes still prolongs each 
heavenlv close. 



X. 

Nature that heard .such sound, 
Beneath the hollow round 
Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region thrill- 

ing- 
Jsow was almost won 
To think her part was done, 

And that her reign had here its last 

fulfilling; 
She knew such harmony alone 
Could hold all heav'n and earth in happier 

union. 



At last surrounds their sight 

A globe of circular light. 
That with long beams the shamefaced 
night array'd ; 

The hclmtd Cherubim, 

And sworded .Seraphim, 

Are seen in glittering ranks with wings 
di.splay'd, 

Harjjing in loud and solemn quire. 

With une.xpressive notes to Heaven's new- 
born Heir. 



Such music (as 'tis said) 
Before was never made. 

But wlien of old the sons of morning 

sung, 
While the Creator great 
His constellations set, 
And the well-balanced world on hinges 

hung ; 
And cast the dark foundations deep. 
And bid the welt'ring waves their oozy 

channel keep. 



XIII. 

Ring out, ye crystal spheres, 

Once bless our human ears. 

If ye have pow'r to touch our senses 
so; 

And let your silver chime 

Move in melodious time. 
And let the base of heav'n's deep or- 
gan blow ; 

And with your ninefold harmony 

Make u|) full consort to th' angelic sym- 
phony. 



For if such holy song 
Inwrap our fancy long, 
Time will run back, and fetch the age 

of gold ; 
And speckled Vanity 
Will sicken soon and die, 
And leprous Sin will melt from earthly 

mould ; 
And Hell itself will pass away. 
And leave her dolorous mansions to the 

peering day. 



Yea Truth and Justice then 
Will down return to men, 

Orb'd in a rainbow ; and, like glories 

wearing, 
Mercy will sit between. 
Throned in celestial sheen, 

With radiant feet the tis.sued clouds 

down steering: 
And heav'n, as at some festival, 
Will open wide the gates of her high 

palace hall. 

XVI. 

But wisest Fate says, no. 
This must not yet be so. 

The Babe lies yet in smiling infancy. 
That on the bitter cross 
Must redeem our loss ; 

So both Himself and us to glorify; 
Yet first to those ychain'd in sleep, 
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder 
through the deep. 



528 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


XVII. 


XXI. 


With such a horrid clang 


In consecrated earth, 


As on Mount Sinai rang, 


And on the holy hearth. 


While the red fire, and smouldering 


The Lars, and Lemures moan with mid- 


clouds out brake : 


night plaint ; 


The aged earth aghast, 


In urns, and altars round. 


With terror of that blast. 


A drear and dying sound 


Shall from the surface to the centre 


Affrights the Flamens at their service 


shake ; 


quaint : 


When at the world's last session, 


And the chill marble seems to sweat. 


The dreadful Judge in middle air shall 


While each peculiar Pow'r foregoes his 


sjjreud His throne. 


wonted seat. 


XVIII. 


XXII. 


And then at last our bliss 


Peor and Baillim 


Full and perfect is. 


Forsake their temples dim. 


But now begins ; for from this happy 


With that twice-batter'd god of Pales- 


day 


tine; 


The old Dragon under ground 


And moonfed Ashtaroth, 


In straiter limits bound. 


Heav'n's queen and mother both. 


Not half so far casts his usurped sway. 


Now sits not girt with tapers' holy 


And wroth to'see his kingdom fail. 


shine ; 


Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 


The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn, 




In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded 




Thammuz mourn. 


XIX. 




The oracles are dumb, 

No voice or hideous hum 


XXIII. 


Runs thro' the archfed roof in words 


And sullen Moloch fled. 


deceiving. 


Hath left in shadows dread 


Apollo from his shrine 


His burning idol all of blackest hue ; 


Can no more divine, 


111 vain with cymbals' ring 


With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos 


They call the grisly king, 


leaving. 


In dismal dance about the furnace 


No nightly trance, or breathed spell 


blue: 


Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the pro- 


The brutish gods of Nile as fast. 


phetic cell. 


Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste. 


XX. 


XXIV. 


The lonely mountains o'er, 


Nor is Osiris seen 


And the resounding shore, 


In Memphian grove or green. 


A voice of weeping heard and loud la- 


Trampling the unshow'r'd grass with 


ment ; 


lowings loud : 


From haunted spring, and dale 


Nor can he be at rest 


Edged with poplar pale. 


Within his sacred chest ; 


The parting genius is with sighing 


Naught but profoundest hell can be his 


sent; 


shroud : 


With flow'r-inwoven tresses torn 


In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark 


The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled 


The sable-stolfed sorcerers bear his wor- 


thickets mourn. 


shipp'd ark. 



"PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



529 



He feels from Jiula's land 
The dreaded Infaiit's hand, 

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dnsky 
eyn : 
Nor all the gods beside, 
Longer dare abide, 

Not TypliDn huge ending in snaky twine : 
Our Babe, to show His Godhead true, 
Can in His swaddling bauds control the 
damned crew. 

XXVI. 

So when the sun in bed, 
Curtain'd with cloudy red. 

Pillows liis chin upon an orient wave. 
The Hocking shadows pale 
Troop to tir infernal jail, 

Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several 
grave ; 
And the yellow-skirted Fayes 
Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their 
moon-loved maze. 

XXVII. 

But see the Virgin blest 
Hath laid her Babe to rest. 
Time is our tedious song should here 
have ending ; 
Hcav'n's youngest teemfed star 
Hath fix'd her polish'd car, 

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp 
attending; 
And all about the courtly stable 
Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order ser- 
viceable. 

Joii.v Milton. 

Messiah. 

A Sacred Eclogue. 

Ye nymphs of Solyma! begin the song : 

To heavenly themes sublimer strains be- 
long. 

The mossy fountains and the sylvan 
shades. 

The dreams of Pindus and th' Aonian 
maids. 

Delight no more — O Thou my voice in- 
spire 

Who touch'd Isaiah's hallow'd lips with fire ! 
U 



Rapt into future times the bard begun : 
A Virgin shall conceive — a Virgin boar a 

Son ! 
From Jesse's root behold a Brancli arise 
Whose sacred Howcr with fragrance fdls 

the skies: 
Th' Ethereal Spirit o'er its leaves shall 

move. 
And on its top descends the mystic Dove. 
Ye heavens! from high the dewy nectar 

pour, 
And in soft silence shed the kindly 

shower ! 
The sick and weak the healing plant shall 

aid — 
From storms a shelter, and from lieat a 

shade. 
All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud 

shall fail ; 
Eeturning Justice lift aloft her scale, 
Peace o'er the world her olive wand ex- 
tend. 
And white-robed Innocence from heaven 

descend. 
Swift fly the years, and rise th' expected 

morn ! 
Oh spring to light, auspicious Babe, be 

born! 
See, Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to 

bring. 
With all the incense of the breathing 

spring : 
See lofty Lebanon his head advance; 
See nodding forests on the mountains 

dance ; 
See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise, 
And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the 

skies! 
Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert 

cheers : 
Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears ! 
A God, a God! the vocal hills rejily — 
The rocks proclaim the apj)roaching 

Deity. 
Lo, earth receives Him from the bending 

skies I 
Sink down, ye mountains; and ye valleys, 

rise! 
With heads declined, ye cedars, homage 

pay ! 
Be smooth, ye rocks; ye rapid floods, give 

wav ! 



530 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



The Saviour comes ! by ancient bards fore- 
told— 

Hear Him, ye deaf; and all ye blind, be- 
hold :' 

He from thick films shall purge the visual 

ray, 

And on the sightless eyeball pour the 
day: 

'Tis He th' obstructed paths of sound shall 
clear, 

And bid new music charm th' unfolding 
ear; 

The dumb shall sing; the lame his crutch 
forego, 

And leap exulting like the bounding roe. 

No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall 
hear — 

From every face He wipes oft' every tear. 

In adamantine claims shall Death be 
bound, 

And Hell's grim tyrant feel the eternal 
wound. 

As the good shepherd tends his fleecy 
care, 

Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air, 

Explores the lost, the wandering sheep di- 
rects, 

By day o'ersees them, and by night pro- 
tects ; 

The tender lambs he raises in his arms — 

Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom 
warms : 

Thus shall mankind His guardian care en- 
gage— 

The promised Father of the future age. 

No more shall nation against nation rise. 

Nor ardent warriors meet with hatefid 
eyes ; 

Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd 
o'er, 

The brazen trumpets kindle rage no 
more ; 

But useless lances into scythes shall bend, 

And the broad falchion in a ploughshare 
end. 

Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son 

Shall finish what his short-lived sire be- 
gun ; 

Their vines a shadow to their race shall 
yield, 

And the same hand that sow'd shall reap 
the field. 



The swain in barren deserts with surprise 

Sees lilies spring and sudden verdure rise ; 

And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds, to 
hear 

New falls of water murmuring in his ear. 

On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes, 

The green reed trembles, and the bulrush 
nods; 

Waste sandy valleys,once perplex'd with 
thorn. 

The spiry fir and shapely box adorn ; 

To leafless shrubs the flow'ring palms suc- 
ceed. 

And od'rous myrtle to the noisome weed ; 

The lambs with wolves shall graze the ver- 
dant mead. 

And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead ; 

The steer and lion at one crib shall meet. 

And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's 
feet. 

The smiling infant in his hand shall take 

The crested basilisk and speckled snake — 

Pleased, the green lustre of the scales 
survey, 

And with their forky tongue shall inno- 
cently play. 

Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, 
rise! 

Exalt thy tow'ry head, and lift thy eyes ! 

See a long race thy spacious courts adorn ; 

See future sons and daughters, yet un- 
born, 

In crowding ranks on every side arise, 

Demanding life, impatient for the skies I 

See barb'rous nations at thy gates attend. 

Walk in thy light, and in thy temple 
bend ; 

See thy bright altars throng'd with pros- 
trate kings, 

And heap'd with products of Sabsean 
springs ! 

For thee Idume's spicy forests blow. 

And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains 
glow. 

See Heaven its sparkling portals wide dis- 
play. 

And break upon thee in a flood of day ! 

No more the rising Sun shall gild the 
morn. 

Nor ev'ning Cynthia fill her silver horn ; 

But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays. 

One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze, 



••PSALMS AND Hl'MXS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



531 



O'erflow thy courts; the Light Himself 
shall shine 

Reveiil'd, ami (fod's eternal day he thine! 

Tlio seas siiall waste, the skies in smoke 
decay, 

Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt 
away ; 

But fix'd His word. His saving power re- 
mains; 

Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah 
reigns ! 

Alexander Pope. 



A Christmas Hymn. 

It was the calm and silent night ! 

Seven hundred years and fifty-three 
Had Rome been growing up to might. 

And now was queen of land and sea. 
No sound was heard of clashing wars — 

Peace brooded o'er the hush'd domain : 
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars 

Held undisturb'd their ancient reign, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago. 

'Twas in the calm and silent night ! 

The senator of haughty Rome, 
Imp.itient, urged his chariot's flight, 

From lordly revel rolling home ; 
Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell 

His breast with thoughts of boundless 
sway ; 
What reck'd the Roman what befell 
A jmltry province far away. 

In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ? 

Within that province far away 

Went ])lodding home a wean,' boor ; 
A streak of light before him lay. 

Fallen through a half-shut stable-door 
Across his path. He pass'd — for naught 

Told what was going on within ; 
How keen the stars, his only thought — 

The air how calm, and cold, and thin. 
In th<' solemn midnight. 
Centuries ago ! 

O strange indifference ! low and high 
Drowsed over common joys and cares; 

The earth was still — but knew not why 
The world was listening, unawares. 



How calm a moment may precede 

One that shall thrill the world for ever ! 
To that still moment, none would heed, 
Man's doom was liuk'd no more to 
sever — 

In the solemn midnight. 
Centuries ago ! 

It is the calm and solemn night ! 

A thousand bells ring out, and throw 
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 

The darkness — charm'd and holy now ! 
The night that erst no name had worn, 

To it a happy name is given ; 
For in that stable lay, new-born. 
The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven. 
In the solemn midnight. 
Centuries ago ! 

Alfred Domett. 



Christmas. 

While shepherds watch'd their flocks by 
night. 

All seated on the ground, 
The angel of the Lord came down. 

And glory shone around. 

" Fear not," said he (for mighty dread 
Had seized their troubled mind) ; 

" Glad tidings of great joy I bring 
To you and all mankind. 

" To you, in David's town, this day 

Is born of David's line 
The Saviour who is Christ the Lord; 

And this shall be the sign : 

" The heavenly Babe you there shall find 

To human view display 'd, 
All meanly wrapt in swathing bands. 

And in a manger laid." 

Thus spake the Serajjh ; and forthwith 

Appear'd a shining throng 
Of angels, praising God, and thus 

Addrcss'd their joyful song: 

" All glory be to God on high, 

.\nd to the earth be peace ; 
Good-will henceforth from heaven to men 

Begin, and never cease !" 

Kaium Tatb. 



532 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



Christmas Carol. 

Christians, awake, salute the happy 

morn 
Whereon the Saviour of mankind was 

born ; 
Rise to adore tlie mystery of love 
Which hosts of angels chanted from 

above ! 
With them the joyful tidings first begun 
Of God incarnate and the Virgin's Son. 

Then to the watchful shepherds it was 

told, 
Who heard the angelic herald's voice : 

" Behold, 
I bring good tidings of a Saviour's birth 
To you and all the nations upon earth : 
This day hath God fulfiU'd his promised 

word, 
This day is born a Saviour, Christ the 

Lord." 

He spake ; and straightway the celestial 

choir 
In hymns of joy, unknown before, con- 
spire : 
The praises of redeeming love they sang. 
And heaven's whole arch with alleluias 

rang : 
God's highest glory was their anthem still. 
Peace upon earth, and unto men good-will. 

To Bethlehem straight the happy shepherds 

ran. 
To see the Wonder God had wrought for 

man : 
And found, with Joseph and the blessed 

maid. 
Her Son, the Saviour, in a manger laid ; 
Amazed the wondrous story they proclaim. 
The earliest heralds of the Saviour's name. 

Let us, like these good shejiherds, then 

employ 
Our grateful voices to proclaim the joy ; 
Trace we the Babe, who hath retrieved our 

loss. 
From His poor manger to His bitter cross ; 
Treading Plis steps, assisted by His grace. 
Till man's first heavenly state again takes 

place. 



Then may we hope, the angelic thrones 

among, 
To sing, redeem'd, a glad triumphal song ; 
He that was born upon this joyful day 
Around us all His glory shall display ; 
Saved by His love, incessant we shall sing 
Of angels and of angel-men the King. 

John Bvkum. 



Christmas Carol. 

God rest you, merry gentlemen. 

Let nothing you dismay. 
For Jesus Christ our Saviour 

Was born upon this day. 
To save us all from Satan's power. 
When we were gone astray. 
Oh tidings of comfort and joy. 
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was 
born on Christmas Day ! 

In Bethlehem, in Jewry, 

This blessed babe was born, 
And laid within a manger, 
Upon this blessed morn ; 
The which his mother Mary 
Nothing did take in scorn. 

Oh tidings of comfort and joy. 
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was 
born on Chri.stmas Day ! 

From God, our Heavenly Father, 

A blessed angel came, 
And unto certain shepherds 

Brought tidings of the same. 
How that in Bethlehem was born 
The Son of God by name. 

Oh tidings of comfort and joy. 
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was 
born on Christmas Day ! 

Fear not, then said the angel, 

Let nothing you affright, 
This day is born a Saviour, 

Of virtue, power, and might, 
So frequently to vanquish all 
The friends of Satan quite. 
Oh tidings of comfort and joy. 
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was 
born on Christmas Day ! 

The shepherds at those tidings 
Eejoiced much in mind, 



'PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



533 



And left their flocks a-feeding 

In tempest, storm, and wind, 
And went to Betlileliem straightway 
This blessed babe to find. 

Oh tidings of eomfort and joy, 
l"(ir .lesus Christ, our .Saviour, waS 
born on Christmas Day ! 

But when to Bethlehem they came, 

Whereat this infant lay. 
They found him in a manger 

Where oxen feed on hay; 
His mother Mary, kneeling. 
Unto the Lord did i>ray. 
Oh tidings of comfort and joy, 
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was 
born on Christnnus Day ! 

Isow to the Lord sing praises, 

All you within this place, 
And with true love and brotherhood 

Kach other now embrace ; 
This holy tide of Christmas 
All others doth deface. 

Oh tidings of comfort and joy. 
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was 
born on Christmas Day ! 

AUTHOB USKNOWJ). 



/r CA.VK UPOX THE MiDXIGIIT 

Clear. 

It came upon the midnight clear, 

That glorious song of old. 
From angels bending near the earth 

To touch tlieir harps of gold : 
" Peace on the earth, good-will to men 

From Heaven's all-gracious King:" 
The world in solemn stillness lay 

To hear the angels sing. 

Still through the cloven .skies they come 

With peaceful wings nnfiirl'd ; 
And still their heavenly music floats 

O'er all the weary world : 
Above its sad and lowly plains 

They bend on hovering wing. 
And ever o'er its Babel sounds 

The blessed angels sing. 

But with the woes of sin and strife 
The world has sufl'er'd long; 



Beneath the angel-strain have roU'd 
Two thousand years of wrong ; 

And man, at war with man. hears not 
The love-song which they bring : 

Oh ! hush the noise, ye men of strife, 
And hear the angels sing ! 

And ye, beneath life's crushing load 

Whose forms are bending low. 
Who toil along the climbing way 

With painful stejjs and slow, 
Look now ! for glad and golden hours 

Come swiftly on the wing: 
Oh ! rest beside the weary road, 

And hear the angels sing ! 

For lo! the days are hastening on. 

By prophet-bards foretold. 
When with the ever-circling years 

Comes round the age of gold ; 
Wlien peace shall over all the earth 

It.s ancient splendors fling, 
And the wliole world send back the song 

Which now the angels sing I 

£uMu.s'i> II. Sears. 

Hark I how all the Welkin 

RlXGS! 

Hark! how all the welkin rings! 
Cilory to the King of kings! 
Peace on earth, and mercy mild, 
God and sinners reconciled! 
Joyful, all ye nations, rise. 
Join the triumi)h of the skies; 
Universal Nature say, 
Christ the Lord is born to-day I 

Christ, by highest Heaven adored ; 
Christ, the Everlasting Lord ; 
Late in time behold Him come. 
Offspring of a Virgin's womb: 
Veil'd in Mesh the Godhead see; 
Hail the Incarnate Deity, 
Pleased as man with men to appear, 
Jesus, our Imnianuel here ! 

Hail ! the heavenly Prince of Peace ! 
Hail ! the Sun of" Righteousness I 
Light and life to all He brings. 
Risen with healing in His wings. 
Mild He lays His glory by, 
Born that man no more may die, 
Born to raise the sons of earth. 
Born to give them second birth. 



534 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Come, Desire of nations, come, 
Fix in us Tliy liumble home ! 
Rise, the woman's conquering Seed, 
Bruise in us the Serpent's head! 
Kow display Thy saving power, 
Euin'd nature now restore, 
Kow in mystic union join 
Thine to ours, and ours to Thine ! 

Adam's lil^eness. Lord, efface ; 
Stamp Thy image in its place; 
Second Adam IVom above, 
Keinstate us in Thy love ! 
Let us Thee, though lost, regain, 
Thee, the Life, the Heavenly Man : 
Oh, to all Thyself impart, 
Form'd in each believing heart ! 

Charlks Wesley'. 



Shout the Glad Tidings. 

Shout the glad tidings, exultingly sing ; 
Jerusalem triumphs, Messiah is King ! 

Sion, the marvellous story be telling, 
The Son of the Highest, how lowly His 
birth ! 
The briglitest archangel in glory excelling. 
He stoojjs to redeem thee. He reigns 
upon earth : 
Shout the glad tidings, exultingly sing; 
Jerusalem triumphs, Messiah is King ! 

Tell how He cometh ; from nation to na- 
tion. 

The heart-cheering news let the earth 

echo round : 

How free to the failhl'ul He offers salvation. 

How His people with joy everlasting are 

crowji'd : 

Shout the glad tidings, exultingly sing ; 

Jerusalem triumphs, Messiah is King ! 

Mortals, your homage be gratefully bring- 
ing, 
And sweet let the gladsome Hosanna 
arise ; 
Ye angels, the full Hallelujah be singing; 
One chorus resound through the earth 
and the skies : 
Shout the glad tidings, exultingly 

sing; 
Jerusalem triumphs, Messiah is King ! 
William Augustus Muhlenberg. 



(J03IE HITHER, YE FAITHFUL. 

Come hither, ye faithful, 

Triumphantly sing! 
Come, see in the manger 
The angels' dread King! 
To Bethlehem hasten. 
With joyful accord ! 
Oh come ye, come hither 
To worship the Lord I 

True Son of the Father, 

He comes from the skies ; 
To be born of a Virgin 
He doth not despise. 
To Bethlehem hasten. 
With joyful accord! 
Oh come ye, come hither 
To worship the Lord ! 

Hark, hark to the angels ! 

All singing in heaven, 
" To God in the highest 
All glory be given !" 
To Bethlehem hasten, 
With joyful accord ! 
Oh come ye, come hither 
To worship the Lord ! 

To Thee, then, O Jesu, 

This day of Thy birth, 
Be glory and honor 

Through heaven and earth. 
True Godhead incarnate I 

Omnipotent Word ! 
Oh come, let us hasten 
To worship the Lord I 

E. Caswell. 
(Translation.) 

Hark, the Glad Sound. 

Hark, the glad sound ! the Saviour comes, 

The Saviour promised long ; 
Let every heart prepare a throne. 

And every voice a song ! 

He comes, the prisoners to release 

In Satan's bondage held ; 
The gates of brass before Him burst, 

The iron fetters yield. 

He comes, from thickest films of vice 

To clear the mental ray, 
And on the eyeballs of the blind 

To pour celestial day. 



"PSALMS AXD HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SOXGS." 



535 



He comes, the broken heart to bind, 

The bleeding soul to cure. 
And with the treasures of His grace 

To enrich the humble poor. 

Our glad Hosannas, Prince of Peace, 

Thy welcome shall proclaim, 
And heaven's eternal arches ring 

With thy belovfed name. 

Piiii-ip Doddridge. 



EPIPIfANV. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the 
morning, 
Dawn on our darkness, and lend usThinc 
aid! 
Star of the East, the horizon adorning. 
Guide where our infant Kedeemer is 
laid! 

Cold on His cradle the dewdrops are shin- 
ing; 
Low lies His head with the bea-sts of the 
stall ; 
Angels adore Him in slumber reclining — 
Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of all. 

Say, shall we yield Jlini, in costly de- 
votion, 
Odors of Edom, and offerings divine — 
Gems of the mountain, and jicarls of the 
ocean ? 
Myrrh from the forest, and gold from 
the mine? 

Vainly we ofier each ample oblation, 
Vainly with gifts would His favor se- 
cure ; 
Richer by far is the heart's adoration, 
Dearer to God are the prayers of the 
poor. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the 
morning. 
Dawn on imr darkness, and lend us Thine 
aid! 
Star of the East, the horizon adorning, 
Guide where our infant Uccleemer is 
laid ! 

liKnlNALD UEBKK. 



Gethsemane. 

Go to dark Gethsemane, 

Ye that feel the tempter's power; 
Your Redeemer's conflict see, 

Watch with Him one bitter hour; 
Turn not from His griefs away. 
Learn of Jesus Christ to pray ! 

Follow to the judgment-hall — 
View the Lord of life arraign'd ; 

Oh, the wormwood and the gall. 
Oh, the pangs his soul sustain'd ! 

Shun not suflering, shame, or loss — 

Learn of Him to bear the cross! 

Calvary's mournful mountain climb; 

There, adoring at His feet, 
Mark that miracle of time — 

God's own sacrifice complete ! 
" It is finish'd !" — hear the cry ; 
Learn of Jesus Christ to die. 

Early hasten to the tomb 

AVhere they laid his breathless clay ; 
All is solitude and gloom; 

Who hath taken Him away? 
Christ is risen ! He meets our eyes! 
Saviour, teach us so to rise I 

JamI':s Montgomery. 



Christ Crucified. 

"And was crucified for \is iinrinr Pontius Pilate; 
He suifercd, and was buried." 

Ripe on, ride on in majesty! 
Hark ! all the tribes Ilosanna cry ! 
Thine humble beast pursues his road. 
With palms and scatter'd garments strow'd. 

IJidc on ! ride on in majesty! 

In lowly pomp ride on to die! 

O Christ! Thy triumphs now begin 

O'er captive Death and conquer'd Sin. 

Ride on ! ride on in m.ijesty ! 
Tiie winged squadrons of the sky 
Look down with sail and wondering eyes 
To .see the apjiroaching Sacrifice. 

Ride on ! ride on in majesty ! 
Thy last and fiercest strife is nigh ; 
The Father on His .sapphire throne 
Expects His own anointed Son. 



530 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Ride on ! ride on in majesty ! 

In lowly pouip ride on to die ! 

Bow Thy meek head to mortal pain ; 

Then take, God, Thy power, and reign ! 



Henry Hart Milman. 



BOUND UPON TH' ACCURSED TREE. 

Bound upon th' accursfed tree, 
Faint and bleeding, who is He? 
By the eyes so pale and dim, 
S?treaming blood, and writhing limb, 
By the flesh, with scourges torn. 
By the crown of twisted thorn. 
By the side, so deeply pierced. 
By the baffled burning thirst, 
By the drooping death-dew'd brow. 
Son of Man ! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou ! 

Bound upon th' accursed tree, 
Dread and awful, who is He ? 
By the sun at noonday pale. 
Shivering rocks, and rending veil. 
By earth, that trembles at His doom, 
By yonder saints, that burst tlieir tomb, 
By Eden, promised ere He died 
To the felon at His side. 
Lord, our suppliant knees we bow ; 
Son of God ! 'tis Thou ! 'tis Thou ! 

Bound upon th' accursfed tree, 
Sad and dying, who is He? 
By the last and bitter cry. 
The ghost given up in agony, 
By the lifeless body laid 
In the chamber of the dead, 
By the mourners, come to weep 
Where the bones of Jesus sleep ; 
Crucified ! we know Thee now ; 
Son of Man ! 'tis Thou ! 'tis Thou ! 

Bound upon th' accursed tree, 
Dread and awful, who is He? 
By the prayer for them that slew, 
" Lord, they know not what they do !" 
By the spoil'd and empty grave, 
By the souls He died to save. 
By the conquest He hath won, 
By the saints before His throne. 
By the rainbow round His brow, 
Son of God ! 'tis Thou ! 'tis Timu ! 

Henry Hakt Milman. 



We Sing the Praise of Him 
WHO Died. 

We sing the praise of Him who died. 
Of Him who died upon the cross; 

The sinner's hope let men deride. 
For this we count the world but loss. 

Inscribed upon the cross we see. 
In shining letters, God is Love; 

He bears our sins upon the tree, 
He brings us mercy from above. 

The Cross ! it takes our guilt away ; 

It holds the fainting spirit up ; 
It cheers with hope the gloomy day, 

And sweetens every bitter cup ; 

It makes the coward spirit brave, 
And nerves the feeble arm for fight ; 

It takes its terror from the grave. 

And gilds the bed of death with light; 

The balm of life, the cure of woe, 
The measure and the pledge of love, 

The sinner's refuge here below, 
The angels' theme in heaven above. 
Thomas Kkllv. 

GlORYING IN THE CROSS. 

When I survey the wondrous cross 
On which the Prince of glory died, 

]My ricliest gain I count but loss. 
And pour contempt on all my pride. 

Forbid it. Lord, that I should boast 
Save in the death of Christ, my God ; 

All the vain things that charm me most 
I sacrifice them to His blood. 

See from His head. His hands, His feet. 
Sorrow and love flow mingled do.wn ! 

Did e'er such love and sorrow meet. 
Or thorns compose so rich a crown ? 

Were the whole realm of Nature mine. 
That were a present far too small ; 

Love so amazing, so divine. 
Demands my soul, my life, my all. 

I.^aac Watts. 



The Lord is Risen. 

Christ the Lord is risen to-day. 
Sons of men and angels say : 
Raise your joys and triumphs high, 
Sing, ye heavens, and earth reply. 



'PSALMS AND ifi'JLVS AM) SPIRITUAL SOXGS." 



537 



Love's redeeming work is done, 
Fouglit the fight, the battle won : 
Lo ! our Sun's eclipse is o'er ; 
Lo I He sets in blood no more. 

Vain the stone, the watt-h, the seal ; 
Christ hath burst the gates of hell ! 
Death in vain forbids His rise; 
Christ hath open'd Paradise ! 

Lives again our glorious King: 
Where, O Death, is now thy sting? 
Once He died, our souls to save : 
Where thy victory, O Grave? 

Soar we now where Christ has led, 
Following our exalted Head; 
Made like Him, like Him we rise; 
Ours the cross, the grave, the skies. 

What though once we perish'd all, 
Partners in our parents' fall ? 
Second life we all receive, 
In our Heavenly Adam live. 

Risen with Him, wo upward move; 
Still we seek the things above; 
Still pursue, and kiss the Son 
Seated on His Father's Throne. 

Scarce on earth a thought bestow. 
Dead to all wc> leave below ; 
Heaven our aim, and loved abode. 
Hill our life with Christ in God: 

Hill, till Christ our Life appear 
Gloriiius in His members here; 
Join'd to Him, we then shall shine, 
-Ml immortal, all divine. 

Hail the Lord of Earth and Heaven ! 
Praise to Thee by b<ith be given ! 
Thee we greet triumphant now ! 
Hail, the Resurrection Thou ! 

King of glory, Soul of bliss! 
Everlasting life is this. 
Thee to know. Thy power to prove. 
Thus to sing, and thus to love I 

C'llAKI.KS Wh3LEY. 



Christ risen. 

" And the third day He rose again, according to the 
Scriptures." 

Again the Lord of Life and Light 

Awakes the kindling ray. 
Unseals the eyelids of the morn, 

And jiours increasing day. 

Oh what a night was that which wrapt 
The heathen world in gloom ! 

Oh what a sun, which broke this day 
Triumphant from the tomb I 

This day be grateful homage paid. 

And loud hosannas sung; 
Let gladness dwell in every heart. 

And praise on every tongue. 

Ten thousand differing lips shall join 

To hail this welcome morn. 
Which scatters blessings from its wings 

To nations yet unborn. 

The powers of darkness leagued in vain 

To bind His soul in death ; 
He shook their kingdom, when He fell. 

With his expiring breath. 

And now His conquering chariot-wheels 

Ascend the lofty skies ; 
While broke beneath His powerful cross 

Death's iron sceptre lies. 

Exalted high at God's right hand. 

The Lord of all below, 
Through Him is pardoning love dispensed, 

And boundless blessings flow. 

And still for erring, guilty man 

A Brothers pity flows ; 
And still His bleeding heart is touch'd 

With memory of our woes. 

To Thee, my Saviour and my King, 

(ilad homage let me give ; 
And staixl prepared like Thee to die. 

With Thee that I may live ! 

Ansa L.etitia Barbai'LD. 



COEOXA TION. 

"Am, hail the power of Jesus' name! 

Ix't angels prostrate fall ; 
Bring forth the royal diadem, 

To crown Him Lord of all I 



538 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



" Let high-born seraphs tune the lyre, 

And, a.s they tune it, fall 
Before His face who tunes their choir, 
And crown Him Lord of all ! 

"Crown Him, ye morning stars of light 
Who fix'd this floating ball ; 

Now hail the Strength of Israel's might. 
And crown Him Lord of all ! 

"Crown Him, ye martyrs of your God, 

Who from His altar call ; 
Extol the stem of Jesse's rod. 

And crowu Him Lord of all ! 

" Ye seed of Israel's chosen race, 

Ye ransom'd of the fall, 
Hail Him who saves you by His grace. 

And crown Him Lord of all ! 

"Hail Him, ye heirs of David's line, 

Whom David Lord did call. 
The God incarnate, man divine; 

And crown Him Lord of all ! 

" Sinners, whose love can ne'er forget 
The wormwood and the gall. 

Go spread yfiur trophies at His feet. 
And crown Him Lord of all ! 

" Let every tribe and every tongue 

That bound creation's call, 
Now shout, in universal song. 

The crowned Lord of all !" 

Edward Pkeeonet. 



Psalm LXXII. 

Hail to the Lord's Anointed, 

Great David's greater Son ! 
Hail, in the time ap])ointed, 

His reign on earth begun ! 
He comes to break oppression, 

To let the captive free. 
To take away transgression, 

And rule in equity. 

He comes with succor speedy 

To those who suffer wrong ; 
To help the poor and needy, 

And bid the weak be strong : 
To give them songs for sighing, 

Their darkness turn to light. 
Whose souls, condenin'd and dying. 

Were precious in His sight. 



He shall come down like showers 

Upon the fruitful earth. 
And love, joy, hope, like flowers. 

Spring in His path to birth ; 
Before Him, on the mountains, 

Shall Peace, the herald, go, 
And righteousness, in fountains. 

From hill to valley flow. 

Arabia's desert-ranger 

To Him shall bow the knee; 
The Ethiopian stranger 

His glory come to see : 
With offerings of devotion 

Ships from the isles shall meet, 
To pour the wealth of ocean 

In tribute at His feet. 

Kings shall fall down before Him, 

And golden incense bring; 
All nations shall adore Him, 

His praise all people sing ; 
For He shall have dominion 

O'er river, sea, and shore ; 
Far as the eagle's pinion. 

Or dove's light wing, can .soar. 

For Him shall prayer unceasing. 

And daily vows ascend. 
His kingdom still increasing, 

A kingdom without end : 
The mountain-dews shall nourish 

A seed, in weakness sown, 
Whose fruit shall spread and flourish. 

And shake like Lebanon. 

O'er every foe victorious 

He on His throne shall rest 
From age to age more glorious, 

All blessing and all-blest: 
The tide of time shall never 

His covenant remove ; 
His Name shall stand for ever, 

That Name to us is Love. 

James Montgomeby. 



PSALM LXXII. 

Jesus shall reign where'er the sun 
Does his successive journeys run ; 
His kingdom stretch from shore to shore. 
Till moons shall wax and wane no more. 



"PSALMS AXD HYMyS AXD SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



539 



For Him shall endless prayer be made, 
And ])r:iiscs throng to crown His Head ; 
His Name, like sweet perfume, shall rise 
With ever}- morning sacrifice. 

People and realms of every tongue 
Dwell on His love with sweetest song. 
And infant voices shall proclaim 
Their early blessings on His Name. 

Blessings abound where'er He reigns ; 
The prisoner lcai)S to lose his chains ; 
The weary lind eternal rest. 
And all llie sons of want are blest. 

Where He displays His liealing power. 
Death and the curse arc known no more; 
In Him the tribes of Adam boast 
More blessings than their father lost. 

Let every creature rise, and bring 
Peculiar honors to our King ; 
Angels descend with songs again. 
And earth repeat the long Amen 1 

Isaac Wads. 



IlAiL, THOU ONCE-DESPISED Jesus ! 

Hail, Thou once-despisfcd Jesus I 

Hail, thou (ialilean King! 
Thou didst suffer to release us. 

Thou didst free salvation bring: 
Hail, thou agonizing Saviour, 

Bearer of our sin and shame ; 
By Thy merits we find favor ; 

Life is given through Thy Name! 

Paschal Lamb, by God appointed. 

All our sins were on Thee laid ; 
By Almighty Love anointed. 

Thou hast full atonement made : 
All Thy people are forgiven 

Through the virtue of Thy Blood ; 
0])en'd is the gate of heaven ; 

Peace is made 'twixt man and God. 

Jesus, hail I enthroned in glory, 

There for ever to abide ; 
All the heavenly hosts adore Thee, 

Seated at Thy Father's side. 
There for sinners Thou art pleading ; 

There Thou dost our place prepare ; 
Ever f )r us interceding 

Till in glory we appear. 



Worship, honor, power, and blessing, 

Thou art worthy to receive ; 
Loudest praises, without ceasing. 

Meet it is for us to give ! 
Help, ye bright angelic spirits. 

Bring your sweetest, noblest lays ; 
Help to sing our Saviour's merits. 

Help to chant Immanuel's j)raise ! 

Soon we shall, with those in glory, 

His transcendent grace relate ; 
Gladly sing the amazing story 

Of His dying love so great : 
In that blessed contemplation 

We for evermore shall dwell, 
Crown'd with bliss and consolation, 

Such as none below can tell. 

John IIakicwkli,. 



My Faith looks up to Thee. 

My faith looks up to Thee, 
Thou Lamb of Calvary, 

Saviour divine ! 
Now hear me while I pray : 
Take all my guilt away; 
Oh let me from this day 

Be wholly Thine! 

Slay Thy rich grace impart 
Strength to my fainting heart. 

My zeal inspire! 
As Thou hast died for me. 
Oh may my love to Thee 
Pure, warm, and changeless be, 

A living fire ! 

While life's dark maze I tread, 
And griefs around me spread. 

Be Thou my Guide ! 
Bill darkness turn to day. 
Wipe sorrow's tears away, 
Nor let me ever stray 

From Thee aside. 

When ends life's transient dream. 
When death's cold sullen stream 

•Shall o'er me roll, 
Blest Saviour! then in love 
Fear and distrust remove; 
Oh bear me safe above, 

A ransom'd soul ! 



540 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETS Y. 



LITANY. 

Saviour, when in dust to Thee 
Low we bend the adoring knee; 
When repentant to the slvies 
Scarce we lift our weeping eyes; 
Oh ! by all the pains and woe 
Suffer'd once for man below, 
Bending from Thy throne on high, 
Hear our solemn Litany ! 

By Thy helpless infant years, 
By Thy life of want and tears, 
By Thy days of sore distress 
In the savage wilderness; 
By the dread mysterious hour 
Of the insulting tempter's power; 
Turn, oh ! turn a favoring eye, 
Hear our solemn Litany ! 

By the sacred griefs that wept 
O'er the grave where Lazarus slept ; 
By the boding tears that flow'd 
Over Salem's loved abode ; 
By the anguish'd sigh that told 
Treachery lurk'd within Thy fold: 
From Thy seat above the sky. 
Hear our solemn Litany ! 

By Thine hour of dire despair; 
By Thine agony of prayer ; 
By the cross, the nail, the thorn, 
Piercing spear, and torturing scorn ; 
By the gloom that veil'd the skies 
O'er tlie dreadful sacrifice ; 
Listen to our humble cry, 
Hear our solemn Litany ! 

By Thy deep expiring groan ; 
By the sad sepulchral stone ; 
By the vault, whose dark abode 
Held in vain the rising God ; 
Oh ! from earth to heaven restored, 
j\Iighty reascended Lord, 
Listen, listen to the cry 
Of our solemn Litany ! 

Sir Robert Grant. 



Thou, the contrite Sinners' 
Friend. 

Thou, the contrite sinners' friend. 
Who, loving, lov'st them to the end. 



On this alone my hopes depend, 
That Thou wilt plead for me ! 

When, weary in the Christian race, 
Far off appears my resting-place, 
And fainting I mistrust Thy grace, 
Thou, Saviour, plead for me ! 

When I have err'd and gone astray 
Afar from Thine and Wisdom's way, 
And see no glimmering guiding ray. 
Still, Saviour, plead for me ! 

When Satan, by my sins made bold. 
Strives from Thy cross to loose my hold, 
Then with Thy pitying arms enfold, 
And plead, oh plead for me ! 

And when my dying hour draws near, 
Darken'd with anguish, guilt, and fear. 
Then to my fainting sight appear, 
Pleading in Heaven for me ! 

When the full light of heavenly day 
Keveals my sins in dread array. 
Say Thou hast wash'd them all away ; 
Oh say Thou plead'st for me ! 

Charlotte Elliott. 



Jesus, I 3iy Cross ha ve Taken. 

Jesus, I my cross have taken. 

All to leave, and follow Thee ; 
Destitute, despised, forsaken, 

Thou, from hence, my all shalt be: 
Perish every fond ambition. 

All Pve sought, or hoped, or known ; 
Yet how rich is my condition ! 

God and Heaven are still my own ! 

Let the world despise and leave me, 

They have left my Savioui' too ; 
Human hearts and looks deceive me ; 

Thou art not, like them, untrue : 
And, while Thou shalt smile upon me, 

God of wisdom, love, and might. 
Foes may hate, and friends may shun me ; 

Show Thy face, and all is bright ! 

Go, then, earthly fame and treasure ! 

Come, disaster, scorn, and pain ! 
In Thy service, pain is pleasure, 

AVith Thy favor, loss is gain ! 



"PSALMS Ai\D HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



541 



I have call'd Thee, Abba, Father ! 

I have stay'd my heart on Thee ! 
Storms may howl, and cK)iiils may gather, 

All must work for good to me. 

Man may trouble and distress me, 

'Twill but drive mc to Thy breast; 
Life with trials hard may press me. 

Heaven will bring me sweeter rest ! 
Oh, 'tis not in grief to harm me. 

While Thy love is left to me ! 
Oh, 'twere not in joy to charm me. 

Were that joy unmix'd with Thee ! 

Take, my soul, thy full salvation ; 

Rise o'er sin, and fear, and care ; 
Joy to find, in every station. 

Something still to do or bear : 
Think what Spirit dwells within thee! 

What a Father's smile is thine ! 
What a Saviour died to win thee ! 

Child of Heaven, shouldst thou repine? 

Haste, then, on from grace to glory, 

Arm'd by faith, and wing'd by prayer; 
Heaven's eternal day's before thee, 

God's own hand shall guide thee there! 
Soon shall close thy earthly mission, 

Swift shall pass thy pilgrim days ; 
Hope soon change to glad fruition. 

Faith to sight, and prayer to praise ! 

Henuy Fkaxcis Lyte, 



Saviour, who Thy Flock art 
Fekding. 

Saviour, who Thy flock art feeding 
With the Shepherd's kindest care, 

All the feeble gently leading. 
While the lambs Thy bosom share ; 

Now, these little ones receiving. 
Fold them in Thy gracious arm ; 

There, we know. Thy word believing, 
Only there, secure from harm ! 

Never, from Thy pasture roving. 
Let them be the lion's prey ; 

Let Thy tenderness so loving 

Keep them all life's dangerous way : 

Then, within Thy fold eternal, 
Let them find a resting-place, 



Feed in pastures ever vernal. 
Drink the rivers of Thy grace ! 

William Auoustls MeiiLEXBEBO. 



Rock of Ages. 

Rock of Ages, cleft for me^ 
Let mc hide myself in Thee ! 
Let the water and the blood. 
From Thy riven side which flow'd, 
Be of sin the double cure. 
Cleanse me from its guilt and power. 

Not the labors of my hands 
Can fulfil Thy law's demands ; 
Could my zeal no respite know. 
Could my tears for ever flow. 
All for sin could not atone ; 
Thou must save, and Thou alone. 

Nothing in my hand I bring; 
Simply to Thy Cross I cling ; 
Naked, come to Thee for dress ; 
Helpless, look to Thee for grace ; 
Foul, I to the Fountain fly ; 
Wash me. Saviour, or I die ! 

While I draw this fleeting breath, 
When my eyestrings break in death. 
When I soar through tracts unknown. 
See Thee on Thy judgment-throne ; 
Rock of Ages, cleft for me. 
Let me hide my.self in Thee I 

AUGCSTCs Montague Toplady. 



Jesu, Lover of my Socl. 

Jesu, lover of my soul. 

Let me to Thy bosom fly, 
While the nearer waters roll. 

While the tempest still is high ! 
Hide me, O my Saviour, hide. 

Till the storm of life is past. 
Safe into the haven guide ; 

Oh receive my soul at last ! 

Other refuge have 1 none ; 

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee; 
Leave,.ah ! leave me not alone. 

Still support and comfort me ! 
All my trust on Thee is stay'd, 

All my help from Thee I bring: 
Cover my defenceless head 

With the shadow of Thy wing! 



542 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Wilt Thou not regard my call ? 


Weak is the effort of my heart. 


Wilt Tliou not accept my prayer? 


And cold my warmest thought ; 


Lo ! I sink, I faint, I fall ! 


But when I see Thee as Thou art. 


Lo ! on Thee I cast my care ! 


I'll praise Thee as I ought. 


Keach me out Thy gracious hand ! 




While I of Thy strength receive, 


Till then, I would Thy love proclaim 


Hoping against hope I stand, 


With every fleeting breath ; 


Dying, and behold I live ! 


And may the music of Thy Name 




Refresh my soul in death ! 


Thou, Christ, art all I want; 


, John Newton. 


More than all in Thee I find: 




Raise the fallen, cheer the faint. 


LovEST THOU Met 


Heal the sick, and lead the blind ! 


John xxi. 16. 


Just and holy is Thy Name ; 


Hark, my soul ! it is the Lord, 


I am all unrighteousness; 


'Tis thy Saviour, hear His word ; 


False and full of sin I am. 


Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee : 


Tnou art full of truth and grace. 


"Say, poor sinner, lov'st thou Me? 


Plenteous grace with Thee is found — 


" I deliver'd thee when bound. 


Grace to cover all my sin ; 


And, when bleeding, heal'd thy wound ; 


Let the healing streams abound ; 


Sought thee wandering, set thee right. 


Make and keep me pure within ! 


Turn'd thy darkness into light. 


Tliou of Life the Fountain art, 




Freely let me take of Thee ; 


" Can a woman's tender care 


Spring Thou up within my heart ! 


Cease toward the child she bare ? 


Rise to all eternity ! 


Yes, she may forgetful be ; 


Charles Wesley. 


Yet will I remember thee ! 


90* 


"Mine is an unchanging love. 


How Sweet the Name of Jesus 


Higher than the heights above, 


Sounds. 


Deeper than the depths beneath. 


How sweet the Name of Jesus sounds 


Free and faithful, strong as death. 


In a believer's ear ! 


" Thou shalt see my glory soon. 


It soothes his sorrows, heals his wound.s. 


When the work of grace is done ; 


And drives away his fear ! 


Partner of my throne shalt be ; 


It makes the wounded spirit whole. 


Say, poor sinner, lov'st thou Me ?" 


And calms the troubled breast; 


Lord ! it is my chief complaint. 


'Tis manna to the hungry soul. 


That my love is weak and faint ; 


And to the weary rest. 


Yet I love Thee and adore ! 


Dear Name ! the rock on which I build. 


Oh ! for grace to love Thee more ! 

William Cowper. 


My shield and hiding-place. 




My never-failing treasury, fill'd 


-o. 


With boundless stores of grace, 


THE Stranger and his Friend. 


By Thee my prayers acceptance gain. 


A POOR wayfaring man of grief 


Although with sin defiled ; 


Hath often cross'd me on my way. 


Satan accuses me in vain, 


Who sued so humbly for relief. 


And I am own'd a chikl. 


That I could never answer. Nay. 


Jesus, my Shepherd, Husband, Friend, 


I had not power to ask his name, 


My Prophet, Priest, and King, 


Whither he went, or whence he came. 


My Lord, my Life, my Way, my End, 


Yet there was something in his eye 


Accept the praise I bring. 


That won my love, I knew not why. 



••PSAL3IS AND HYMXS AXD SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



543 



Once, when my scanty meal was spread, 
He enter'cl ; not a word he spake ; 

Just perishing tor want of bread; 
I gave him all ; he bless'd it, brake, 

And ate ; but gave me part again ; 

Mine was an angel's portion then ; 

For, while I fed with eager haste, 

That crust n;Ls manna to my taste. 

I spied him, where a fountain burst 
Clear from the rock; his strength was 
gone; 

The heedless water mock'd his thirst, 
He heard it, saw it hurrying on : 

I ran to raise the suflVrer uj) ; 

Thrice from the stream hcdrain'd my cup. 

Dipt, and rcturn'd it running o'er; 

I drank, and never thirsted more. 

'Twas night ; the floods were out ; it 
blew 

A winter hurricane aloof; 
I hearil his voice abroad, and flew 

To bid him welcome to my roof; 
I warm'd, I clothed, I cheer'd my guest, 
Laid him on my own couch to rest ; 
Then made the hearth my bed, and seem'd 
In Eden's garden while I dream'd. 

Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death, 

I found him by the highway-side: 
I roused his pulse, brought back his 
breath. 
Revived his spirit, and supplied 
Wine, oil, refreshment ; he was heal'd: 
I had myself a wound conceal'd ; 
Hut from that hour forgot the smart, 
.Vnd peace bound up my broken heart. 

In prison I saw him next condemn 'd 
To meet a traitor's death at morn : 

The tide of lying tongues I stemm'd. 
And honor'd him 'midst shame and 
scorn ; 

My friendship's utmost zeal to tr}'. 

He ask'd if I for him would die ; 

The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill ; 

But the free spirit cried, " I will." 

Then in a moment to my view 

The Stranger darted from disguise; 

The tokens i[i His hands I knew, 
My Saviour stood before mine eyes! 



He spake ; and my poor name He named : 
" Of Me thou hast not been ashamed ; 
These deeds shall thy memorial be ; 
Fear not ; thou didst them unto Me.'' 

Jami-:s Montgjmeby. 



C03rE, Holy Spirit, Heavenly 
Dove. 

Come, Holy Spirit, heavenly Dove, 
With all Thy quickening powers, 

Kindle a flame of sacred love 
In these cold hearts of ours. 

Look how we grovel here below. 
Fond of these trifling toys ; 

Our souls can neither fly nor go 
To reach eternal joys ! 

In vain we tune our formal songs. 

In vain we strive to rise ; 
Hosannas languish on our tongues. 

And our devotion dies. 

Dear Lord, and shall we ever lie 

At this poor dying rate ? 
Our love so faint, so cold to Thee, 

And Thine to us so great ! 

Come, Holy Spirit, heavenly Dove, 
With all Thy quickening powers; 

Come, shed abroad a Saviour's love, 
And that shall kindle ours. 

Isaac Watts. 



Veni Creator Spiritus. 

Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire, 
And lighten with celestial fire ; 
Thou the Anointing Spirit art, 
M'ho dost Thy sevenfold gifts impart. 
Thy bles.sed unction from above 
Is comfort, life, and fire of love ; 
Enable with perpetual light 
The dulne.ss of our blinded sight; 
Anoint and cheer our soili'd face 
With tiie abundance of Thy grace ; 
Keep far our foes, give peace at home ; 
Where Thou art guide, no ill can come; 
Teach us to know the Father, .Son, 
.\nd Thee of Both, to be but One, 
Tliat, through the ages all along, 
This may be our endless song, 



544 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



" Praise to thy eternal merit, 
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit !" 
Amen ! 
Author Unknown. 



Yen I Creator. 

Ceeator Spirit, by whose aid 
The world's foundations first were laid, 
Come, visit every pious mind ; 
Come, pour Thy joys on human kind ; 
From sin and sorrow set us free. 
And make Thy temples worthy Thee ! 

O source of uncreated light. 
The Father's promised Paraclete! 
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire. 
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire, 
Come, and Thy sacred unction bring, 
To sanctify us while we sing ! 

Plenteous of grace, descend from high. 
Rich in Thy sevenfold energy ! 
Thou strength of His almighty hand 
Whose power does heaven and earth com- 
mand! 
Proceeding Spirit, our defence, 
Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense. 
And crown'st Thy gifts with eloquence! 

Refine and purge our earthly parts; 
But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts ! 
Our frailties help, our vice control — 
Submit the senses to the soul ; 
And when rebellious they are grown. 
Then lay Thy hand, and hold them down. 

Chase from our minds th' infernal foe. 
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow ; 
And, lest our feet should step astray, 
Protect and guide us in the way. 

Make us eternal truths receive. 
And practise all that we believe; 
Give us Thyself, that we may see 
The Father, and the Son, by Thee. 

Immortal honor, endless fame, 
Attend the almighty Father's name ! 
The Saviour Son be glorified, 
Who for lost man's redemption died ! 
And equal adoration be. 
Eternal Paraclete, to Thee ! 

John Dryden. 



Hymn to God the Father. 

Hear me, O God ! 

A broken heart 

Is my best part : 
Use still Thy rod. 

That I may prove 

Therein Thy love. 

If Thou hadst not 

Been stern to me. 

But left me free, 
I had forgot 

Myself and Thee. 

For sin's so sweet, 

As minds ill bent 

Rarely repent. 
Until they meet 

Their punishment. 

Ben Jonson. 



Ligjjt Shining out of Darkness. 

God moves in a mysterious way 

His wonders to perform ; 
He plants His footsteps in the sea. 

And rides upon the storm. 

Deep in unfathomable mines 

Of never-failing skill. 
He treasures up His bright designs. 

And works His sovereign will. 

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take ; 

The clouds ye so much dread 
Are big with mercy, and shall break 

In blessings on your head. 

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, 
But trust Him for His grace ; 

Behind a frowning Providence 
He hides a smiling face. 

His purposes will ripen fast, 

Unfolding every hour ; 
The bud may have a bitter taste, 

But sweet will be the flower. 

Blind unbelief is sure to err. 
And scan His work in vain ; 

God is His own interpreter, 
And He will make it ])hiin. 

William Cowper. 




WITH ONE CONSENT LET ALL THE EARTH 
TO GOD THEIR CHEERFULVOICE3 RAISE. 



"PSALMS AXD HYMXS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



545 



Ay Ode. 

The spacious firniaiiunt mi high, 
With all the blue ethoreiil sky, 
And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
Their great Original proclaim. 
The unwearied sun from day to day 
Does his Creator's power disi)lay, 
And publishes to every land 
The work of an almighty Hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
The moon takes up the wondrous tale. 
And nightly, to the listeiiin-,' earth. 
Repeats the story of her birth ; 
Whilst all the stars that round her burn. 
And all the planets in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings as they roll. 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though in solemn silence all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball ? 
What though nor real voice nor sound 
Amid their radiant orbs be found? 
In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice, 
For ever singing as they shine, 
" The Hand that made us is divine !" 

JosEi-ii Addison. 



TiiK ryivEnsAL Prayer. 

Dko Opt. Max. 

Father of all I in every age. 

In every clime adored — 
By saint, by savage, and by sage — 

Jehovah. .love, or Lord I 

Thou Great First Cause, least under- 
stood, 

Who all my sense confined 
To know but this : that Thou art good. 

And that myself am blind; 

Yet gave me, in this dark estate. 

To sec the good from ill ; 
And, binding Nature fiist in fate. 

Left free the human will. 

What conscience dictates to be done. 

Or warns me not to do. 
This teach me more than hell to shun. 

That more than heaven pursue. 
35 



What blessings Thy free bounty gives 

Let mc not cast away — 
For God is paid when man receives : 

To enjoy is to obey. 

Yet not to earth's contracted span 
Thy goodness let me bound, 

Or think Thee Lord alone of man, 
When thousand worlds are round. 

Let not this weak, unknowing hand 
Presume Thy bolts to throw, 

And deal damnation round the land 
On each 1 judge Thy foe. 

If I am right. Thy grace imj)art 

Still in the right to stay ; 
If I am wrong, oh teach my heart 

To find that better w-ay. 

Save me alike from foolish pride 

Or impious discontent, 
At aught Thy wisdom has denied, 

Or aught Thy goodness lent. 

Teach me to feel another's woe, 

To hide the fault I see ; 
That mercy I to others show, 

That mercy show to me. 

Mean though I am, not wholly so, 
Since quicken'd by Thy breath ; 

Oh lead me, wheresoe'er I go, 
Through this day's life or death. 

This day be bread and peace my lot : 

All else beneath the sun 
Thou know'st if best bestow'd or not, 

And let Thy will be done. 

To Thee, whose temple is all space, 
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies — 

One chorus let all being raise ! 
All Nature's incense rise! 

Alexander Pope. 



PSALir C. 

WFTTt one consent let all the earth 
To God their cheerful voices raise ; 

Glad homage pay with awful mirtli. 
And sing before Him songs of jiraise. 

Convinced that He is God alone. 

From whom both we and all proceed; 



546 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



We, whom He chooses for His own, 
The flock that He vouchsafes to feed. 

Oh enter, then, His temple gate. 

Thence to His courts devoutly press ; 

And still your grateful hymns repeat, 
And still His name with praises bless 

For He's the Lord, supremely good. 

His mercy is for ever sure : 
His truth, which always firmly stood. 

To endless ages shall endure. 

Tate axd Brady. 



PsAui a 

Before Jehovah's awful throne, 
Ye nations, bow with sacred joy; 

Know that the Lord is God alone, 
He can create and He destroy. 

His sovereign power, without our aid. 
Made us of clay, and form'd us men ; 

And when like wandering sheep we stray'd, 
He brought us to His fold again. 

We'll crowd Thy gates with thankful songs, 
High as the heavens our voices raise ; 

And earth, with her ten thousand tongues. 
Shall fill Thy courts with sounding 
praise. 

Wide as the world is Thy command. 

Vast as eternity Thy love ; 
Firm as a rock Thy truth must stand, 
shall cease t 
Isaac Watts. 
(Varied by Charles Wesley.) 



/ GIVE I3IM0RTAL PRAISE. 

I GIVE immortal praise 

To God the Father's love, 
For all my comforts here 
And better hopes above ; 
He sent His own eternal Son 
To die for sins that man had done. 

To God the Son belongs 

Immortal glory too. 
Who bought us with His blood 
From everlasting woe ; 
And now He lives, and now He reigns, 
And sees the fruit of all His pains. 



To God the Spirit's name 
Immortal worship give. 
Whose new-creating power 
Makes the dead sinner live ; 
His work completes the great design, 
And fills the soul with joy divine. 

Almighty God, to Thee 

Be endless honors done ; 
The undivided Three, 
And the mysterious One I 
Where reason fails with all her powers, 
There faith prevails, and love adores. 
Isaac Watts. 

The Holy Trinity. 

Holy, holy, holy. Lord God Almighty ! 

Early in the morning our song shall rise 
to Thee ; 
Holy, holy, holy ! Merciful and Jlighty ! 

God in Three Persons, blessed Trinity ! 

Holy, holy, holy ! all the saints adore 
Thee, 
Casting down their golden crowns around 
the glassy sea. 
Cherubim and Seraphim falling down be- 
fore Thee, 
Which wert, and art, and evermore shalt 
be. 

Holy, holy, holy ! though the darkness hide 
Thee, 
Though the eye of sinful man Thy glory 
may not see, 
Only Thou art holy, there is none beside 
Thee, 
Perfect in power, in love, and purity. 

Holy, holy, holy. Lord God Almighty ! 
All Thy works shall ])raise Thy Name 
in earth and sky and sea ; 
Holy, holy, holy ! Merciful and Mighty ! 
God in Three Persons, blessed Trinity ! 
Reginald Ueber. 



Alleluia. 

The strain upraise of joy and praise. 

Alleluia ! 
To the glory of their King 
Shall the ransom'd people sing, 

Alleluia I 



"PSALMS AND HV.MXS ASD SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



547 



And the choirs that dwell on high 
Shall re-echo through the sky, 

Alleluia! 
They through the fields of Paradise who 

roam, 
The blessed ones, repeat through that 

bright home, 

Alleluia ! 

The planets glittering on their heavenly 

way, 
The shining constellations, join and say, 

Alleluia I 
Ye clouds that onward sweep, 
Ye winds on pinions light, 
Ye thunders, echoing loud and deep, 

Ye lightnings, wildly bright, 
In sweet consent unite your Alleluia ! 

Ye floods and ocean-billows. 
Ye storms and winter snow. 

Ye days of cloudless beauty. 
Hoar-frost and summer glow ; 
Ye groves tliat wave in spring, 
And glorious forests, sing 

Alleluia ! 
First let the birds, with painted plumage 

gay. 

Exalt their great Creator's praise, and say 

Alleluia ! 
Then let the beasts of earth, with varying 

strain. 
Join in creation's hymn, anil cry again, 

Alloluja ! 
Here let the mountains thunder forth so- 
norous. 

Alleluia ! 
There let the valleys sing in gentler chorus, 

Alleluia! 
Thou jubilant abyss of ocean, cry 

Alleluia ! 
Ye tracts of earth and continents, reply 

Alleluia I 
To God, who all creation made, 
The frequent hymn be duly paid ; 

Alleluia ! 
This is the strain, the eternal strain, the 
Lord Almighty loves ; 

Alleluia ! 
This is the song, the heavenly song, that 
Christ himself approves; 

Alleluia I 
Wherefore we sing, both heart and voice 
awaking, 

Alleluia ! 



And children's voices echo, answer mak- 
ing, 

Alleluia I 

Now from all men be outpour'd 

Alleluia to the Lord ; 

With Alleluia evermore 

The Son and Spirit we adore. 
Praise be done to the Three in One, 
Alleluia ! Alleluia ! Alleluia ! Alleluia ! 
John SIason Neale. 



When all thy Mercies, my 
God. 

Whex all Thy mercies, my God, 

My rising soul surveys. 
Transported with the view, I'm lost 

In wonder, love, and praise. 

Oh, how shall words with equal warmth 

The gratitude declare 
That glows within my ravish'd heart ? 

But Thou canst read it there. 

Thy providence my life sustain'd, 

And all my wants redress'd. 
When in the silent womb I lay, 

And hung upon the breast. 

To all my weak complaints and cries 

Thy mercy lent an ear, 
Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learut 
^ To form themselves in prayer. 

Unnuraber'd comforts to my soul 
' Tliy tender care bestow'd, 
I Before my infant heart conceived 
From whence these comforts flow'd. 

I When in the slippery paths of youth 
j With heedless steps I ran, 
I Thine arm, unseen, convey'd me safe, 
.\nd led me up to man. 

Through hidden dangers, toils, and death, 

It gently clear'd my way, 
And through the plex-iing snares of vice, 

More to be fear'd than they. 

When worn with sickness, oft hast Thou 
With liealth renew'd my face, 

And, when in sins and .sorrows suuk. 
Revived my soul with grace. 



548 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss 

Has made my cup run o'er, 
And in a kind and faithi'ul friend 

Has doubled all my store. 

Ten thousand thousand precious gifts 

My daily thanks employ, 
Nor is the least a cheerful heart 

That tastes those gifts with joy. 

Through every period of my life 

Thy goodness I'll pursue, 
And after death, in distant worlds, 

The glorious theme renew. 

When Nature fails, and day and night 

Divide thy works no more. 
My ever-grateful heart, Lord, 

Thy mercy shall adore. 

Through all eternity to Thee 

A joyful song I'll raise. 
But oh, eternity's too short 

To utter all Thy praise ! 

Joseph Addison. 



Blest be Thy Love, dear Lord. 

Blest be Thy love, dear Lord, 
That taught us this sweet way, 
Only to love Thee for Thyself, 
And for that love obey. 

O Thou, our souls' chief hope ! 
We to Thy mercy fly ; 
Where'er we are. Thou canst protect, 
Whate'er we need, supply. 

Whether we sleep or wake. 
To Thee we both resign ; 
By night we see, as well as day. 
If Thy light on us shine. 

Whether we live or die. 
Both we submit to Thee ; 
In death we live, as well as life, 
If Thine in death we be. 

John Austin. 



Praise to God. 

Praise to God, immortal praise, 
For the love that crowns our days ! 
Bounteous source of every joy, . 
Let Thy praise our tongues employ. 



For the blessings of the field. 
For the stores the gardens yield ; 
For the vine's exalted juice, 
For the generous olive's use : 

Flocks that whiten all the plain ; 
Yellow sheaves of ripen'd grain ; 
Clouds that drop their fattening dews ; 
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse. 

All that Spring witli bounteous hand 
Scatters o'er the smiling land ; 
All that liberal Autumn pours 
From her rich o'erflowing stores : 

These to Thee, my God, we owe. 
Source whence all our blessings flow; 
And for these my soul shall raise 
Grateful vows and solemn praise. 

Yet, should rising whirlwinds tear 
From its stem the ripening ear; 
Should the fig tree's blasted shoot 
Drop her green, untimely fruit ; 

Should the vine put forth no more, 
Nor the olive yield her store ; 
Though the sickening flocks should fall. 
And the herds desert the stall ; 

Should Thine alter'd hand restrain 
The early and the latter rain ; 
Blast each opening bud of joy. 
And the rising year destroy ; 

Yet to Thee my soul should raise 
Grateful vows and solemn praise ; 
And, when every blessing's flown, 
Love Thee for Thyself alone ! 

Anna L.etitia Barbauld. 



Hymn. 

Loud, with glowing heart I'd praise Thee 

For the bliss Thy love bestows. 
For the pardoning grace that saves me. 

And the peace that from it flows. 
Help, O God ! my weak endeavor. 

This dull soul to rapture raise ; 
Thou must light the flame, or never 

Can my love be warm'd to praise. 

Praise, my soul, the God that sought thee, 
Wretclied wanderer, far astrav ; 



'PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



549 



Found thee lost, and kindly brought thee 
From the paths of death away. 

Praise, with love's devoutest feeling. 
Him wlio saw thy guilt-horii fear, 

Anil, the lijjht of hope revealing, 
Bade the blood-staiii'd eross ai>pear. 

Lord! this bosom's ardent feeling 

Vainly would my lips express; 
Low before Thy footstool kneeling, 

Deign Thy suppliant's prayer to bless. 
Let Thy grace, my soul's chief treasure, 

Love's pure flame within me raise; 
And, since words can never measure. 

Let my life show forth Thy praise. 

Fbakcis Scott Key. 



Psalm XC. 

Our God, our help in ages pa.st, 
Our hope for years to come, 

Our shelter from the stormy blast. 
And our eternal home : 

L'nder the shadow of Thy throne 
Thy saints have dwelt secure ; 

Sufficient is Thine arm alone. 
And our defence is sure. 

Before the hills in order stood, 
Or earth received her frame. 

From everlasting Thou art God, 
To endless years the same. 

A thousand ages in Thy sight 

Arc like an evening gone; 
Short as the watch that ends the night 

Before the rising sun. 

The busy tribes of flesh and blood. 
With all their lives and cares. 

Are carried downward by Thy flood, 
And lost in following years. 

Time, like an ever-rolling stream, 

Bears all its sons away ; 
They fly forgotten, as a dream 

Dies at the opening day. 

Our God, our help in ages pa.st; 

Our hope for years to come ; 

Be Thou our guard while troubles la.st, 

And our eternal home I 

Isaac Watts. 



PSAL3f XCVIIl 

Joy to the world ! the Lord is come : 

Let earth receive her King: 
Let every heart prepare Him room. 

And heaven and nature sing. 

Joy to the earth ! the Saviour reigns : 

Let men their songs employ ; 
While fields and floods, rocks, hills, and 
plains, 

Repeat the sounding joy. 

No more let sins and sorrows grow, 
Nor thorns infest the ground: 

He conies to make His blessings flow 
Far as the curse is found. 

He rules the world with truth and grace. 

And makes the nations prove 
The glories of His righteousness, 

And wonders of His love. 

Isaac Watts. 



The EMIf!RAXTS J.V TITE BER- 
MUDAS. 

Where the remote Bermudas ride 
In th' ocean's bosom, unespied — 
From a small boat, that row'd along. 
The list'ning winds received this song : 

What should we do but sing His praise 
That led us through the watery maze 
Unto an isle so long unknown, 
And yet far kinder than our own? 
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks 
That lift the deep upon their backs. 
He lands us on a grassy stage. 
Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage. 
He gave us this eternal spring 
Which here enamels every thing, 
And sends the fowls to us in care. 
On ilaily visits through the air. 
He hangs in shades the orange bright. 
Like golden lamps in a green night. 
And does in the pomegranates close 
Jewels more rich than Ormvis shows. 
He makes the figs our mouths to meet. 
And throws the melons at our feet. 
But apples — plants of such a j)rice 
No tree could ever bear them twice. 
With cedars, chosen by His hand 
From Lebanon, He stores the land ; 



550 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



And makes the hollow seas, that roar, 
Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 
He cast (of which we rather boast) 
The gospel's pearl upon our coast ; 
And in these rocks for us did frame 
A temple, where to sound His name. 
Oil ! let our voice His praise exalt 
Till it arrive at heaven's vault ; 
Which, then, perhaps rebounding, may 
Echo beyond the Mexique bay. 

Thus sang they, in the English boat, 
A holy and a cheerful note ; 
And all the way, to guide their chime, 
With falling oars they kept the time. 
Andrew Makvell. 



REBECCA'S Hymn: 

When Israel, of the Lord beloved, 

Out from the land of bondage came. 
Her fathers' God before her moved, 

An awful guide in smoke and iiame. 
By day, along the astonish'd lands 

The cloudy pillar glided slow ; 
By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands 

Return'd the fiery column's glow. 

There rose the choral hymn of praise, 

And trump and timbrel answer'd keen ; 
And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays, 

With priest's and warrior's voice between. 
No portents now our foes amaze — 

Forsaken Israel wanders lone ; 
Our fathers would not know Thy ways. 

And Thou hast left them to their own. 

But, present still, though now unseen, 

When brightly shines the prosperous day, 
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen. 

To temper the deceitful ray. 
And oh, when stoops on Judah's path 

In shade and storm the frequent night, 
Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, 

A burning and a shining light ! 

Our harps we left by Babel's streams — 
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; 

No censer round our altar beams, 

And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn. 



But Thou hast said, The blood of goat, 
The flesh of rams, I will not prize — 

A contrite heart, a humble thought, 
Are mine accepted sacrifice. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



Sound the Loud Timbrel. 

Miriam's Song. 

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark 

sea! 
Jehovah has triumph'd, — his people are 

free ! 
Sing, — for the pride of the tyrant is broken. 
His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid 

and brave, — 
How vain was their boast, for the Lord 

hath but spoken, 
And chariots and horsemen are sunk in 

the wave. 
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark 

sea ! 
Jehovah has triumph'd, — his people are 

free! 

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the 

Lord ! 
His word was our arrow, his breath was 

our sword. 
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story 
Of those she sent forth in the hour of 

her pride ? 
For the Lord hath look'd out from his 

pillar of glory. 
And all lier brave thousands are dash'd 

in the tide. 
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark 

sea ! 

Jehovah has triumph'd, — his people are 

free I 

Thomas Moore. 



Come, we that love the Lord. 

Come, we that love the Lord, 
And let our joys be known; 

Join in a song with sweet accord, 
And thus surround the throne. 

Let those refuse to sing 

That never knew our God ; 
But favorites of the Heavenly King 

May si)eak their joys abroad. 



'PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



5.51 



The men of grace have found 

Glory begun below ; 
Celestial fruits on earthly ground 

From faith and hope may grow. 

The hill of Zion yields 

A thousand sacred sweets, 
Before we reach the heavenly fields, 

Or walk the golden streets. 

Then let our songs abound. 

And every tear be dry : 
We're marching through Emmanuel's 
ground 
To fairer worlds on high. 

Isaac Watts. 

Thou art, o God/ 

Thoc art, O God ! the life and light 
Of all this wondrous world we see ; 

Its glow by day, its smile by night, 
Are but reflections caught from Thee. 

Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine, 

And all things fair and bright are Thine. 

When day, with farewell beam, delays 
Among the opening clouds of even, 

And we can almost think we gaze 
Through golden vistas into heaven, — 

Those hues that make the sun's decline 

So soft, so radiant. Lord ! are Thine. 

Wlien night, with wings of starry gloom, 
O'ershadows all the earth and skies. 

Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose 
plume 
Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes, — 

That sacred gloom, those fires divine, 

So grand, so countless, Lord ! are Thine. 

When youthful Spring around us breathes, 
Thy spirit warms Ikt fragrant sigh ; 

And every flower the Summer wreathes 
Is born beneath that kindling eye. 

Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine. 

And all things fair and bright are Thine. 
Thomas Moore. 

FSAUf CXLVIIL 

Come, oh come ! in pious lays 
Sound we God .Vlmighty's praise; 
Hither l)rin;.r. in one consent, 
Heart and voice and instrument: 



Music add of every kind, 
Sound the trump, the cornet wind, 
Strike the viol, touch the lute. 
Let not tongue nor string be mute ; 
Nor a creature dumb be found 
That hath either voice or sound. 

Let those things which do not live 
In still music praises give ; 
Lowly pipe, ye worms that creep 
On the earth or in the deep : 
Loud aloft your voices strain, 
Ueasts and monsters of the main ; 
Birds, your warbling treble sing; 
Clouds, your peals of thunder ring ; 
Sun and moon, exalted higher. 
And bright stars, augment the choir. 

Come, ye sons of human r.ice. 
In this chorus take your place, 
And amid the mortal throng 
Be you masters of the song : 
Angels and supernal powers, 
Be the noblest tenor yours : 
Let, in praise of God, the sound 
Run a never-ending round. 
That our song of praise may be 
Everlasting, as is He. 

From earth's vast and hollow womb 
Music's deepest base may come; 
.Seas and floods, from shore to shore. 
Shall their counter-tenors roar: 
To this concert, when we sing, 
Whistling winds, your descants bring; 
That our song may over-climb 
All the bounds of place and time. 
And ascend, from sphere to sphere, 
To the great Almighty's ear. 

So from heaven on earth He shall 
Let His gracious blessings fall : 
.\nd this huge wide orb we see 
Shall one choir, one temple be; 
Where in such a praispful tone 
We will sing what He hath done, 
That the cursed fiends below 
Shall thereat impatient grow. 
Then, oh come, in pious lays 
Sound we God .Almighty's praise! 

Georue Wither. 



552 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



PSALM CXVII. 

From all that dwell below the skies 
Let the Creator's praise arise ; 
Let the Redeemer's Name be sung 
Through every land, by every tongue ! 

Eternal are Thy mercies. Lord ! 
Eternal truth attends Thy word ; 
Thy praise shall sound from shore to shore, 
Till suns shall rise and set no more. 

Isaac Watts. 



Blow ye the trumpet, Blow. 

Blow ye the trumpet, blow, 
The gladly solemn sound; 

Let all the nations know, 
To earth's remotest bound ; 

The year of Jubilee is come ; 

Return, ye ransom'd sinners, home. 

Jesus, our great High Priest, 
Hath full atonement made ; 

Ye weary spirits, rest; 
Ye mournful souls, be glad ; 

The year of Jubilee is come ; 

Return, ye ransom'd sinners, home ; 

Extol the Lamb of God, 

The all-atoning Lamb; 
Redemption in His blood 

Throughout the world proclaim : 
The year of Jubilee is come ; 
Return, ye ransom'd sinners, home. 

Ye slaves of sin and hell, 

Your liberty receive ; 
And safe in Jesus dwell, 

And blest in Jesus live : 
The year of Jubilee is come ; 
Return, ye ransom'd sinners, home. 

Ye, who have sold for naught 

Your heritage above. 
Shall have it back unbought, 

The gift of Jesus' love ; 
The year of Jubilee is come ; 
Return, ye ransom'd sinners, home. 

The Gospel Trumpet hear. 
The news of heavenly grace ; 

And, saved from earth, appear 
Before your Saviour's face : 



The year of Jubilee is come ; 
Return, ye ransom'd sinners, home. 
Charles Wesley. 



Oh FOR A Thousand Tongues to 
Sing. 

Oh for a thousand tongues to sing 

My dear Redeemer's praise, 
The glories of my God and King, 

The triumphs of His grace ! 

My gracious Master and my God, 

Assi.st me to proclaim, 
To spread, through all the earth abroad. 

The honors of Thy Name. 

Jesus, the Name that charms our fears, 

That bids our sorrows cease ; 
'Tis music in the sinner's ears, 

'Tis life, and health, and peace I 

He speaks, and, listening to His voice, 

New life the dead receive ; 
The mournful, broken hearts rejoice, 

The humble poor believe. 

Hear Him, ye deaf; His praise, ye dumb. 
Your loosen'd tongues employ ; 

Ye blind, behold your Saviour come, 
And leap, ye lame, for joy ! 

Charles Wesli^y. 

The Priest. 

I WOULD I were an excellent divine 

That had the Bible at my fingers' ends ; 

That men might hear out of this mouth 

of mine. 

How God doth make His enemies His 

friends ; 

Rather than with a thundering and long 

prayer 
Be led into presumption, or despair. 

This would I be, and would none other 
be- 
But a religious servant of my God ; 
And know there is none other God but 
He, 
And willingly to suffer mercy's rod — 
Joy in His grace, and live but in His 

love. 
And seek my bliss but in the world above. 



•PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



553 



And I would frame a kind of faithful 

prayer 
For all estates within tlie state of 

grace, 
That careful love might never know 

despair, 
Nor servile fear might faitliful love 

deface : 
And this would I botli day and night 

devise 
To make my humble spirit's exercise. 

And I would read the rules of sacred 

life ; 
Persuade the troubled soul to patience; 
The husband care, and comfort to the 

wife, 
To child and servant due obedience ; 
Faith to the friend, and to the neighbor 

peace, 
That love might live, and quarrels all 

might cease. 

Prayer for the health of all that are dis- 
eased. 
Confession unto all that are convicted. 
And patience unto all that are dis- 
pleased. 
And comfort unto all that are af- 
flicted, 
.\nd mercy unto all that have offended. 
And grace to all : that all may be 

amended. 

Nicholas Breton. 



Morning Hymn. 

Oh, timely happy, timely wise, 
Hearts that with rising morn arise ! 
Eyes that the beam celestial view. 
Which evermore makes all things new ! 

New every morning is the love 
Our wakening and uprising ])rovc, 
Through sleep and darkness safely brought. 
Restored to life, and power, and thought. 

New mercies, each returning day. 
Hover around us while we pray ; 
New perils past, new sins forgiven, 
New thoughts of God, new hopes of 
heaven. 



If, on our daily course, our mind 
Be set to hallow all we find, 
New treasures still, of countless price, 
God will provide for sacrifice. 

Old friends, old .scenes, will lovelier be, 
As more of heaven in each we see ; 
Some softening gleam of love and prayer 
Shall dawn on every cross and care. 

As for some dear familiar strain 
Untircd we ask, and ask again, 
Ever, in its melodious store. 
Finding a spell unheard before; 

Such is the bliss of souls serene. 

When they have sworn, and steadfost mean, 

Counting the cost, in all t' espy 

Their God, in all themselves deny. 

Oh, could we learn that sacrifice. 
What lights would all around us rise ! 
How would our hearts with wisdom talk 
Along life's dullest, dreariest walk ! 

We need not bid, for cloister'd cell. 
Our neighbor and our w'ork farewell. 
Nor strive to wind ourselves too high 
For sinful man beneath the sky; 

The trivial round, the common task, 
Will furnish all we ought to ask ; 
Room to deny ourselves, — a road 
To bring us, daily, nearer God. 

Seek wc no more : content with these. 
Let present rapture, comfort, case, 
As heaven shall bid them, come and go; 
The secret this of rest below. 

Only, O Lord, in Thy dear love 
Fit us for perfect rest above. 
And iielp us, this and every day. 
To live more nearly as we pray ! 

John Keble. 



Morning Hymn. 

AwAKK, my soul, and with the sun 
Thy daily stage of duty run ; 
Shake off dull sloth, and joyful rise 
To pay thy morning sacrifice. 

Thy precious time misspent redeem; 
Each present day thy last esteem ; 



554 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Improve thy talent with due care ; 
For the great day thyself prepare. 

In conversation be sincere ; 
Keep conscience as the noontide clear ; 
Think how All-seeing God thy ways 
And all thy secret thoughts surveys. 

By influence of the light divine 
Let thy own light to otliers shine , 
Reflect all Heaven's propitious rays, 
In ardent love and cheerful praise. 

Wake and lift up thyself, my heart, 
And with the angels bear thy part, 
Who, all night long, unwearied sing 
High praise to the Eternal King. 

Awake ! awake ! Ye heavenly choir, 
May your devotion me inspire, 
That I, like you, my age may spend. 
Like you may on my God attend ! 

May I, like you, in God delight. 
Have all day long my God in sight, 
Perform like you my Maker's will I 
Oh may I never more do ill ! 

Had I your wings to Heaven I'd fly ; 
But God shall that defect supply ; 
And my soul, wing'd with warm desire. 
Shall all day long to Heaven aspire. 

All prai.se to Thee, who safe hast kept. 
And hast refresh'd me whilst I slept ! 
Grant, Lord, when I from death shall 

wake, 
I may of endless light partake ! 

I would not wake, nor rise again, 
Ev'n Heaven itself I would disdain, 
Wert thou not there to be enjoy'd. 
And I in hymns to be employ'd ! 

Heaven is, dear Lord, where'er Thou art ; 
Oh never then from me depart ! 
For, to my soul, 'tis hell to be 
But for one moment void of Thee. 

Lord, I my vows to Thee renew ; 
Disperse my sins as morning dew ; 
Guard my first springs of thought and 

will, 
And with Thyself my spirit fill. 



Direct, control, suggest, this day. 

All I design, or do, or say ; 

That all my powers, with all their might, 

In Thy sole glory may unite. 

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow ; 
Praise Him, all creatures here below ! 
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host ; 
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost ! 

Thomas Ken. 

Morning Hyiin. 

Since Thou hast added now, O God ! 

Unto my life another day. 
And giv'st me leave to walk abroad, 

And labor in my lawful way ; 
My walks and works with me begin, 
Conduct me forth, and bring me in. 

In every power my soul enjoys 

Internal virtues to improve ; 
In every sense that she employs 

In her external works to move ; 
Bless her, O God! and keep me sound 
From outward harm and inward wound. 

Let sin nor Satan's fraud prevail 
To make mine eye of reason blind, 

Or faith, or hope, or love to fail, 
Or any virtues of the mind ; 

But more and more let them increase. 

And bring me to mine end in peace. 

Lewd courses let my feet forbear ; 

Keep Thou my hands from doing wrong; 
Let not ill counsels pierce mine ear. 

Nor wicked words defile my tongue ; 
And keep the windows of each eye 
That no strange lust climb in thereby. 

But guard Thou safe my heart in chief; 

That neither hate, revenge, nor fear. 
Nor vain desire, vain joy, or grief, 

Obtain command or dwelling there : 
And, Lord ! with every saving grace, 
Still true to Thee maintain that place I 

So till the evening of this morn 

Sly time shall then so well be spent. 

That when the twilight shall return 
I may enjoy it with content, 

And to Thy praise and honor say, 

That this hath proved a hapjiy day. 

George Wither. 



"PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



555 



Evening Hymn. 

Sux of my soul, Thou Saviour dear, 
It is not night if Thou be near; 
Oh I may no eartli-born cloud arise 
To hide Thee from Thy servant's eyes! 

When round Thy wondrous works below 
My searching rapturous glance I throw, 
Tracing out wisdom, power, and love, 
In earth or sky, in stream or grove ; 

Or, by the light Thy words disclose, 
Watch time's t'ull river :is it flows. 
Scanning Thy gracious Providence, 
Where not too deep for mortal sense; 

When with dear friends sweet talk I hold, 
And all the flowers of life unfold; 
Let not my heart within me burn, 
Except in all I Thee discern ! 

When the soft dews of kindly sleep 
My wearied eyelids gently steep. 
Be my last thought. How sweet to rest 
For ever on my Saviour's breast ! 

Abide with me from morn till eve, 
For without Thee I cannot live! 
Abide with me when night is nigh, 
For without Thee I dare not die ! 

Thou Framer of the light and dark, 
Steer through the tempest Thine own ark ! 
Amid the bowling wintry sea 
We are in port if we have Thee. 

The rulers of this Christian land, 
'Twixt Thee and us ordain'd to stand, 
Guide Thou their course, O Lord, aright ! 
Let all do all as in Thy sight ! 

Oh ! by Thine own sad burthen, borne 
So meekly up the hill of scorn. 
Teach Thou Thy priests their daily cross 
To bear a-s Thine, nor count it loss! 

If some poor wandering child of Thine 
Have spurn'd, to-day, the voice divine; 
Now, Lord, the gracious work begin ; 
Let him no more lie down in sin ! 

Watch by the sick, enrich the poor 
With blessings from Thy boundless store ! 
Be every mourner's sleep to-night 
Like infant's slumbers, pure and light! 



Come near and bless us when we wake. 
Ere through the world our way we take: 
Till, in the ocean of Thy love, 
We lose ourselves in Heaven above ! 

JOUK Kgble. 

Evening IIymn. 

Al-L praise to Thee, my God, this night, 
For all the blessings of the light ; 
Keep me, oh keep me. King of kings. 
Beneath Thine own Almighty wings ! 

Forgive me. Lord, for Thy dear Son, 
The ill that I this day have done ; 
That with the world, myself, and Thee, 
I, ere I sleep, at peace may be. 

Teach me to live, that I may dread 
The grave as little as my bed ! 
To die, that this vile body may 
Rise glorious at the awful day ! 

Oh may my soul on Thee repose ; 
And may sweet sleep mine eyelids close; 
Sleep, that may me more vigorous make 
To serve my God when I awake ! 

When in the night I sleepless lie. 
My soul with heavenly thoughts supply ! 
Let no ill dreams disturb my rest. 
No powers of darkness me molest! 

Dull sleep, of sense me to deprive ! 
I am but half my time alive: 
Thy faithful lovers. Lord, are grieved 
To lie so long of Thee bereaved. 

But though sleep o'er my frailty reigns, 
Let it not hold me long in chains ! 
And now and then let loose my heart. 
Till it an hallelujah dart! 

The faster .sleep the senses binds. 
The more unfetter'd are our minds; 
Oh may my soul, from matter free, 
Thy lovelines.s unclouded see ! 

Oh when shall I, in endless day. 
For ever chase dark sleep away, 
.\nd hymns with the supernal choir 
Incessant sing, and never tire? 

Oh may my Guardian, while I sleep, 
Close to my bed His vigils keep; 



His love angelical instill ; 
Stop all the avenues of ill : 

May He celestial joy rehearse, 
And thought to thought with nie converse ; 
Or in my stead, all the night long, 
Sing to my God a grateful song ! 

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow. 
Praise Him, all creatures here below ! 
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host ! 
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost ! 

TuoMAS Ken. 



Evening Hymn. 

Behold the sun, that seem'd but now 

Enthroned overhead, 
Beginneth to decline below 

The globe whereon we tread ; 
And he, whom yet we look upon 

With comfort and delight. 
Will quite depart from hence anon, 

And leave us to the night. 

Thus time, unheeded, steals away 

The life which Nature gave ; 
Thus are our bodies every day 

Declining to the grave : 
Thus from us all our pleasures fly 

Whereon we set our heart ; 
And when the night of death draws nigh. 

Thus will they all depart. 

Lord ! though the sun forsake our sight, 

And mortal hopes are vain ; 
Let still Thine everlasting light 

Within our souls remain ! 
And in the nights of our distress 

Vouchsafe those rays divine. 
Which from the Sun of Righteousness 

For ever brightly shine ! 

Geokue Wither. 



Evening Hymn. 

The night is come ; like to the day, 
Depart not thou, great God, away. 
Let not my sins, black as the night, 
Eclipse the lustre of Thy light. 
Keep in my horizon ; for to me 
The sun makes not the day, but Thee. 



Thou whose nature cannot sleep, 

On my temples sentry keep : 

Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes, 

Whose eyes are open while mine close. 

Let no dreams my head infest 

But such as Jacob's temples blest. 

Whilst I do rest, my soul advance ; 

IVIake my sleep a holy trance : 

That r may, my rest being wrought, 

Awake into some holy thought. 

And with as active vigor run 

My course, as doth the nimble sun. 

Sleep is a death ; oh, make me try, 

By sleeping, what it is to die : 

And as gently lay my head 

On my grave as now my bed. 

Howe'er I rest, great God, let me 

Awake again at last with Thee. 

And thus assured, behold I lie 

Securely, or to wake or die. 

These are my drowsy days ; in vain 

I do now wake to sleep again : 

Oh, come that hour when I shall never 

Sleep thus again, but wake for ever. 

Sir Thomas Browne. 



Evening Hymn 

Sweet Savioue ! bless us ere we go ; 

Thy word into our minds instill, 
And make our lukewarm hearts to glow 

With lowly love and fervent will ; 
Through life's long day and death's dark 

night, 
O gentle Jesus, be our light. 

The day is done, its hours are run. 
And Thou hast taken count of all, — 

The scanty triumphs grace hath won, 
The broken vow, the frequent fall ; 

Through life's long day and death's dark 
night, 

O gentle Jesus, be our light. 

Grant us, dear Lord, from evil ways 

True absolution and release, 
And bless us more than in past days, 

With purity and inward peace ; 
Through life's long day and death's dark 

night, 
O gentle Jesus, be our light. 



•PSALMS AND HYMXS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



Do more than pardon, — give us joy, 

Swoct four, and sobtT liberty, 
And simple liearts without alloy. 

That only long to be like Thee; 
Throujrh life's long day and death's dark 

night, 
O gentle Jesus, be our light. 

Labor is sweet, for Thou hast toilM, 
And care is light, for Thou hast cared : 

Ah I never let our work be soil'd 
With strife, or by deceit ensnared ; 

Through life's long day and death's dark 
night, 

gentle Jesus, be our light. ■ 

For those we love — the poor, the sad, 
The sinful — unto Thee we call ; 

Oh ! let Thy mercy make us glad I 
Thou art our Jesus and our all ; 

Through life's long day and death's dark 
night, 

O gentle Jesus, be our light. 

Sweet Saviour! bless us ; night is come ; 

Through all its watches near us be ; 
Good angels watch about our home. 
And wo are one day nearer Thee. 
Through life's long day and death's dark 

night, 
O gentle Jesus, be our light. 

Frederick William Faber. 



Abide with me. 

Abide with me! fa.st falls the even-tide; 
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me 

abi.lf : 
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, 
Help of the helpless, oh abide with me ! 

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day ; 
Earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass 

away ; 
Change and decay in all around I see: 
O Thou, who changest not, abide with me! 

Not a brief glance I beg, a pa.ssing word : 
But, as Thou dwell'st with Thy disciples. 

Lord, 
Familiar, condescending, patient, free. 
Come, not to sojourn, but abide, with me! 



Come not in terrors, as the King of kings ; 
But kind and good, with healing in Thy 

wings; 
Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea ; 
Come, Friend of sinners, and thus 'bide 

with me ! 

Thou on my head in early youth didst 
smile ; 

And, though rebellious and perverse mean- 
while. 

Thou hast not left me, oft a.s I loft Thee. 

On to the close, O Lord, abide with me ! 

I need Thy Presence every passing hour ; 
What but Thy grace can foil the Tempter's 

power ■? 
Who like Thyself my guide and stay can 

be? " ' 

Through cloud and sunshine, oli al)i(K' with 

me! 

I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bloss: 

Ills have no weight, and tears no bitter- 
ness : 

Where is Deiith's sting? where, Grave, thy 
victory? 

I triumph still, if Thou abide with me! 

Hold then Thy cross before my closing 

eyes ! 
Shine through the gloom, and point me to 

the skies ! 
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain 

shadows flee ; 
In life and death, O Lord, abide with me ! 
Henry Francis Lvte. 



Midnight Hymn. 

5Iy God, now I from sleep awake. 

The sole possession of me take : 

From midnight terrors me secure, 

And guard my heart from thoughts impure! 

Ble.ss'd angels! while we silent lie. 
You hallelujahs sing on high ; 
You joyful hymn the Ever-blest, 
Before the Throne, ami never rest. 

I with your choir celestial join 
In ofl^'oring up a hymn divine ; 
' With you in Heaven I hope to dwell. 
And bid the night and world farewell. 



658 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



My soul, when I shake off this dust, 
Lord, in Thy arms I will entrust : 
Oh make me Thy peculiar care ; 
Some mansion for my soul prepare ! 

Give me a place at Thy saints' feet. 
Or some fall'n angel's vacant seat ! 
I'll strive to sing as loud as they, 
Who sit above in brighter day. 

Oh may I always ready stand 
With my lamp burning in my hand : 
May I in sight of Heaven rejoice. 
Whene'er I hear the Bridegroom's voice ! 

All praise to Thee in light array'd. 
Who light Thy dwelling-place hast made ; 
A boundless ocean of bright beams 
From Thy all-glorious Godhead streams. 

The Sun in its meridian height 

Is very darkness in Thy sight ! 

My soul oh lighten and inflame, 

With thought and love of Thy great Name ! 

Bless'd Jesu, Thou, on Heaven intent. 
Whole nights hast in devotion spent ; 
But I, frail creature, soon am tired, 
And all my zeal is soon expired. 

My soul, how canst thou weary grow 
Of antedating bliss below. 
In sacred hymns, and heavenly love, 
Which will eternal be above? 

Shine on me. Lord, new life impart ! 
Fresh ardors kindle in my heart ! 
One ray of Thy all-quickening light 
Dispels the sloth and clouds of night. 

Lord, lest the tempter me surprise. 
Watch over Thine own sacrifice ! " 
All loose, all idle thoughts cast out, 
And make my very dreams devout I 

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow, 
Praise Him, all creatures here below ! 
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host ; 
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost ! 

Thomas Ken. 



Bymn. 

How are Thy servants blest, Lord ! 
How sure is their defence I 



Eternal wisdom is their guide, 
Their help omnipotence. 

In foreign realms, and lands remote, 

Supported by Thy care, 
Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt. 

And breathed in tainted air. 

Thy mercy sweeteu'd every soil. 

Made every region please ; 
The hoary Alpine hills it warm'd, 

And smooth'd the Tyrrhene seas. 

Think, O my soul, devoutly think, 

How with affrighted eyes 
Thou saw'st.the wide-extended deep 

In all its horrors rise I 

Confusion dwelt in every face, 

And fear in every heart, 
^Vhen waves on waves, and gulfs in gulfs, 

O'ercame the pilot's art. 

Yet then from all my griefs, Lord, 

Thy mercy set me free ; 
Whilst in the confidence of prayer 

My soul took hold on Thee. 

For though in dreadful whirls we hung, 

High on the broken wave ; 
I knew Thou wert not slow to hear. 

Nor impotent to save. 

The storm was laid, the winds retired. 

Obedient to Thy will ; 
The sea, that roar'd at Thy command, 

At Thy command was still. 

In midst of dangers, fears, and deaths. 

Thy goodness I'll adore — 
And praise Thee for Thy mercies past, 

And humbly hope for more. 

My life, if Thou preserv'st my life. 

Thy sacrifice shall be ; 
And death, if death must be my doom, 

Shall join my soul to Thee. 

Joseph Addison. 



ThAnksoiving Hymn. 

Come, ye thankful people, come, 
Raise the song of Harvest-Home ! 
All is safely gather'd in, 
Ere the winter-storms begin ; 



"PSALMS AXD Hi'MXS AND SPIRITUAL SO.YGS.' 



559 



God, our Maker, doth provide 
For our wants to be supplied ; 
Come to God's own temple, come, 
Raise the song of Harvest-Home ! 

We ourselves are God's own field, 
Fruit unto His praise to yield ; 
Wheat and tares to-rethcr sown. 
Unto joy or sorrow grown : 
First the blade, and then the ear, 
Then the full corn shall appear : 
Grant, O harvest Lord, that we 
Wholesome grain and pure may be ! 

For the Lord our God shall come, 
And shall take His harvest home ; 
From His field shall purge away 
All that doth oflViid. that day ; 
Give His Angels charge at last 
In the fire the tares to cast. 
But the fruitful ears to store 
In His garner evermore. 

Then, thou Church triumphant, come. 

Raise the song of Harvest-Home ! 

All are safely gather'd in. 

Free from sorrow, free from sin ; 

There for ever purified, 

In God's garner to abide : 

Come, ten thousand Angels, come, 

Raise the glorious Harvest- Home ! 

Hksrv Alford. 



A THAy^KSGiv/yr, TO God for 
Bin House. 

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell, 

Wherein to dwell ; 
A little house, whose humble roof 

Is weather-proof; 
L'nder the sparres of which I lie 

Both soft and drie ; 
Where Thou, my chamber for to ward. 

Hath set a guard 
Of harmlesse thouglits, to watch and keep 

Me while I sleep. 
Low is my porch, as is my fate ; 

Both void of state ; 
And yet the threshold of my doore 

Is worn by th' poore. 
Who thither come and freely get 

Good words or meat. 



Like as my parlour, so my hall 

And kitchin's small ; 
A little butterie, and therein 

A little byn, 
Which keeps my little loafe of bread 

L'nchipt, unflead; 
Some brittle sticks of thorne or brier 

Make me a fire. 
Close by whose living coale I sit. 

And glow like it. 
Lord, I confesse too, when I dine, 

The pulse is Thine, 
And all those other bits that bee 

There placed by Thee ; 
The worts, the purslain, and the messe 

Of water-cresse. 
Which of Thy kindnesse Thou hast sent ; 

And my content 
Makes those, and my beloved beet. 

To be more sweet. 
'Tis Thou that crown'st my glitteringhearth 

With guiltlesse mirtli, 
And giv'st me wassaile bowles to drink, 

Spiced to the brink. 
Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand. 

That soiles my land. 
And giv'st me, for my bushell sowne. 

Twice ten for one ; 
Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay 

Her egg each day ; 
Besides my healthful ewes to bear 

Me twins each yeare ; 
The while the conduits of my kine 

Run creame, for wine : 
All these, and better Thou dost send 

Me, to this end. 
That I should render, for my part, 

A thankfuU heart; 
Which, fired with incense, I resigne, 

As wholly Thine; 
But the acceptance, that must be, 

My Christ, by Thee. 

Robert IIerrick. 

For iXew- YEAR'S Day. 

Eterxal source of every joy. 

Well may Thy praise our lips employ. 

While in Thy temple we appear, 

Whose goodness crowns the circling year. 

The flower}' spring at Thy command 
Embalms the air and paints the land ; 



560 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



The summer rays with vigor shine, 
To raise the corn, and cheer the vine. 

Thy hand in autumn richly pours 
Through all our coasts redundant stores, 
And winters, soften'd by Thy care, 
No more a face of horror wear. 

Seasons and months and weeks and days 
Demand successive songs of praise ; 
Still be the cheerful homage paid 
With opening light and evening shade ! 

Oh ! may our more harmonious tongues 
In worlds unknown pursue the songs ; 
And in those brighter courts adore, 
Where days and years revolve no more ! 
Philip DoDDKiuijii;. 



SUNDAY. 

O DAY most calm, most bright ! 
The fruit of this, the next world's bud ; 
The indorsement of supreme delight, 
Writ by a Friend, and with His blood ; 
The couch of time, care's balm and bay, 
The week were dark but for thy light ; 

Thy torch doth show the way. 

The other days and thou 
Make up one man, whose face thou art. 
Knocking at heaven with thy brow : 
The working days are the back part. 
The burden of the week lies there, 
Making the whole to stoop and bow, 

Till thy release appear. 

Man had straightforward gone 
To endless death ; but thou dost pull 
And turn us round to look on One, 
Whom, if we were not very dull. 
We could not choose but look on still. 
Since there is no place so alone. 

The which He doth not fill ! 

Sundays the pillars are 
On which heaven's palace arched lies : 
The other days fill up the spare 
And hollow room with vanities ; 
They are the fruitful beds and borders 
Of God's rich garden ; that is bare, 

Which parts their ranks aud orders. 

The Sundays of man's life, 
Threaded together on time's string. 



Make bracelets to adorn the wife 
Of the eternal glorious King; 
On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope; 
Blessings are plentiful and rife. 
More plentiful than hope. 

This day my Saviour rose, 
And did enclose this light for His, 
That, as each beast his manger knows, 
Man might not of his fodder miss; 
Christ hath took in this piece of ground. 
And made a garden there for those 

Who want herbs for their wound. 

The rest of our creation 
Our great Redeemer did remove 
With the same shake, which at His passion 
Did th' earth, and all things with it, move; 
As Samson bore the doors away, 
Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our 
salvation. 

And did unhinge that day. 

The brightness of that day 
We sullied by our foul offence ; 
Wherefore that robe we cast away, 
Having a new at His expense, 
Whose drops of blood paid the full price 
That was required to make us gay 

And fit for Paradise. 

CiEOBfiE HeEBERT. 



Son-Da yes. 

Bright shadows of true rest ! some shoots 
of blisse ; 

Heaven once a week ; 
The next world's gladnesse prepossest in 
this; 
A day to seek : 
Eternity in time ; the steps by which 
We climb above all ages ; lamps that 
light 
Man through his heap of dark days ; and 
the rich 
And full redemption of the whole week's 
flight 1 

The pulleys unto headlong man ; time's 
bower ; 
The narrow way ; 
Transplanted paradise ; God's walking 
houre ; 
The cool o' th' dav I 



•'PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



561 



The creature's jubile ; God's park with 
dust ; 
Heaven here ; man on those hills of myrrh 
and ilowres ; 
Angels descending ; the returns of trust ; 
A gleam of glory after six-days showres! 

The Churche's love-feasts ; time's prerog- 
ative 
And interest 
Deducted from the whole ; the combs and 
hive, 

And home of rest. 
The milky-way chalkt out with suns ; a 
clue, 
That guides through erring hours ; and 
in full story 
A taste of heav'n on earth ; the pledge 
and cue 
Of a full feast I and the out-courts of 

glory. 

Henby Vauohan. 



Sabbath Chimes. 

There's music in the morning air, 

A holy voice and sweet, 
Far calling to the house of prayer 

The humblest peasant's feet. 
From hill, and vale, and distant moor. 

Long as the chime is heard, 
Each cottage sends its tenants poor 

For God's enriching word. 

■Where'er the British power hath trod, 

The cross of faith a-scends, 
And, like a radiant arch of God, 
The light of .Scripture bends ! 
Deep in the forest wilderness 

The wood-built church is known ; 
A sheltering wing, in man's distress, 

Spread like the Saviour's own ! 

The warrior from his armfed tent, 

The seaman from his tide, 
Far as the Sabbath chimes are sent 

In Christian nations wide, — 
Thousands and tens of thousands bring 

Their .sorrows to His shrine. 
And taste the never-failing spring 

Of Jesus' love divine ! 

If, at an earthly chime, the tread 
Of million, million feet 
36 



Approach whene'er the Gospel's read 

In God's own temi)le seat, 
IIow blest the sight, from death's dark 
sleep 
To see God's saints arise ; 
And countless hosts of angels keep 
The Sabbath of the skies ! 

Charles Swain. 

To THY Temple I Repair. 

To Thy temple I repair; 
Lord, I love to worship there ; 
When within the veil I meet 
Christ before the mercy-seat. 

Thou, through Him, art reconciled ; 
I, through Him, became Thy child ; 
Abba, Father ! give me grace 
In Thy courts to seek Thy face ! 

While Thy glorious praise is sung, 
Touch my lips, unloose my tongue, 
That my joyful soul may ble.ss 
Thee, the Lord my Righteousness ! 

While the prayers of saints ascend, 
God of love ! to mine attend ! 
Hear me, for Thy Spirit pleads ; 
Hear, for Jesus intercedes ! 

Wliile I hearken to Tliy law. 
Fill my soul with humble awe; 
Till Thy Gospel bring to me 
Life and immortality : 

While Thy ministers proclaim 
Peace and pardon in Thy Name, 
Tlirough their voice, by faith, may I 
Hear Thee speaking from the sky I 

From Thy house when I return, 
May my heart within me burn ; 
And at evening let me say, 
I have walk'd with God to-day ! 

James Montgomery. 



Paraphrase of Psalm XXIII. 

TllK Lord my j)a.sture shall prepare, 
And feed me with a Shepherd's care; 
His presence shall my wants .supply, 
And guard me with a watchful eye; 
My noonday walks He shall attend. 
And all my midnight hours defend. 



562 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



When in the sultiy gk-be I faint, 
Or on the thirsty mountain pant, 
To fertile vales and dewy meads 
My weary, wandering steps He leads, 
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, 
Amid the veidant landscape flow. 

Though in the paths of death I tread. 
With gloomy horrors overspread, 
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill, 
For Thou, O Lord, art with me still ; 
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, 
And guide me through the dreadful shade. 

Though in a bare and rugged way. 
Through devious lonely wilds I stray. 
Thy bounty shall my wants beguile; 
The barren wilderness shall smile. 
With sudden greens and herbage crown'd. 
And streams shall murmur all around. 

Joseph Addison. 



Paraphrase of fsaui XXIII. 

Happy me ! O happy sheep 
Whom my God vouchsafes to keep ; 
Even my God, even He it is 
That points me to these ways of bliss ; 
On whose pastures cheerful Spring 
All the year doth sit and sing, 
And, rejoicing, smiles to see 
Their green backs wear His livery. 
When my wayward breath is flying 
He calls home my sou) from dying, 
Strokes and tames my rabid grief, 
And does woo me into life: 
When my simple weakness strays, 
Tangled in forbidden ways. 
He, my Shepherd, is my guide, 
He's before me, on my side. 
And behind me. He beguiles 
Craft in all her knotty wiles : 
He expounds the giddy wonder 
Of my weary steps, and under 
Spreads a path clear as the day. 
Where no churlish rub says nay 
To my joy-conducted feet. 
Whilst they gladly go to meet 
Grace and Peace, to meet new lays 
Tuned to my great Shepherd's praise. 
Come now, all ye terrors, sally. 
Muster forth into the vallev. 



Where triumphant darkness hovers 

With a sable wing, that covers 

Brooding horror. Come then. Death, 

Let the damps of thy dull breath 

Overshadow even the shade. 

And make Darkness' self afraid ; 

There my feet, even there, shall find 

Way for a resolvfed mind. 

Still my Shepherd, still my God, 

Thou art with me; still thy rod, 

And thy staff", whose influence 

Gives direction, gives defence. 

At the whisper of Thy word 

Crown'd abundance spreads my board : 

How my head in ointment swims ! 

How my cup o'crlooks her brims ! 

So, even so still may I move 

By the line of Thy dear love ; 

Still may Thy sweet mercy spread 

A shady arm above my head, 

About my paths ; so shall I find 

The fair centre of my mind. 

Thy temple, and those lovely walls 

Bright ever with a beam that falls 

Fresh from the pure glance of Thine eye, 

Lighting to Eternity. 

There I'll dwell for ever, there 

Will I find a purer air 

To feed my life with, there I'll sup. 

Balm and nectar in my cup. 

And thence my ripe soul will I breathe 

Warm into the arms of Death. 

Richard Ceashaw. 



Entering into Covenant. 

O HAPPY day that fixed my choice 
On thee, my Saviour and my God ! 

Well may this glowing heart rejoice, 
And tell its raptures all abroad. 

'Tis done, the great transaction's done! 

I am my Lord's, and He is mine ; 
He drew me, and I followed on, 

Charm'd to confess the voice divine. 

Now rest, my long-divided heart, 
Fixed on this blissful centre, rest ; 

Nor ever from thy Lord depart, 
With Him of every good possess'd. 

High Heaven, that heard the solemn vow. 
That vow renew'd shall daily hear; 



'PSALMS AND HVMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



563 



Till in life's latest hour I bow, 
And bless in death a bond so dear. 

PUILIr DOUDBIDOE. 



Ba PTisMA L II yjfy. 

Ix token that thou shalt not fear 

Christ crucified to own, 
We print the cross upon thee here, 

And stamp thee His alone. 

In token that thou shalt not blush 

To glory in His name, 
We blazon here upon thy front 

His glory and His shame. 

In token that thou shalt not flinch 
Christ's quarrel to maintain, 

But 'neath His banner manfully 
Firm at thy post remain ; 

In token that thou too shalt tread 

The path He travell'd by, 
Endure the cross, despise the shame, 

And sit thee down on high ; 

Thus, outwardly end visibly. 

We seal thee for His own. 
And may the brow that wears His cross 

Hereafter share His crown I 

Henry Alford. 



Fountain of Mercy i God of 

LOVE! 

FocNTAix of mercy ! God of love ! 

How^ rich Thy bounties are I 
The rolling sexsons, as they move. 

Proclaim Thy constant care. 

When in the bosom of the earth 

The sower hid the grain, 
Thy goodness mark'd its secret birth, 

And sent the early rain. 

The spring's sweet influence was Thine, 

The plants in beauty grew ; 
Thou gavest refulgent suns to sbii 

And mild, refreshing dew. 



bine, 



These various mercies from above 
Matured the swelling grain, 

A yellow harvest crowns Thy love, 
And plenty fills the plain. 



Seed-time and harvest, Lord, alone 

Thou dost on man bestow ; 
Let him not then forget to own 

From Whom his blessings flow ! 

Fountain of love I our praise is Thine ; 

To Thee our songs we'll raise. 
And all created Nature join 

In sweet harmonious praise! 

.\XSE Flowerdew. 



]Yka t is Pra yer t 

Pkayer is the soul's sincere desire, 

Utter'd or une.xpress'd ; 
The motion of a hidden fire 

That trembles in the breast. 

Prayer is the burthen of a sigh, 

The falling of a tear, 
The upward glancing of the eye. 

When none but God is near. 

Prayer is the simplest form of speech 

That infant lips can try ; 
Prayer the sublimest strains that reach 

The Majesty on high. 

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice 

Returning from his ways. 
While angels in their songs rejoice, 

And cry, Behold, he prays ! 

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath. 

The Christian's native air ; 
His watchword at the gates of death ; 

He enters heaven with prayer. 

The saints in prayer appear as one 
In word, and deed, and mind ; 

While with the Father and the Son 
Sweet fellowship they find. 

Nor prayer is made by man alone : 

The Holy Spirit pleads ; 
And Jesus, on the eternal Throne, 

For mourners intercedes. 

Thou, by whom we come to God I 
The Life, the Truth, the Way ! 

The path of prayer Thyself ha-st trod: 
Lord ! teach us how to pray ! 

.IaMES MONTOOMEEr. 



564 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Tbe Hour of Prayer. 


Pardon all my past transgressions ; 


Child, amidst tlie flowers at play, 


Give me strength for days to come ; 


Guide and guard me with Thy blessing. 
Till Thine angels bid me home ! 


While the red light fades away : 


Mother, with thine earnest eye 


Harriet T. Parr. 


Ever following silently : 


•<>• 


Father, by the Ijreeze of eve 




Call'd thy harvest-work to leave, — 


Nearer, my God, to Thee. 


Pray ! ere yet the dark hours be, 


Nearer, my God, to Thee, 


Lift the heart, and bend the knee. 


Nearer to Thee ! 




E'en though it be a cross 


Traveller in the stranger's land, 


That raiseth me ; 


Far from thine own household band : 


Still all my song shall be. 


Mourner, haunted by the tone 


Nearer, my God, to Thee, 


Of a voice from this world gone : 


Nearer to Thee ! 


Captive, in whose narrow cell 




Sunshine hath not leave to dwell : 


Though like the wanderer, 


Sailor, on the darkening sea. 


The sun gone down, 


Lift the heart, and bend the knee. 


Darkness be over me, 




My rest a stone ; 


Warrior, that from battle won 


Yet in my dreams I'd be 


Breathest now at set of sun ; 


Nearer, my God, to Thee, 


Woman, o'er the lowly slain. 


Nearer to Thee ! 


Weeping on his burial-plain : 


There let the way appear 


Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, 


Steps unto Heaven ; 


Kindred by one holy tie. 


All that Thou sand'st to me 


Heaven's first star alike ye see, 


In mercy given ; 
Angels to beckon me 


Lift the heart and bend the knee. 


Felicia Dorothea He.mans. 


Nearer, my God, to Thee, 


"O* 


Nearer to Thee ! 


Hear my Prayer, Heavenly 


Then, with my waking thoughts 


Father. 


Bright with Thy praise, 




Out of my stony griefs 


Hear my prayer, Heavenly Father, 


Bethel I'll raise ; 


Ere I lay me down to sleep : 


So by my woes to be 


Bid Thy angels, pure and holy. 


Nearer, my God, to Thee, 


Round my bed their vigil keep. 


Nearer to Thee ! 


Great my sins are, but Thy mercy 


Or if on joyful wing 


Far outweighs them every one : 


Cleaving the sky, 


Down before Thy cross I cast them 


Sun, moon, and stars forgot, 


Trusting in Thy help alone. 


Upward I fly, 




Still all my song shall be. 


Keep me, through this night of peril, 


Nearer, my God, to Thee, 


Underneath its boundless shade ; 


Nearer to Thee ! 


Take me to Thy rest, I pray Thee, 


Sarah Flower Adams. 


When my pilgrimage is made ! 


•<>• 




Walking with God. 


None shall measure out Thy patience . 
By the span of human thought ; 


Gen. V. 24. 


None shall bound the tender mercies 


Oh for a closer walk with God, 


Which Thy Holy Son hath wrought. 


A calm and heavenly frame ! 



"PSALMS AKD HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." ofiS 

1 


A light to shine upon the road 


The Inner Calm. 


That leads me to the Lamb ! 






Calm me, my God, and keep me calm. 


Where is the blessedness I knew 


While these hot breezes blow; 


When first I saw the Lord ? 


Be like the night-dew's cooling balm 


Where is the soul-refreshing view 


Upon earth's fever'd brow ! 


Of Jesus and His word ? 






Calm me, my God, and keep me calm. 


Wiiat peaceful hours I once enjoy'd ! 


Soft resting on Thy breast; 


How sweet their memory still ! 


Soothe me with holy hymn and psalm. 


But they have left an aching void 


And bid my spirit rest. 


The world can never fill. 


Calm me, my God, and keep me calm ; 


Return, holy Dove ! return, 


Let Thine outstretched wing 


Sweet messenger of rest ! 


Be like the shade of Elim"s palm 


I hate the sins that made Thee mourn, 


Beside her desert spring. 


j And drove Thee from my breast. 


Yes ; keep me calm, though loud and rude 


The dearest idol I have known, 


The sounds my ear that greet ; 


Whate'er that idol be, 


Calm in the closet's solitude. 


Help me to tear it from Thy throne, 


Calm in the bustling street ; 


And worship only Thee ! 


Calm in the hour of buoyant health, 


So .shall my walk be close with God, 


Calm in my hour of pain ; 


Calm and serene my frame ; 


Calm in my poverty or wealth, 


So purer light shall mark the road 


Calm in my loss or gain ; 


That leads me to the Lamb ! 




William Cowpkk. 


Calm in the sufferance of wrong. 




Like Him who bore my shame ; 




Calm 'mid the threatening, taunting throng 


Ilr.MN TO THE Deity. 


Who hate Thy holy Name ; 


Inspirer and Hearer of prayer, 


Calm when the great world's news with 


Thou Shepherd and Guardian of Thine, 


power 


My all to thy covenant care 


My listening spirit stir: 


I, sleeping or waking, resign. 


Let not the tidings of the hour 


If Thou art my sliield and my sun, 


E'er find too fond an ear ; 




The night is no darkness to me; 


Calm as the ray of sun or star. 


And, fast as my moments roll on, 


Which storms assail in vain. 


They bring me but nearer to Thee. 


Moving nnruflled tlirfingh earth's war 


Thy ministering spirits descend 


Th' eternal calm to gain ! 


To watch while Thy saints are asleep ; 


IIORATIUS BONAR. 


By day and by night they attend, 


— .0. — 


The heirs of .salvation to keep. 






Resign A tion. 


Thy worship no interval knows, 
Their fervor is still on the wing; 

And, while they protect my repose, 
They chant to the praise of my King. 


Gon ! whose thunder shakes the sky, 


Whose eye this atom-globe surveys, 
To Thee, my only rock, I fly, — 
Thy mercy in Thy justice praise. 


I, too, at the season ordain'd, 




Their chorus for ever shall join ; 


The mystic mazes of Thy will. 


And love, and adore, without end. 


The shadows of celestial night, 


Their faithful Creator, and mine. 


Are piust the power of human skill ; 


AUOUSTUS JIU.STAOL-B TOPLADY. 


But what the Eternal acts is right. 



5G6 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Oh teach me, in the trying hour — 
When anguish swells the dewy tear — 

To still my sorrows, own Thy power, 
Thy goodness love. Thy justice fear. 

If in this bosom aught but Thee, 

Encroaching, sought a boundless sway, 

Omniscience could the danger see. 
And mercy look the cause away. 

Then why, my soul, dost thou complain — 
Why drooping seek the dark recess ? 

Shake off the melancholy chain ; 
For God created all to bless. 

But ah ! my breast is human still ; 

The rising sigh, the falling tear. 
My languid vitals' feeble rill. 

The sickness of my soul declare. 

But yet, with fortitude resign'd, 

I'll thank the inflictor of the blow — 

Forbid the sigh, compose my mind, 
Nor let the gush of misery flow. 

The gloomy mantle of the night. 
Which on my sinking spirit steals. 

Will vanish at the morning light. 

Which God, my east, my sun, reveals. 
Thomas Chatterton. 



Designation: 

LoED, it belongs not to my care 

Whether I die or live: 
To love and serve Thee is my share, 

And this Thy grace must give. 
If life be long, I will be glad. 

That I may long obey ; 
If short, yet why should I be sad 

To soar to endless day? 

Christ leads me through no darker rooms 

Than He went through before ; 
He that into God's kingdom comes 

Must enter by His door. 
Come, Lord, when grace has made me 
meet 

Thy blessed face to see ; 
For if Thy work on earth be sweet, 

What will Thy glory be? 

Then shall I end my sad complaints, 
And weary, sinful days; 



And join with the triumphant saints. 

That sing Jehovah's pi-aise. 
My knowledge of that life is small. 

The eye of faith is dim ; 
But 'tis enough that Christ knows all. 

And I shall be with Him. 

EicHAED Baxter. 



Thy Will be Done. 

My God and Father, while I stray 
Far from my home, on life's rough way. 
Oh teach me from my heart to say, 
Thy will be done ! 

Though dark my path and sad my lot. 
Let me be still and murmur not. 
Or breathe the prayer divinely taught. 
Thy will be done ! 

What though in lonely grief I sigh 
For friends beloved, no longer nigh. 
Submissive still would I reply, 
Thy will be done ! 

Though Thou hast call'd me to resign 
What most I prized, it ne'er was mine ; 
I have but yielded what was Thine ; 
Thy will be done ! 

Should grief or sickness waste away 
My lii'e in premature decay. 
My Father ! still I strive to say, 
Thy will be done ! 

Let but my fainting heart be blest 
With Thy sweet Spirit for its guest, 
My God, to Thee I leave the rest; 
Thy will be done ! 

Renew my will from day to day ; 
Blend it with Thine ; and take away 
All that now makes it hard to say, 
Thy will be done ! 

Then, when on earth I breathe no more 
The ]irayer, oft mix'd with tears before, 
I'll sing upon a happier shore. 
Thy will be done ! 

Charlotte Elliott. 



The Will of God. 

I WORSHIP thee, sweet Will of God ! 
And all Thy ways adore. 



•'PSAL3IS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



567 



And every day I live I seem 
To love Thee more and more. 

Thou wert the end. the blessed rule 

Of Jesifs toils and tears ; 
Thou wert the passion of His heart 

Those three-and-thirty years. 

And He hath breathed into my soul 

A special love of Tliee, 
A love to lose my will in His, 

And by that loss be free. 

I love to see Thee bring to naught 

The plans of wily men ; 
When simple hearts outwit the wise, 

Oh, Thou art loveliest then ! 

The headstrong world, it iiresses hard 

Upon the Churcli full oft, 
And then how easily Thou turn'st 

The hard ways into soft ! 

I love to kiss each print wliere Thou 

Hast set Thine unseen feet : 
I cannot fear Tliee, blessed Will ! 

Thine empire is so sweet. 

When obstacles and trials seem 

Like prison-walls to be, 
1 do the little I can do. 

And leave the rest to Thee. 

I have no cares, O blessed Will ! 

For all my cares are Thine ; 
I live in triumph, Lord I for Thou 

Hast made Thy triumphs mine. 

And when it .seems no ciiance or change 

From grief can set me free, 
Hope finds its strength in helplessness. 

And gayly waits on Thee. 

Man's weakness waiting upon God 

Its end can never miss. 
For men on earth no work can do 

More angel-like than this. 

Ride on, ride on, triumphantly, 
Thou glorious Will ! ride on ; 

Faith's pilgrim sons behind Thee take 
The road that Thou hiwt gone. 

He always wins who sides with God, 
To him no chance is lost ; 



God's Will is sweetest to him when 
It triumphs at his cost. 

Ill that He blesses is our good, 

And unblest good is ill ; 
And all is right that seems most wrong, 

If it be His sweet Will ! 

Frederick William 1'aeer. 



Thy Will be Done. 

Father, I know that all my life 

Is portion'd out for mo. 
And the changes that are sure to come 

I do not fear to see ; 
But I ask Thee for a present mind, 

Intent on pleasing Thee. 

I ask Thee for a thoughtful love, 
Through constant watching wise, 

To meet the glatl with joyful smiles, 
And wipe the weeping eyes ; 

And a heart at leisure from itself, 
To soothe and sympathize. 

I would not have the restless will 

That hurries to and fro ; 
Seeking for some great thing to do, 

Or secret thing to know: 
I would be treated as a child. 

And guided where I go. 

Wherever in the world I am, 

In whatsoe'er estate, 
I have a fellowship with hearts 

To keep and cultivate. 
And a work of lowly love to do. 

For the Lord on whom I wait. 

So I ask Thee for the daily strength 

To none that ask denied, 
And a mind to blend with outward life. 

While keeping at Thy side ; 
Content to fill a little space. 

If Thou be glorified. 

And if some things I do not ask 

In my cup of blessing be, 
I would have my spirit fill'd the more 

With grateful love to Thee ; 
More careful, not to serve Thee much. 

But to please Thee perfectly. 

There are briers begetting every path, 
That call for patient care ; 



568 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



There is a cross in every lot, 
And an earnest need for prayer ; 

But a lowly heart, that leans on Thee, 
Is happy anywhere. 

In a service which Thy will appoints 

There are no bonds for me ; 
For my inmost heart is taught the Truth 

That makes Thy children free ; 
And a life of self-renouncing love 

Is a life of liberty. 

Anna L.etitia Waking. 



Thy Will be Done. 

We see not, know not ; all our way 
Is night, — with Thee alone is day : 
From out the torrent's troubled drift, 
Above tlie storm our prayers we lift. 
Thy will be done ! 

The flesh may fail, the heart may faint. 
But who are we to make complaint. 
Or dare to plead, in times like these. 
The weakness of our love of ease? 
Thy will be done ! 

We take with solemn thankfulness 
Our burden up, nor ask it less, 
And count it joy that even we 
May suflfer, serve, or wait for Thee, 
Whose will be done ! 

Though dim as yet in tint and line. 
We trace Thy picture's wise design. 
And thank Thee that our age supplies 
Its dark relief of sacrifice. 
Thy will be done ! 

And if, in our unworthiness. 
Thy sacrificial wine we press ; 
If from Tliy ordeal's heated bars 
Our feet are seam'd with crimson scars. 
Thy will be done ! 

If, for the age to come, this hour 
Of trial hath vicarious power, 
And, blest by Thee, our present pain 
Be Liberty's eternal gain, 
Thy will be done ! 

Strike, Thou the Master, we Thy keys. 
The anthem of the destinies ! 



The minor of Thy loftier strain. 
Our hearts shall breathe the old refrain, 
Thy will be done ! 

John Gkeenleaf Whittiek. 



Just as I am. 

Just as I am, without one plea 
But that Thy Blood was shed for me. 
And that Thou bidd'st me come to Thee, 
Lamb of God, I come ! 

Just as I am, and waiting not 
To rid my soul of one dark blot, 
To Thee, whose Blood can cleanse each 
spot, 
O Lamb of God, I come ! 

Just as I am, though toss'd about 
AV^ith many a conflict, many a doubt, 
Fightings and fears within, without, 
O Lamb of God, I come ! 

Just as I am, poor, wretched, blind, 
Sight, riches, healing of the mind, 
Yea, all I need, in Thee to flnd, 
O Lamb of God, I come ! 

Just as I am. Thou wilt receive. 
Wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve ! 
Because Thy promise I believe, 
O Lamb of God, I come! 

Just as I am (Thy Love unknown 
Has broken every barrier down), 
Now, to be Thine, yea. Thine alone, 
O Lamb of God, I come ! 

Just as I am, of that free love 

The breadth, length, dejith, and height to 

prove. 
Here for a season, then above, 
Lamb of God, I come ! 

Charlotte Elliott. 



Hymn for Family worship. 

O Lord, another day is flown ; 

And we, a lonely band. 
Are met once more before Thy throne 

To bless Thy fostering hand. 

And wilt Thou lend a listening ear 
To 2>raises low as ours ? 



'PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



5G9 



Thou wilt ! for Thou dost love to hear 
The song which meekness pours. 

And, Jesus, Thou Thy smiles wilt deign 

As we before Thee pray ; 
For Thou didst bless the infiint train. 

And we are less than they. 

Oh let Thy grace perform its part, 

.\nd let contention cea.se ; 
And shed abroad in every heart 

Thine everlasting peace ! 

Thus chasten'd, cleansed, entirely Thine, 

A flock by Jesus led. 
The t^un of holiness shall shine 

In glory on our head. 

And Thou wilt turn our wandering feet. 
And Thou wilt bless our way, 

Till worlds shall fade, and laith shall greet 
The dawn of la.sting day ! 

Hk.n'KY KlKKE WlIITK. 



LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT. 

Lead, kindly Light, amid tli' encircling 
gloom. 

Lead Thou me on ; 
The night is dark, and I am far from 
home ; 

Lead Thou me on ; 
Keep Thou my feet ; I do not ask to see 
The distant scene; one step enough for me. 

I was not ever thus, nor pray'd that Thou 

Shouldst lead me on ; 
I loved to choose and see my path ; but 
now 
Lead Thou me on I 
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, 
Pride ruled my will. Kemcmber not past 
years ! 

So long Thy power has blest me, sure it 
still 
Will lead me on 
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, 
till 
The night is gone, 
And with the morn those angel faces smile 
Which I have loved long since, and lost 
a while 1 

JcjIIS IlKNKY NkwMA.S. 



When Gathering Clouds 
AROUND I View. 

Whex gathering clouds around 1 view, 
And days are dark and friends are few, 
On Him I lean, who not in vain 
E.xperienced every human pain. 
He sees my wants, allays my fears. 
And counts and treasures up my teal's. 

If aught should tempt my soul to stray 

From heavenly wisdom's narrow way; 

To fly the good I would pursue. 

Or do the sin I would not do; 

Still He, who felt temptation's power, 

Shall guard me in that dangerous hour. 

If wounded love my bosom swell. 
Deceived by those I prized too well, 
He shall his pitying aid bestow, 
Who felt on earth severer woe; 
-Vt once betray'd, denied, or fled, 
By those who shared His daily bread. 

If vexing thoughts within me rise. 
And, sore dismay'd, my spirit dies ; 
Still He, who once vouchsafed to bear 
The sickening anguish of despair. 
Shall sweetly soothe, shall gently dry. 
The throbbing heart, the streaming eye. 

When sorrowing o'er some stone I bend. 
Which covers what was once a friend, 
.Vnd from his voice, his hand, his smile. 
Divides me for a little while; 
Thou, Saviour, mark'st the tears I shed. 
For Thou didst weep o'er Lazarus dead I 

And oh, when I have safely past 
Tlirougli every conflict but the last. 
Still, still unchanging, watch beside 
My painful bed, for Thou hast died ! 
Then point to realms of cloudless day. 
And wipe the latest tear away ! 

SiK ROBEliT GUANT. 



Long did I Toil. 

Long did I toil, and knew no earthly rest; 
Far did I rove, and found no certain 
home ; 
At last I sought them in His sheltering 
bre.i.st. 
Who ope-s His arms, and bids the weary 
come: 



570 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



With Him I found a home, a rest divine ; 
And I since then am His, and He is mine. 

Yes ! He is mine ! and nauglit of eartlily 

things, 
Not all tlie charms of pleasure, wealth, or 

power. 
The fame of heroes, or the pomp of kings, 
Could tempt me to forego His love an 

hour. 
Go, worthless world, I cry, with all that's 

thine I 
Go ! I my Saviour's am, and He is mine. 

The good I have is from His stores sup- 
plied ; 
The ill is only what He deems the hest ; 

He for my Friend, I'm rich with naught 
beside ; 
And poor without Him, though of all 
possest : 

Changes may come ; I take, or I resign ; 

Content, while I am His, while He is 
mine. 

Whate'er may change, in Him no change 
is seen ; 
A glorious Sun, that wanes not nor de- 
clines; 

Above the clouds and storms He walks 
serene, 
And sweetly on His people's darkness 
shines : 

All may depart; I fret not, nor repine. 

While I my Saviour's am, while He is 
mine. 

He stays me falling, lifts me up when 

down. 
Reclaims me wandering, guards from 

every foe ; 
Plants on my worthless brow the victor's 

crown ; 
Which, in return, before His feet I 

throw, 
Grieved that I cannot better grace His 

shrine, 
Who deigns to own me His, as He is 

mine. 

While here, alas ! I know but half His 
love. 
But half discern Him, and but half 
adore ; 



But when I meet Him in the realms 
above, 
I hope to love Him better, praise Him 
more, 
And feel, and tell, amid the choir divine. 
How fully I am His, and He is mine. 

Henry Franx-is Lyte. 



Jesu, 3ir Strength, my Hope. 

Jesu, my strength, my hope. 

On Thee I cast my care. 
With humble confidence look up, 

And know Thou hear'st my prayer. 

Give me on thee to wait 

Till I can all things do. 
On Thee, Almighty to create, 

Almighty to renew ! 

I want a sober mind, 

A self-renouncing will, 
That tramples down and casts behind 

The baits of pleasing ill : 

A soul inured to pain. 

To hardship, grief, and loss; 
Bold to take up, firm to sustain, 

The consecrated cross. 

I want a godly fear, 

A quick discerning eye. 
That looks to Thee when sin is near. 

And sees the tempter fly ; 

A spirit still prepared. 

And arm'd with jealous care, 
For ever standing on its guard, 

And watching unto prayer. 

I want a heart to pray, 

To pray and never cease. 
Never to murmur at Thy stay, 

Or wish my sufferings less ; 

This blessing, above all. 

Always to pray, I want, 
Out of the deep on Thee to call, 

And never, never faint. 

I want a true regard, 

A single, steady aim. 
Unmoved by threat'ning or reward. 

To Thee and Thy great name ; 

A jealous, just concern 

For Thine immortal praise ; 
A pure desire that all may learn 

And glorify Thy grace. 



I 



"PSALMS AND HY3TXS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



571 



I rest upon Tliy word ; 

Tliy promise is for me ; 
My sueeor and salviition, Lord, 

J^liali surely come from Thee. 

But let me still abide, 

Nor from my hope remove, 
Till Thou my patient spirit guide 

Into thy perfect love ! 

Charles Wesley. 



Wrestling Jacob. 

Come, O thou Traveller unknown, 
AVhom still I hold, but cannot see, 

My company before is gone, 
And I am left alone with Thee ; 

With Thee all night I mean to stay, 

And wrestle till the break of day. 

I need not tell Thee who I am, 

My misery or sin declare ; 
Thyself hast call'd me by my name ; 

Look on Thy hands, and read it there ! 
But Who, I ask Thee, Who art thou ? 
Tell me Thy Name, and tell me now. 

In vain Thou strugglest to get free, 
I never will unloose my hold ; 

Art thou the Man that died for me? 
The secret of Thy love unfold. 

Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, 

Till I Thy Name, Thy Nature know. 

Wilt Thou not yet to me reveal 
Thy new, unutterable Name ? 

Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell ; 
To know it now, resolved I am : 

Wrestling, I will not let Thee go. 

Till I Thy Name, Thy Nature know. 

'Tis all in vain to hold Thy tongue, 
Or touch the hollow of my thigh ; 

Though every sinew be unstrung. 
Out of my arms Thou shalt not fly : 

Wrestling, I will not let Thee go. 

Till I Thy Name, Thy Nature know. 

What thoufrh my shrinking flesh complain. 
And murmur to contend so long? 

I rise superior to my pain ; 

When I am weak, then I am .strong : 

And when my all of strength shall fail 

I shall with the God-Man prevail. 



My strength is gone ; my nature dies ; 

I sink beneath Thy weighty hand. 
Faint to revive, and fall to rise ; 

I fall, and yet by faith I stand : 
I stand, and will not let Thee go. 
Till I Thy Name, Thy Nature know. 

Yield to me now, for I am weak. 

But confident in self-despair ; 
Speak to my heart, in blessings speak. 

Be coiKjuer'd by my instant prayer I 
Speak, or Thou never hence shalt move, 
And tell me, if Thy Name is Love ? 

'Tis Love! 'tis Love! Thou dicdst for me! 

I hear Thy whisper in my heart ! 
The morning breaks, the shadows flee ; 

Pure universal Love Thou art ! 
To me, to all, Thy bowels move ! 
Thy Nature, and Tliy Name, is I^ove ! 

My prayer hath [lower with God ; the 
grace 

Unspeakable I now receive ; 
Through faith I see Thee face to face, 

I see Thee face to face and live : 
In vain I have not wept and strove ; 
Thy Nature, and Thy Name, is Love. 

I know Thee, Saviour, who Thou art ; 

Jesus, the feeble sinner's Friend ! 
Nor wilt Thou with the night depart, 

But stay, and love me to the end ! 
Thy mercies never shall remove. 
Thy Nature, and Thy Name, is Love ! 

The Sun of Righteousness on me 

Hath rose, with healing in His wings ; 

Wither'd my nature's strength, from Thee 
My soul its life and succor brings ; 

My help is all laid up above ; 

Thy Nature, and Thy Name, is Love. 

Contented now upon my thigh 

I halt, till life's sliort journey end ; 

All helplessness, all weakness, I 
On Thee alone for strength depend ; 

Nor have I power from Thee to move ; 

Thy Nature, and Thy Name, is Love. 

Lame as I am, I take the prey. 

Hell, earth, and sin with ease o'er- 
come ; 
I leap for joy, pursue my way. 

And as a bounding hart fly home ! 



572 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Through all eternity to prove, 
Thy Nature, and Thy Name, is Love I 
C'HAKLEs Wesley. 



Whilst Thee I Seek. 

Whilst Thee I seek, protecting Power, 

Be my vain wishes still'd ! 
And may this consecrated hour 

With better hopes be fill'd. 

Thy love the power of thought bestow'd: 
To Thee my thoughts would soar : 

Thy mercy o'er my life has flow'd, 
That mercy I adore. 

In each event of life, how clear 

Thy ruling hand I see ! 
Each blessing to my soul more dear. 

Because conferr'd by Thee. 

In every joy that crowns my days, 

In every pain I bear, 
My heart shall find delight in praise. 

Or seek relief in prayer. 

When gladness wings mj' favor'd hour. 
Thy love my thoughts shall fill ; 

Kesign'd, when storms of sorrow lower, 
My soul shall meet Thy will. 

My lifted eye, without a tear, 
The gathering storms shall see ; 

.My steadfast heart shall know no fear; 
That heart shall rest on Thee. 

Helen Mari.\ Williams. 



The Right must Wijsr. 

Oh, it is hard to work for God, 
To rise and take His part 

Upon this battle-field of earth. 
And not sometimes lose heart I 

He hides Himself so wondrously. 
As though there were no God ; 

He is least seen when all the powers 
Of ill are most abroad. 

Or He deserts ua at the hour 

The fight is all but lost ; 
And seems to leave us to ourselves 
Just when we need Him most. 



Oh there is less to try our faith 

In our mysterious creed, 
Than in the godless look of earth 

In these our hours of need. 

Ill masters good, good seems to change 

To ill with greatest ease ; 
And, worst of all, the good with good 

Is at cross-purposes. 

The Church, the Sacraments, the Faith, 

Their uphill journey take, 
Lose here what there they gain, and, if 

We lean upon them, break. 

It is not so, but so it looks ; 

And we lose courage then; 
And doubts will come if God hath kept 

His promises to men. 

Ah ! God is other than we think ; 

His ways are far above. 
Far beyond reason's height, and rcach'd 

Only by childlike love. 

The look, the fashion of God's ways 

Love's lifelong study are ; 
She can be bold, and guess and act. 

When Reason would not dare. 

She has a prudence of her own ; 

Her step is firm and free ; 
Yet there is cautious science too 

In her simplicity. 

Workman of God ! oh lose not heart. 

But learn what God is like ; 
And in the darkest battle-field 

Thou shalt know where to strike. 

Oh, blessed is he to whom is given 

The instinct that can tell 
That God is on the field when He 

Is most invisible. 

And blessed is he who can divine 

Where real right doth lie, 
And dares to take tlic side that seems 

Wrong to man's blindfold e3'e. 

Oh learn to scorn the praise of men ! 

Oh learn to lose with God! 
For Jesus won the world through shame, 

And beckons thee His road. 



"PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



573 



God's glory is a wondrous thing, 
Most strange in all its ways, 

And, of all things on earth, least like 
What men agree to praise. 

As He can endless glory weave 
From time's misjudging shame. 

In His own world He is content 
To play a losing game. 

Muse ou His justice, downcast soul ! 

Muse and take hetter heart ; 
Back with thine angel to the field. 

Good luck shall crown thy part ! 

God's justice is a bed where we 
Our anxious hearts may lay. 

And, weary with ourselves, may sleep 
Our discontent away. 

For right is right, since God is God ; 

And right the day must win ; 
To doubt would be disloyalty. 

To falter would be sin ! 

Fkboerick William Faber. 



Joy and Peace in Believing. 

Sometimes a light surprises 

The Christian while he sings ; 
It is the Lord, who rises 

With healing in His wings: 
When comforts are declining. 

He grants the soul again 
A season of clear shining 

To cheer it after rain. 

In holy contemplation 

We sweetly then |)ursue 
The theme of God's salvation, 

.\nd find it ever new: 
Set free from present sorrow. 

We cheerfully can say. 
E'en let the unknown to-morrow 

Bring with it what it may. 

It can bring with it nothing. 

Hut He will bear us through ; 
Who gives the lilies clothing 

Will clothe His people too; 
Beneath the spreading heavens 

No creature but is fed ; 
And He, who feeds the ravens. 

Will give His children bread. 



Though vine nor fig tree neither 

Their wonted fruit shall bear ; 
Though all the field should wither. 

Nor flocks nor herds be there ; 
Yet, God the same abiding, 

His praise shall tune my voice ; 
For, while in Him confiding, 

I cannot but rejoice. 

William Cowpkr. 



Guide me, Tiiou Great Jeho- 
vah! 

Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah ! 
Pilgrim through this barren land ; 
I am weak, but Thou art mighty. 
Hold me with Thy powerful hand. 
Bread of Heaven ! Bread of Hea- 
ven! 
Feed me now and evermore ! 

Open now the crystal fountain. 

Whence the healing streams do fiow ; 

Let the fiery cloudy pillar 

Lead me all my journey through ; 
Strong Deliverer! strong Deliverer! 

Be thou still my Strength and Shield ! 

When I tread the verge of .Ionian, 
Bid my anxious fears subside; 

Death of death, and hell's destruction. 
Land me safe on Canaan's side ; 
Songs of praises, songs of praises, 

I will ever give to Thee ! 

William Williams. 



The Ciiii.n Leans on its Pa- 
rent's BREAST. 

The child leans on its parent's breast. 
Leaves there its cares, and is at rest ; 
The bird sits singing by his ne.st, 

And tells aloud 
His trust in God. and so is blest 

'Neath every cloud. 

He has no store, he sows no seed, 
Yet sings aloud, and doth not heed ; 
By flowing stream or grassy mead 

He sings to shame 
Men, who forget, in fear of need, 

A Father's name. 



574 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. 



T'ne heart that trusts for ever sings, 
And feels as light as it had wings ; 
A well of peace within it springs ; 

Come good or ill, 
Whate'er to-day, to-morrow brings. 

It is His will. 

Isaac Williams. 



/ LOVE Tby Kingdom, Lord. 

I LOVE Thy kingdom, Lord, 
The house of Thine abode. 

The Church our blest Redeemer saved 
With His own precious blood. 

I love Thy Church, O God ! 

Her walls before Thee stand, 
Dear as the apple of Thine eye, 

And graven on Thy hand. 

If e'er to bless Thy sons, 

My voice, or hands, deny. 
These hands let useful skill forsake. 

This voice in silence die. 

If e'er my heart forget 

Her welfare or her woe, 
Let every joy this heart forsake. 

And every grief o'erflow. 

For her my tears shall fall ; 

For her my prayers ascend ; 
To her my cares and toils be given. 

Till toils and cares shall end. 

Beyond my highest joy 
I prize her heavenly ways, 

Her sweet communion, solemn vows. 
Her hymns of love and praise. 

Jesus, Thou Friend divine. 
Our Saviour and our King, 

Thy hand from every snare and foe 
Shall great deliverance bring. 

Sure as Thy truth shall last, 

To Zion shall be given 
The brightest glories earth can yield. 
And brighter bliss of Heaven. 
Timothy Dwkjht. 
(From the Latin of St. A.merose.) 



"DUM YiriMUS YlVAMUS:' 

" Live while you live!" the epicure would 

say, 
" And seize the pleasures of the pre-sent 

day !" 
" Live while you live !" the sacred Preacher 

crie.s, 
" And give to God each moment as it 

flies !" 
Lord, in my view let botli united be : 
I live in pleasure white I live to Thee. 

Philip Doddridge. 



Child REX of the Heavenly 
King. 

Children of the Heavenly King, 
As ye journey, sweetly sing ; 
Sing your Saviour's worthy praise. 
Glorious in His works and ways ! 

We are travelling home to God, 
In the way the Fathers trod ; 
Tliey are ha]7py now ; and we 
Soon their hajjpiness shall see. 

O ye banish'd seed, be glad ! 
Christ our Advocate is made ; 
Us to save, our flesh assumes ; 
Brother to our souls becomes. 

Shout, ye little flock, and blest I 
You on Jesus' Throne shall rest ; 
There your seat is now prepared. 
There your kingdom and reward. 

Lift your eyes, ye sons of Light ! 
Zion's city is in sight : 
There our endless home shall be, 
There our Lord we soon shall see. 

Fear not, brethren ; joyful stand 
On the borders of your land ; 
Jesus Christ, your Father's Son, 
Bids you undismay'd go on. 

Lord ! obediently we go, 
Gladly leaving all below :. 
Only Thou our leader be. 
And we still wull follow Thee I 

Seal our love, our labors end ; 
Let us to Thy bliss ascend ; 



"PSALMS AND HYMXS AND SPIRITUAL SOXGS." 



575 



Let us to Thy kingdom come ; 
Lord ! we long to be at home. 

John Cexxick. 



Early piety. 

By cool Siloam's shady rill 

How sweet the lily grows ! 
How sweet the breath beneath the hill 

Of Sharon's dewy rose ! 
Lo ! such the child whose early feet 

The paths of peace have trod, 
Whose secret heart with influence sweet 

Is upward drawn to God. 

By cool Siloam's shady rill 

The lily must decay ; 
The rose that blooms beneath the hill 

Must shortly fade away ; 
And soon, too soon, the wintry hour 

Of man's maturer age 
Will shake the soul with sorrow's power, 

And stormy passion's rage. 

O Thou whose infant feet were found 

Within Thy Father's shrine, 
Whose years witli changeless virtue crown'd 

Were all alike divine: 
Dej>endent on Thy bounteous breath, 

We seek Thy grace alone 
In childhood, manliood, age, and death, 

To keep us still Thine own. 

Keoinald Heber. 



Happy Soul, that LivKi; ox 

HIGH! 

O HAPPY soul, that lives on high. 
While men lie grovelling here! 

His hopes are fix'd above the sky. 
And faith forbids his fear. 

His conscience knows no secret stinga. 
While peace and joy combine 

To form a life whose holy springs 
Arc hidden and divine. 

He waits in secret on his God, 

His God in secret sees ; 
Let earth be all in arms abroad, 

He dwells in heavenly peace. 

His pleasures rise from things unseen. 
Beyond this world and time. 



Where neither eyes nor ears have been, 
Xor thoughts of sinners climb. 

He wants no pomp, nor royal throne. 

To raise his figure here ; 
Content and pleased Jo live unknown. 

Till Christ, his Life, appear. 

He looks to heaven's eternal hill, 

To meet that glorious day, 

And patient waits his Saviour's will. 

To fetch his soul away. 

Isaac Watts. 



Heavenly Wisdom. 

Oh, h.ippy is the man who hears 
Inslruction's warning voice, 

And who celestial Wisdom makes 
His early, only choice. 

For she has treasures greater far 

Than ea.st or west unfold, 
And her reward is more secure 

Than is the gain of gold. 

In her right hand she holds to view 

A length of happy years, 
And in her left, the prize of fame 

And honor bright appears. 

She guides the young, with innocence. 
In pleasure's path to tread ; 

A crown of glory she bestows 
Upon the hoary head. 

According as her labors rise. 

So her rewards increase ; 
Her ways are ways of pleasantness, 

And all her paths are peace. 

Jons LOfiAS. 



The HEART'S SONO. 

Ix the silent midnight watches. 

List — thy bosom door I 
How it knocketii, knocketh, knockcth, 

Knocketh evermore ! 
Say not 'tis thy pulses beating; 

'Tis thy heart of sin : 
'Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth. 

Rise and let Me in ! 

Death comes down with reckless footstep 
To the hall and hut ; 



576 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 


Think you Death will stand a-knocking 


To Heaven's high city I direct my jour- 


Where the door is shut? 


ney, 


Jesus waiteth — waiteth— waiteth ; 


Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine 


But thy door is fast ! 


eye — • 


Grieved, away thy Saviour gneth : 


Mine eye, by contemplation's great at- 


Death breaks in at last. 


torney. 




Transcends the crystal pavement of the 


Then 'tis thine to stand entreating 


sky: 


Christ to let thee in : 


But what is Heaven, great God, compared 


At the gate of heaven beating, 


to Thee? 


Wailing for thy sin. 


Without thy presence, Heaven's no Heaven 


Nay, alas ! thou foolish virgin, 


to mo. 


Hast thou then forgot, 




Jesus waited long to know thee, 


Without Thy presence, earth gives no re- 


But He knows thee not ! 


fection ; 


Arthur Cleveland Co.xe. 


Without Thy presence, sea affords no 




treasure ; 




Without Thy presence, air's a rank infec- 


Delight in God Only. 


tion ; 




Without Thy presence, Heaven itself's 


I LOVE, and have some cause to love, the 






no pleasure : 


earth — 
She is my Maker's creature, therefore 


If not possess'd, if not enjoy'd in Thee, 




What s earth, or sea, or air, or Heaven to 


good. 


me ? 


She is my mother, for she gave me birth ; 




She is my tender nurse, she gives me 


The highest honors that the world can 


food : 


boast 


But what's a creature. Lord, compai-ed with 


Are subjects far too low for my desire ; 


Thee? 


The brightest beams of glory are, at 


Or what's my mother or my nurse to me ? 


most. 




But dying sparkles of Thy living fire ; 


I love the air — her dainty sweets refresh 


The proudest flames that earth can kindle 


My drooping soul, and to new sweets in- 


be 


vite me ; 


But nightly glow-worms if compared to 


Her shrill-mouth 'd choir sustain me with 


Thee. 


their flesh, 




And with their polyphonian notes de- 


Without Thy presence, wealth is bags of 


light me : 


cares ; 


But what's the air, or all the sweets that 


Wisdom but folly ; joy, disquiet sad- 


she 


ness; 


Can bless my soul withal, comiiared to 


Friendship is treason, and delights are 


Thee? 


snares ; 




Pleasure's but pain, and mirth but pleas- 


I love the sea — she is my fellow-crcuture, 


ing madness — 


My careful jiurveyor ; she ]>rovides me 


Without Thee, Lord, things be not what 


store ; 


they be. 


She walls me round ; she makes my diet 


Nor have their being, when compared with 


greater ; 


Thee. 


She wafts my treasure from a foreign 




shore : 


In having all things, and not Thee, what 


But, Lord of oceans, when compared with 


have I ? 


Thee, 


Not having Thee, what have my labors 


What is the ocean or her wealth to me? 


got? 



1 



"PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



577 



Let me enjoy but Thee, what further crave 

I? 
Aud having Thee alone, what have I 

not? 

I wish nor sea, nor land, nor would I be 

Possess'd of Heaven, Heaven unpossess'd 

of Thee ! 

Francis Qgakles. 



The Star of Bethlehem. 

When marshall'd on the nightly plain, 
The glittering host bestud the sky; 

One star alone, of all the train. 
Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 

Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks, 
From every liost, from every gem ; 

But one alone the Saviour speaks, 
It is the Star of Bethlehem. 

Once on the raging seas I rode. 

The storm was loud — the night was dark, 
The ocean yawn'd — and rudely blow'd 

The wind that toss'd my foundering 
bark. 

Deep horror then my vitals froze. 
Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem ; 

When suddenly a star arose. 
It was the Star of Bethlehem. 

It was my guide, my light, my all. 
It bade my dark forebodings cease ; 

And through the storm and dangers' thrall 
It led me to the port of peace. 

Now safely moor'd — my perils o'er, 
I'll sing, first in night's diadem, 

For ever and for evermore. 
The Star— the Star of Betlilehem ! 

Henry Kibke Wuitb. 



Life. 

If life's pleasures cheer thee, 

Give them not thy heart, 
Lest the gifts ensnare thee 
From thy God to part : 
His praises speak. His favor .seek, 

Fi.K tiiere tliy lioi)es' foundation ; 
Love him, and He shall ever be 
The Rock of thy salvation. 
.37 



If sorrow e'er befall thee, 

Painful though it be, 
Let not fear appall thee : 
To thy Saviour flee : 
He, ever near, thy prayer will hear. 

And calm thy perturbation ; 
The waves of woe shall ne'er o'erflow 
The Kock of thy salvation. 

Death shall never harm thee, 
Shrink not from his blow. 
For thy God shall arm thee. 
And victory bestow : 
For death shall bring to thee no sting, 

The grave no desolation ; 
'Tis gain to die, with Jesus nigh, 
The Rock of thy salvation. 

Frascis Scott Kkv. 



Art thou Wearyt 

Art thou weary, art thou languid. 

Art thou sore distress'd ? 
"Come to Me," saith One, " and coming. 
Be at rest." 

Hath He marks to lead me to Him, 

If He be my Guide ? 
" In His feet and hands are wound-prints, 
And His side." 

Is there diadem, a.s Monarch, 

That His brow adorns ? 
" Yea, a crown, in very surety, 
r.ul <,f thorns." 

If I find Him, if I follow, 

What His guerdon here ? 
" Many a sorrow, many a labor, 
Many a tear." 

If I still hold closely to Hira, 

What hath Heat la.st? 
" Sorrow vanquish'd, labor ended, 
Jordan pass'd." 

If I ask Him to receive me. 

Will He say me nay? 
" Not till earth, and not till heaven 
Pass away." 



578 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Finding, following, keeping, struggling, 

Is He sure to bless? 

" Saints, apostles, prophets, martyrs, 

Answer, Yes." 

John Mason Neale. 
(Translation from St. Stephen the Sabaite.) 



Up-hill. 

Does the road wind up-hill all the way ? 

Yes, to the very end. 
Will bhe day's journey take the whole long 
day. 

From morn to niglit, viy friend. 

But is there for the niglit a resting-place? 
A roof for when the slow dark hours 
begin f 
May not the darkness hide it from my 
face? 
You cannot miss that inn. 

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? 

Those who have gone before. 
Then must I knock, or call when just in 
sight? 
They will not keep you standing at that 
door. 

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? 

Of labor you shall find the sum. 
Will there be beds for me and all who 
seek? 
Yes, beds for all who come. 

Chkistina Geokgina Eossetti. 



Nothing but Leaves. 

"He found nothing tliereon but leaves." — Matt. chap. 
xxi. V. 19. 

Nothing but leaves ; the spirit grieves 

Over a wasted life ; 
Sin committed while conscience slept. 
Promises made but never kept, 

Hatred, battle, and strife ; 
Nothing but leaves/ 

Nothing but leaves ; no garner'd sheaves 

Of life's lair, ripeii'd grain ; 
Words, idle words, for earnest deeds ; 
We sow our seeds — lo ! tares and weeds; 

We reap with toil and pain 
Nothing but leaves ! 



Nothing but leaves ; memory weaves 

No veil to screen the past : 
As we retrace our weary way, 
Counting each lost and misspent day — 

We find, sadly, at last. 
Nothing but leaves! 

And shall we meet the Master so, 

Bearing our wither'd leaves ? 
The Saviour looks for perfect fruit, — 
We stand before him, humbled, mute ; 
Waiting the words he breathes, — 
" Nothing but leaves !" 

Lucy Evelina Akeeman. 



The Pilgrimage. 

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, 

My staff of faith to walk upon ; 
My scrip of joy, immortal diet ; 

My bottle of salvation ; 
My gown of g\oTY, hope's true gauge. 
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage ! 
Blood must be my body's balmer, 

No other balm will there be given ; 
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, 

Travelleth toward the land of Heaven : 
Over the silver mountains 
Where spring the nectar fountains : 
There will I ki-ss the bowl of bliss, 
And drink mine everlasting fill 
Upon every milken hill. 
My soul will be a-dry before, 
But after, it will thirst no more. 
Then by that happy, blissful day, 

More peaceful pilgrims I shall see. 
That have cast off their rags of clay, 

And walk apparell'd fresh like me. 
I'll take them first to quench their thirst, 

And taste of nectar's suckets 
At those clear wells where sweetness 
dwells 

Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets. 
And when our bottles and all we 
Are fill'd with immortality, 
Then the blest paths we'll travel, 
Strew'd with rubies thick as gravel, — 
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors, 
High walls of coral, and pearly bowers. 
From thence to heaven's bribeless hall. 
Where no corrupted voices brawl ; 



"PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



579 



No conscience molten into gold, 

No forged accuser, bought or sold, 

No cause deferr'd, no vain-si>cnt journey, 

For there Christ is the King's Attorney ; 

Who pleads for all witliout degrees, 

And lie hath angels, but no fees ; 

And when the grand twelve million jury 

Of our sins, with direful fury, 

'Gainst our souls black verdicts give, 

Christ pleads His death, and then we live. 

Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader, 

Unblotttd lawyer, true procecder ! 

Thou giv'st salvation even for alms, — 

Not with a bribfed lawyer's palms. 

And this is mine eternal plea 

To Him that made heaven, earth and sea. 

That since my tiesh must die so soon. 

And want a head to dine ne.xt noon. 

Just at the stroke when my veins start and 

spread. 
Set on my soul an everlasting head : 
Then am I, like a palmer, tit 
To tread those blest paths which before I 

writ. 
Of death and judgment, heaven and hell, 
AVho oft doth think, must needs die well. 
SiK Walter Raleigh. 



The Flower. 

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and 
clean 
Are thy returns ! e'en as the flowers in 
spring- 
To which, besides their own demean. 
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure 
bring. 
Grief melts away 
Like snow in May, 
As if there were no such cold thing. 

Who would have thought my shrivell'd 
heart 
Could have recovered greenness? It was 
gone 
Quite underground ; a-s flowers depart 
To see their mother-root when they have 
blown. 

Where they together. 
All the hard weather, 
Dead to the world, keep house unknown. 



These are Thy wonders. Lord of power: 
Killing and quick'ning, bringing down to 
hell 
And up to heaven in an hour, 
Making a chiming of a passing-bell. 
We say amiss, 
This or that is— 
Thy word is all, if we could spell. 

Oh, that I once past changing were — 
Fast in Thy paradise, where no flower can 
wither ! 
Many a spring I shoot up foir, 
Off'ering at heaven, growing and groaning 
thither ; 

Nor doth my flower 
\Vant a spring-shower. 
My sins and I joining together. 

But, while I grow in a straight line, 
Still upward bent, as if heaven were mine 
own, 
Thy anger comes, and I decline; 
What frost to that? what pole is not the 
zone 

Where all things burn. 

When Thou dost turn. 

And the least frown of Thine is shown? 

And now in ago I bud again — 
After so many deaths I live and write; 

I once more smell the dew ami rain, 
And relish versing; O my only light. 
It cannot be 
That I am he 
On whom Thy tempests fell all night ! 

These are Thy wonders. Lord of love — 
To make us see we are but flowers that 
glide ; 
Which when we once can find and 
prove. 
Thou ha.st a garden for us where to bide. 
Who would be more, 
Swelling through store. 
Forfeit their paradise by their pride. 

Geoeoe Herbert. 

MARINER'S flVJfX. 

Launch thy bark, mariner ! 

Christian, God speed thee ! 
Let loose the rudder-bands, — 

Good angels lead thee ! 



580 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Set thy sails warily, 


What though the spicy breezes 


Tempests will come ; 


Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle ; 


Steer thy course steadily : 


Though every prospect pleases, 


Christian, steer home ! 


And only man is vile ; 




In vain with lavish kindness 


Look to the weather-bow, 


The gifts of God are strown ; 


Breakers are round thee ; 


The heathen in his blindness 


Let fall the plummet now, 


Bows down to wood and stone. 


Shallows may ground thee. 




Reef in the foresail, there ! 


Can we, whose souls are lighted 


Hold the helm fast ! 


With wisdom from on high. 
Can we to men benighted 


So — let the vessel wear^ 


There swept the blast. 


The lamp of life deny ? 




Salvation ! salvation ! 


" What of the night, watchman ? 


The joyful sound proclaim, 
Till eacli remotest nation 


What of the night?" 


" Cloudy— all quiet- 


Has learnt Messiah's Name. 


No land yet — all's right." 




Be wakeful, be vigilant, — ■ 




Danger may be 


Waft, waft, ye winds. His story. 


At an hour when all seemeth 


And you, ye waters, roll. 


Securest to thee. 


Till like a sea of glory 




It spreads from pole to pole ; 


How! gains the leak so fast? 


Till o'er our ransom'd nature 


Clean out the hold, — 


The Lamb for sinners slain. 


Hoist up thy merchandise. 


Kedeemer, King, Creator, 


Heave out thy gold ; 


In bliss returns to reign. 


There — let the ingots go — 


Reginald Heber. 


Now the ship rights ; 




Hurrah ! the harbor's near — 




Lo ! the red lights ! 






The Burial of Moses. 


Slacken not sail yet 


"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, 


At inlet or island ; 


over against Beth-peor; but uo man knoweth of his 


Straight for the beacon steer. 


sepulchre unto this day." 


Straight for the high land ; 


By Nebo's lonely mountain, 


Crowd all tliy canvas on. 


On this side Jordan's wave. 


Cut through the foam : 


In a vale in the land of Moab 


Christian! cast anchornow, — 


There lies a lonely grave. 


Heaven is thy home ! 


And no man knows that sepulchre, 


Caroline Bowles Southey. 


And no man saw it e'er. 


.-. 


For the angels of God upturn'd the sod 




And laid the dead man there. 


MISSIONARY Hymn. 




From Greenland's icy mountains. 


That was the grandest funeral 


From India's coral strand. 


That ever pass'd on earth ; 


Where Afric's sunny fountains 


But no man heard the trampling, 


KoU down their golden sand; 


Or saw the train go forth — 


From many an ancient river. 


Noiselessly as the daylight 


From many a palmy plain. 


Comes back when night is done. 


They call us to deliver 


And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 


Their land from error's chain. 


Grows into the great sun. 






'PSALMS AND HYMXS A.\D SPIRITUAL SOSGS." 



581 



Noiselessly as the spring-time 

Her crown of verdure weaves, 
And all the trees on all the hills 

Open their thousand leaves ; 
So without sound of music, 

Or voice of them that wept, 
Silently down from the mountain's crown 

The great procession swei)t. 

Perchance the bald old eagle 

On gray Beth-peor's height, 
Out of his lonely eyrie 

Look'd on the wondrous sight ; 
Perchance the lion stalking, 

Still shuns that hallow'd spot, 
For beast and bird have seen and heard 

That which man knoweth not. 

But when the warrior dieth. 

His comrades in the war, 
With arms reversed and muffled drum. 

Follow his funeral car; 
They show the banners taken. 

They tell his battles won, 
And after him lead his niasterless steed, 

While peals the minute gun. 

Amid the noblest of the land 

We lay the sage to rest, 
And give the bard an honor'd place, 

With costly marble drest, 
In the great minster transept 

Where lights like glories fall. 
And the organ rings, and the sweet choir 
sings 

Along the emblazon'd wall. 

This wxs the truest warrior 

That ever buckled sword. 
This the most gifted poet 

That ever breathed a word ; 
And never earth's philosopher 

Traced, with his golden pen, 
On the deathless page, truths half so sage 

As he wrote down for men. 

And had he not high honor, — 

The hillside for a pall. 
To lie in state while angels wait 

With stars for tapers tall. 



And the dark rock-pines like tossing 
plumes, 

Over his bier to \yave, 
And God's own hand, in that lonely land. 

To lay him in the grave? 

In that strange grave without a name, 

Whence his uneoffin'd clay 
Shall break again, wondrous thought ! 

Before the judgment day, 
And stand with glory wrapt around 

On the hills he never trod. 
And speaks of the strife that won our life 

With the Incarnate Son of God. 

lonely grave in Moab's land ! 

O dark Beth-peor's hill ! 
Speak to these curious hearts of ours. 

And teach them to be still. 
God hath His mysteries of grace, 

Ways that we cannot tell ; 
He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep 

Of him He loved so well. 

Cecil Frances Ale.xasder. 



Tjte Ninety and Kixe. 

There were ninety and nine that safely 
lay 

In the shelter of the fold. 
But one was out on the hills away, 

Far oft" from the gates of gold — 
Away on the mountains wild and bare, 
Away from the tender Shepherd's care. 

" Lord, Thou ha.st here Thy ninety and 
nine ; 
Are they not enough for Thee?" 
But the Shepherd made answer : " 'Tis of 
mine 
Ha-s wander'd away from me ; 
And although the road be rough and steep, 
I go to the desert to find my shee|i." 

But none of the ransom'd ever knew 
How deep were the waters cross'd ; 

Nor how dark wa.s the night that the Lord 
p.ass'd through 
Ere He found His sheep that wius lost. 

Out in the desert He heard its cry — 

Sick and helpless, and ready to die. 



582 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



" Lord, whence are those blood-drops all 

the way 
That mark out the njountain's track '?" 
" They were shed for one who had gone 

astray 
Ere the Shepherd could bring him 

back." 
" Lord, whence are Thy hands so rent and 

torn ?" 
" They are pierced to-night by many a 

thorn." 

But all thro' the mountains, thunder-riven, 

And up from the rocky steep. 
There rose a cry to the gate of heaven, 

" Rejoice ! I have found My sheep !" 
And the angels echo'd around the throne, 
" Rejoice, for the Lord brings back His 
own !" 

Elizabeth C. Clephane. 



Retirement. 

Far from the world, O Lord, I flee, 

From strife and tumult far ; 
From scenes where Satan wages still 

His most successful war. 

The calm retreat, the silent shade. 
With prayer and praise agree, 

And seem by Thy sweet bounty made 
For those who follow Thee. 

There, if Thy Spirit touch the soul. 

And grace her mean abode. 
Oh, with what peace, and joy, and love. 

She communes with her God ! 

Tliere, like the nightingale, she pours 

Her solitary lays. 
Nor asks a witness of her song. 

Nor thirsts for human praise. 

Author and Guardian of my life. 
Sweet Source of light divine. 

And, all harmonious names in one, 
My Saviour! Thou art mine! 

What thanks I owe Thee, and what love, 

A boundless, endless store, 
Shall echo through the realms above 

When time shall be no more ! 

William Cowi-er. 



Lord, small thy Children come 
TO Thee? 

Lord, shall thy children come to Thee ? 

A boon of love divine we seek ; 
Brought to Thine arms in infancy, 

Ere heart could feel, or tongue could 
speak. 
Thy children pray for grace, that they 
May come themselves to Thee to-day. 

Lord, shall we come? and come again. 
Oft as we see Thy table spread. 

And, tokens of Thy dying pain, 
The wine pour'd out, the broken bread? 

Bless, bless, O Lord, Thy children's prayer, 

That they may come and find Thee there. 

Lord, shall we come? not thus alone 

At holy time or solemn rite, 
But every hour till life be flown. 

Through weal or woe, in gloom or light, 
Come to Thy throne of grace, that we 
In faith, hope, love, confirm'd may be. 

Lord, shall we come, come yet again ? 

Thy children ask one blessing more : 
To come, not now alone, but then. 

When life, and death, and time are o'er; 
Then, then to come, O Lord, and be 
Confirm'd in heaven, confirm'd by Thee. 
Samuel Hinds. 



Whe^ our Heads are Bowed 
WITH Woe. 

When our heads are bow'd with woe, 
When our bitter tears o'erflow. 
When we mourn the lost, the dear, 
Jesu, Sou of Mary, hear. 

Thou our throbbing flesh hast worn, 
Thou our mortal griefs hast borne, 
Thou hast shed the human tear ; 
Jesu, Son of Mary, hear. 

When the solemn death-bell tolls 
For our own departing souls, 
When our final doom is near, 
Jesu, Son of Mary, hear. 

Thou hast bow'd the dying head. 
Thou the blood of life hast shed, 
Thou hast fiU'd a mortal bier ; 
Jesu, Son of Mary, hear. 



'PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS:' 



583 



When the heart is sad within 
AVith the thought of all its sin, 
When the spirit shrinks with fear, 
Jesu, Son of Mary, hear. 

Tliou the shame, the grief, hast known, 
Though the sins were not Tliine own ; 
Tiiou hast deign'd their load to bear ; 
Jesu, Son of Mary, hear. 

llEKRV HaBT MILSIAN. 



PSAUI CA'A'I. 

Up to the hills I lift mine eyes, 
The eternal hills beyond the skies ; 
Thence all her help my soul derives, 
There my Almighty Refuge lives. 

He lives, the everlasting God, 
That built the world, that si)read the flood ; 
The heavens with all their hosts he made, 
And the dark regions of the dead. 

He guides our feet, He guards our way ; 
His morning smiles l)less all the day; 
He spreads the evening veil, and keeps 
The silent hours while Israel sleeps. 

Israel, a name divinely blest, 
Jlay rise secure, securely rest ; 
Thy holy Guardian's wakeful eyes 
Admit no slumber nor surprise. 

No sun shall smite thy head by day, 
Xor the pale moon with sickly ray 
Shall blast thy couch ; no baleful star 
Dart his malignant fire so far. 

Should earth and hell with malice burn, 
Still thou ^^lalt go, and still return. 
Safe in the Lord ; His heavenly care 
Defends thy life from every snare. 

On thee foul spirits have no power ; 
And, in thy last departing hour, 
Angels, that trace the airy road. 
Shall bear thee homeward to thy God. 

Isaac Watts. 



PSAL.)f LAXXfV. 

Lord of the worlds above, 
How pleasant and how fair 

The dwellings of Thy love,. 
Thy earthly temples, are ! 



To Thine abode 
My heart aspires 
With warm desires 

To see my God. 

happy souls tliat pray 

Where God appoints to hear ! 
O happy men that pay 

Their constant service there! 
They praise Thee still; 
And ha|)py they 
That love the way 
To Sion's hill. 

They go from strength to strength 
Through this dark vale of tears, 
Till each arrives at length. 
Till each in Heaven ajjpears : 
O glorious scat. 
When God our King 
Shall thither bring 
Our willing feet ! 

Isaac Watts. 



Tjie God of Abraham Feaise. 

The God of Abraham praise, 

Who reigns enthroned above, 
Ancient of everlasting days, 

And God of Love ! 
Jehovah ! Great I Am ! 

By earth and heaven confest ; 
I bow and bless the sacred Name, 

For ever blest ! 

The God of Aljraham praise ! 

At whose supreme command 
From earth I rise, and seek the joys 

At His right hand : 
I all on earth forsake, 

Its wisdom, fame, and power. 
And Him my only portion make. 

My Shield and Tower. 

The God of Abraham ])raise I 

Wliose all-sutlicieilt grace 
Shall guide me all my happy days 

In all my ways : 
He calls a worm His friend ! 

He calls Himself my God I 
And He shall save me to the end 

Tiirough Jesus' Blood. 



584 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


He by Himself hath sworn, 


The God who reigns on high. 


I on His oath depend ; 


The great Archangels sing. 


I shall, on eagle's wings upborne, 


And, " Holy, holy, holy," cry. 


To heaven ascend ; 


" Almighty King ! 


I shall behold His face. 


Who Was, and Is, the same, 


I shall His power adore. 


And evermore shall be ! 


And sing the wonders of His grace 


Jehovah ! Father ! Great I Am ! 


For evermore ! 


We worship Thee !" 


Though Nature's strength decay, 


Before the Saviour's face 


And earth and hell withstand. 


The ransom'd nations bow, 


To Canaan's bounds I urge my way 


O'erwhelm'd at His Almighty grace. 


At His command : 


For ever new : 


The watery deep I pass 


He shows His prints of love ; 


With Jesus in my view, 


They kindle to a flame, 


And through the howling wilderness 


And sound, through all the worlds above. 


My way pursue. 


The slaughter'd Lamb ! 


The goodly land I see, 


The whole triumphant host 


With peace and plenty blest. 


Give thanks to God on high ; 


A land of sacred liberty. 


" Hail ! Father, Son, and Holy Ghost !" 


And endless rest : 


They ever cry : 


There milk and hon«y flow. 


Hail ! Abraham's God, and mine ! 


And oil and wine abound. 


I join the heavenly lays ; 


And trees of life for ever grow, 


All might and majesty are Thine, 


With Mercy crown'd. 


And endless praise ! 




Thomas Olivers. 


There dwells the Lord our King, 




The Lord our Righteousness, 




Triumphant o'er the world and sin. 


TUOU, FROM WHOM ALL GOOD- 


The Prince of Peace ! 


NESS FLOWS. 


On Sion's sacred height 


Thou, from whom all goodness flows, 


His kingdom still maintains. 


I lift my heart to Thee ; 
In all my sorrows, conflicts, woes, 


And, glorious with His saints in light, 
For ever reigns ! 


Dear Lord, remember me ! 


He keeps His own secure ; 


When groaning on my burden'd heart 
My sins lie heavily. 


He guards them by His side ; 


Arrays in garments white and pure 
His spotless Bride ; 


My pardon speak, new peace impart, 
In love remember me ! 


With streams of sacred bliss. 




With groves of living joys. 


Temptations sore obstruct my way ; 


With all the fruits of Paradise, 


And ills I cannot flee : 


He still supplies. 


Oh, give me strength. Lord, as my day; 




For good remember me ! 


Before the great Three-One 


They all exulting stand, 


Distrest with pain, disease, and grief, 


And tell the wonders He hath done 


This feeble body see ! 


Through all their land ; 


Grant patience, rest, and kind relief; 


The listening spheres attend 


Hear, and remember me ! 


And swell the growing fame, 




And sing, in songs which never end, 


If on my face, for Thy dear Name, 


The wondrous Name ! 


Shame and reproaches be ; 



'PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



585 



All hail reproach, and welcome shame, 
If Thou remember me ! 

The hour is near; consign'd to death 

I own the just decree : 
"Saviour!" with my last parting breath, 

I'll cry, " Remember me '." 

TUOMAS Haweis. 



coafe, thou fouxt of every 
Blessixg. 

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing, 

Tune my heart to sing Thy grace ; 
Streams of mercy, never ceasing. 

Call for songs of loudest praise. 
Teach me some melodious sonnet, 

Sung by flaming tongues above; 
Praise the mount — I'm fixM upon it — 

Mount of Thy redeeming love ! 

Here I'll raise mine Ebenezer! 

Hither by Thy help I'm come; 
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure, 

Safely to arrive at home. 
Jesus sought me when a stranger, 

Wandering from the fold of God ; 
He, to rescue me from danger. 

Interposed His precious blood. 

Oh, to grace bow great a debtor 

Daily I'm constrain'd to be! 
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter. 

Bind my wandering heart to Thee; 
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it. 

Prone to leave the God I love ; 
Here's my heart, oh take and seal it; 

Seal it for Thy courts above. 

liUliliKT KOBI.S'SON. 



The Omsipotent Decree. 

Stand the omnipotent decree! 

Jehovah's will be done ! 
Nature's end we wait to see, 

And hear her final groan. 
Let this earth dissolve, and blend 

In death the wicked and the just; 
Let those ponderous orbs descend, 

And grind us into dust : — 

Rests secure the righteous man ; 
At his Redeemer's beck. 



Sure to emerge and rise again. 
And mount above the wreck ; 

Lo ! the heavenly spirit towers, 
Like flames o'er Nature's funeral pyre, 

Triumphs in immortal powers. 
And claps his wings of fire ! 

Nothing hath the just to lose. 

By worlds on worlds destroy'd ; 
Far beneath his feet he views. 

With smiles, the flaming void ; 
Sees this universe renew'd, 

The grand millennial reign begun; 
Shouts, with all the sons of God, 

Around the eternal throne. 

Resting in this glorious hope 

To be at last restored, 
Yield we now our bodies up 

To earthquake, plague, or sword. 
Listening for the call divine, 

The latest trumpet of the seven ; 
Soon our souls and dust shall join. 

And both fly up to heaven. 

Charles Wesley. 



Complaining. 

Do not beguile my heart. 
Because Thou art 
My power and wisdom. Put me not to 
shame. 

Because I am 
Thy clay that weeps. Thy dust that 
calls. 

Thou art the Lord of glory — 
The deed and story 
Are both Thy due ; but I, a silly fly, 
That live or die 
According as the weather falls. 

Art Thou all justice, Lord? 
Shows not Thy word 
More attributes ? Am I all throat or eye. 
To weep or cry ? 
Have I no parl-s but those of grief? 

Let not Thy wrathful power 
Afflict my hour, 
My inch of life ; or let Thy gracious power 
Contract my hour, 
That I may climb and find relief. 

George Hkrbebt. 



586 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



On a Prayer-Book 

SENT TO Mrs. M. R. 

Lo! here a little volume, but great book, 
(Fear it not, sweet. 
It is uo hypocrite!) 
Much larger in itself than in its look ! 
It is — in one rich handful — heaven and 

all 
Heaven's royal hosts encamp'd — thus 

small 
To prove, that true schools use to tell, 
A thousand angels in one point can 

dwell. 
It is love's great artillery. 
Which here contracts itself, and comes to 

lie 
Close couch'd in your white bosom, and 

from thence. 
As from a snowy fortress of defence, 
Against the ghostly foe to take your 

part. 
And fortify the hold of your chaste 

heart. 

It is the armory of light — 

Let constant use but keep it bright, 

You'll find it yields 
To holy hands and humble hearts 

More swords and shields 
Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts. 

Only be sure 

The hands be pure 
Tliat hold these weapons, and the eyes 
Those of turtles — chaste and true, 

Wakeful and wise. 
Here is a friend shall fight for you ; 
Hold but this book before your heart, 
Let prayer alone to play his part. 

But oh ! the heart 
That studies this high art 
Must be a sure housekeeper. 
And yet no sleejier. 

Dear soul, be strong, 
Mercy will come ere long. 
And bring her bosom full of blessings — 
Flowers of never-fading graces, 
To make immortal dressings 
For worthy souls, whose wise embraces 
Store up themselves for Him who is alone 
The Spouse of virgins and the Virgin's 
Son. 



But if the noble Bridegroom, when He 
comes. 
Shall find the wandering heart from 

home. 
Leaving her chaste abode 
To gad abroad — 
Amongst the gay mates of the god of 
flies 
To take her pleasures, and to play. 
And keep the devil's holiday — 
To dance in the sunshine of some smiling, 
But beguiling 

Spear of sweet and sugar'd lies — 

Some slippery pair 

Of false, perhaps as fair, 
Flattering but forswearing eyes — 

Doubtless some other heart 

Will get the start, 

And, stepping in before. 
Will take possession of the sacred store 

Of hidden sweets and holy joys — 

Words which are not heard with ears 
(These tumultuous shops of noise). 

Effectual whispers, whose still voice 
The soul itself more feels than hears — 

Amorous languishments, luminous trances. 

Sights which are not seen with eyes — 
Spiritual and soul-piercing glances. 

Whose pure and subtle lightning flies 
Home to the heart, and sets the house on 

fire, 
And melts it down in sweet desire ; 

Yet doth not stay 
To ask the windows leave to pass that 

way — 
Delicious deaths, soft exhalations 
Of soul, dear and divine annihilations — 

A thousand unknown rites 

Of joys, and rarefied delights — • 
An hundred thousand loves and graces, 

And many a mystic thing 

Which the divine embraces 
Of the dear Spouse of spirits with them 
will bring, 

For which it is no shame 
That dull mortality must not know a 
name. 

Of all this hidden store 
Of blessings, and ten thousand more, 

If, when He come, 
He find the heart from home, 



"PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



587 



Doubtless He will unload 
Himself some otherwhere, 

And pour abroad 

His precious sweets 
On the fair soul whom first lie meet^. 
Oh tiiir ! oh fortunate I oh rich I oh dear! 

Oh, happy and thrice happy she — 

Dear silver-breasted dove, 

^Vhoe'er she be. 

Whose early love 

With wingfed vows 
Makes haste to meet her morning Spouse, 
And close witli His immortal kisses — 

Happy soul ! who never misses 

To improve that precious hour. 

And every day 

Seize her sweet prey, 

All fresh and fragrant as He rises. 

Dropping with a balmy shower, 

A delicious dew of spices ! 

Oh ! let that happy soul hold fast 
Her heavenly armful ; she shall taste 
At once ten thousand paradises; 
She shall have power 
To rifle and deflower 
The rich and roseal spring of those rare 

sweets 
Wiiich, with a swelling bosom, there she 

meets ; 
Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures 

Of pure inebriating pleasures; 
Happy s(ml ! she shall discover 
What joy, what bliss, 
How many heavens at once, it is. 
To have a God become her lover. 

RiCUAKD CRASIIAW. 

To Keep a True Lest. 

Is this a fast — to keep 
The larder lean. 
And clean 
From fat of veals and sheep ? 

Is it to quit the dish 

Of flesh, yet still 
To fill 
The platter high with fish? 

Is it to fast an hour — 

Or ragged to go — 
Or show 
A downcast look, and sour? 



No ! 'tis a fast to dole 

Thy sheaf of wheat, 
And meat. 
Unto the hungry soul. 

It is to fast from strife. 

From old debate 

And hate — 

To circumcise thy life. 

To show a heart grief-rent ; 
To starve thy sin. 
Not bin ; 
And that's to keep thy Lent. 

Robert Uekrick. 



GOD OF Bethel, bv whose 
Hand. 

O God of Bethel, by whose hand 

Thy people still are fed. 
Who through this weary pilgrimage 

Hast all our fathers led ; 

Our vows, our prayers, we now present 
Before Thy throne of grace ; 

God of our fathers ! be the God 
Of their succeeding race. 

Through each perplexing path of life 
Our wandering footsteps guide; 

Give us each day our daily bread. 
And raiment fit provide. 

Oh spread Thy covering wings around 
Till all our wanderings cease. 

And at our Father's loved abode 
Our souls arrive in ])cace! 

Such blessings from Thy gracious hand 

Our humble prayers implore; 
And Thou shalt be our chosen God, 
And portion evermore. 

Variation by John Ixkjan. 
(From Philip DouuBUMiif:.) 



NEARER Home. 

One sweetly solemn thought 
Comes to me o'er and o'er ; 

I'm nearer my home to-day 
Than I ever have been before ; 



588 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Nearer my Father's house, 
Where the many mansions be ; 

Nearer the great white throne; 
Nearer the crystal sea ; 

Nearer the bound of life, 

Where we lay our burdens down ; 
Nearer leaving the cross ; 

Nearer gaining the crown. 

But lying darkly between, 

Winding down through the night, 
Is the silent, unknown stream 

That leads at last to the light. 

Closer and closer my steps 
Come to the dread abysm : 

Closer Death to my lips 
Presses the awful chrism. 

Oh, if my mortal feet 

Have almost gain'd the brink ; 
If it be I am nearer home 

Even to-day than I think ; 

Father, perfect my trust ; 

Let my spirit feel in death 
That her feet are fli-mly set 

On the rock of a living faith ! 

PiicEBE Gary. 



Te Golden Laiips of Hea ven, 
Farewell. 

Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell. 

With all your feeble light : 
Farewell, thou ever-changing moon. 

Pale empress of the night. 

And thou, refulgent orb of day, 

In brigliter flames array'd ; 
My soul, that springs beyond thy sphere, 

No more demands thine aid. 

Ye stars are but the shining dust 

Of my divine abode. 
The pavement of those heavenly courts 

Where I shall reign with God. 



The Father of eternal light 
Shall there His beams display. 

Nor shall one moment's darkness mix 
With that unvaried day. 

No more the drops of piercing grief 
Shall swell into mine eyes ; 

Nor the meridian sun decline 
Amid those brighter skies. 

There all the millions of His saints 

Shall in one song unite, 
And each the bliss of all shall view 

With infinite delight. 

Philip Doddridge. 



Songs of praise the Angels 
Sang. 

Songs of praise the angels sang, 
Heaven with hallelujahs rang. 
When Jehovah's work begun. 
When He spake and it was done. 

Songs of praise awoke the morn. 
When the Prince of Peace was born ; 
Songs of praise awoke when He 
Captive led captivity. 

Heaven and earth must pass away. 

Songs of praise shall crown that day ; 
God will make new heavens, new earth, 
Songs of praise shall hail their birth. 

And can man alone be dumb. 
Till that glorious kingdom come ? 
No : the Church delights to raise 
Psalms, and hymns, and songs of praise. 

Saints below, with heart and voice, 
Still in songs of praise rejoice, 
Learning here, by faith and love, 
Songs of praise to sing above. 

Borne upon their latest breath. 
Songs of praise shall conquer death ; 
Then, amidst eternal joy, 
Songs of praise their powers employ. 
James Moktuomery. 



"PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



589 



ON ANOTHER'S SORliOW. 

Cax I see another's woe, 
And not be in sorrow too ? 
Can I see another's grief, 
And not seek for kind relief? 

Can I see a falling tear, 
And not feel my sorrow's share ? 
Can a father see his child 
Weep, nor be with sorrow fiU'd ? 

Can a mother sit and licar 
An infant groan, an infant fear? 
No I no ! never can it be — 
Kever, never can it be ! 

And can He who smiles on all, 
Hear the wren with sorrows small, 
Hear the small bird's grief and care, 
Hear the woes that infants bear, — 

And not sit beside the nest. 
Pouring pity in their brea.st? 
And not sit the cradle near, 
Weeping tear on infant's tear ? 

And not sit both night and day, 
AViping all our tears away ? 
Oh, no I never can it be — 
Never, never can it be ! 

He doth give His joy to all ; 
He becomes an infant small. 
He becomes a man of woe. 
He doth feel the sorrow too. 

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, 
And thy Maker is not nigh ; 
Think not tliuu canst wcop a tear, 
And thy Maker is not near. 

Oh ! He gives to us His joy, 
That our griefs He may destroy. 
Till our grief is Hod and gone 
He doth sit by us and moan. 

William Blake. 



Passing Uxder the Rod. 

I SAW the young bride in her beauty and 
pride, 
Bedeck'd in her snowy array ; 
And the bright flush of joy mantled high 
on her cheek. 
And the future look'd blooming and gay : 



And with woman's devotion she laid her 
fond heart 
At the shrine of idolatrous love. 
And she anchor'd her hopes to this perish- 
ing earth, 
By the chain which her tenderness 
wove. 
But I saw, when those heartstrings were 
bleeding and torn. 
And the chain had been sever'd in two. 
She had changed her white robes for the 
sables of grief. 
And her bloom for the paleness of 
woe ! 
But the Healer was there, pouring balm 
on her heart. 
And wijjing the tears from her eyes. 
And He strengthen'd the chain He had 
broken in twain. 
And fasten'd it firm to the skies ! 
There had whisper'd a voice — 'twas the 

voice of her God : 
" I love thee — I love thee — pass under the 
rod 1" 

I • saw the young mother in tenderness 
bend 
O'er the couch of her slumbering boy, 
And she kiss'd the soft lips as they mur- 
mur'd her name. 
While the dreamer lay smiling in joy. 
Oh, sweet as a rosebud encircled with 
dew. 
When its fragrance is flung on the air. 
So fresh and so bright to that mother he 
seem'd. 
As he lay in his innocence there. 
But I saw when she gazed on the same 
lovely form. 
Pale as marble, and silent, and cold. 
But paler and colder her beautiful boy. 
And the talc of her sorrow was told ! 
But the Healer wiis there who had stricken 
her heart. 
And taken her tro.isure away ; 
To allure her to heaven, He has placed it 
on high, 
And the mourner will sweetly obey. 
There had whisper'd a voice — 'twas the 

voice of her God : 
" I love thee — I love thee — pas» under the 
I rod!" 



590 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



I saw the fond brother, with glances of 
love, 
Gazing down on a gentle young girl, 
And she hung on his arm, and breathed 
soft in his ear, 
As he play'd with each graceful curl. 
Oh, he loved the sweet tones other silvery 
voice, 
Let her use it in sadness or glee ; 
And he twinfed his arms round her delicate 
form, 
As she sat in the eve on his knee. 
But I saw when he gazed on her death- 
stricken face. 
And she breathed not a word in his 
ear, 
And he clasped his arms round an icy- 
cold form. 
And he moisten'd her cheek with a tear. 
But the Healer was there, and He said to 
him thus, 
" Grieve not for thy sister's short life," 
And He gave to his arms still another fair 
girl. 
And he made her his own cherish'd 
wife ! 
There had whisper'd a voice — 'twas the 

voice of his God : 
" I love thee — I love thee— pa^'a under the 
rod.'" 

I saw, too, a father and mother who lean'd 

On the arms of a dear gifted son. 
And the star in the future grew bright to 
their gaze. 
As they saw the proud place he had 
won ; 
And the fast-coming evening of life prom- 
ised fair, 
And its pathway grew smooth to their 
feet. 
And the starlight of love glimmer'd bright 
at the end. 
And the whispers of fancy were sweet. 
And I saw them again, bending low o'er 
the grave, 
Where their hearts' dearest hope had 
been laid, 
And the star had gone down in the dark- 
ness of night. 
And the joy from their bosoms had 
fled. 



But the Healer was there, and His arms 

were around, 

And He led them with tenderest care ; 

And He show'd them a star in the bright 

upper world ; 

'Twas /heir s/ar shining brilliantly there ! 

They had each heard a voice — 'twas the 

voice of their God : 

" I love thee — I love thee — pass under the 

rod!" 

Mary S. B. Dana. 



The Changed Cross. 

It was a time of sadness, and my heart. 
Although it knew and loved the better 

part. 
Felt wearied with the conflict and the 

strife, 
And all the needful discipline of life. 

And while I thought on these as given to 

me, 
My trial-tests of faith and love to be. 
It seem'd as if I never could be sure 
That faithful to the end I should endure. 

And thus, no longer trusting to His might 
Who says, " We walk by faith and not by 

sight," 
Doubting, and almost yielding to despair, 
The thought arose, " 3Iy cross I cannot 

bear. 

" Far heavier its weight must surely be 
Than those of others which I daily see ; 
Oh ! if I might another burden choose, 
Methinks I should not fear my crown to 
lose." 

A solemn silence reign'd on all around. 
E'en Nature's voices utter'd not a sound ; 
The evening shadows seem'd of peace to 

tell, 
And sleep upon my weary spirit fell. 

A moment's pause, — and then a heavenly 
light 

Beam'd full ujion my wondering, raptured 
sight ; 

Angels on silvery wings seem'd every- 
where. 

And angels' music tbrill'd the balmv air. 



"PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



591 



Then One, more fair than all the rest to 

see, 
One to whom all the others bow'd the 

knee, 
Came gently to me, as I trembling lay. 
And, "Follow me," He said; "I am the 

Way." 

Then, speaking thus, lie led me far above. 
And there, beneath a canopy of love, 
Crosses of divers sliapc and size were seen, 
Larger and smaller than my own had been. 

And one there was most beauteous to be- 
hold,— 

A little one, with jewels set in gold. 

Ah ! this, methought, I can with comfort 
wear. 

For it will be an easy one to bear. 

And so the little cross I quickly took, 
But all at once my frame beneath it shook ; 
The sparkling jewels, fair were they to see, 
But far too heavy was their weight for me. 

" This may not be," I cried, and look'd 

again. 
To see if there was any here could ease my 

pain ; 
But, one by one, I pass'd them slowly by, 
Till on a lovely one I cast my eye. 

Fair flowers around its sculptured form 
entwined. 

And grace and beauty seem'd in it com- 
bined. 

Wondering I gazed, — and still I wonder'd 
more. 

To think so many should have pass'd it o'er. 

But oh that form so beautiful to see 
Soon made its hidden sorrows known to 

me ; 
Thorns lay beneath those flowers and colors 

fair; 
Sorrowing I said, " This cross I may not 

bear." 

.\nd so it was with each and all around, 
Not one to suit my need could there be 
found ; 



At length to Him I raised my sadden'd 
heart ; 

He knew its sorrows, bade its doubts de- 
part ; 

" Be not afraid," He said, " but trust in 
Me; 

My perfect love shall now be shown to 
thee." 

And then, with lighten'd eyes and willing 

feet, 
Again I turn'd, my earthly cross to meet ; 
With forward footsteps, turning not aside. 
For fear some hidden evil might betide ; 

And there, — in the prepared, appointed 

way, 
Listening to hear, and ready to obey, — 
A cross I quickly found of plainest form, 
With only words of love inscribed thereon. 

With thankfulness I raised it from the 

rest. 
And joyfully acknowledged it the best, — 
Tlic only one, of all the many there, 
That I could feci was good for me to bear. 

And while I thus my chosen one confcss'd, 
I saw a heavenly brightness on it rest ; 
And as I bent, my burden to sustain, 
I recognized mi/ own old cross again. 

But, oh ! how different did it seem to be. 
Now I had learn'd its preciousness to see I 
No longer could I unbelieving say, 
"Perhaps another is a better way." 

Ah, no ! henceforth mv one desire shall 

be, 
That He, who knows me best should choose 

for me ; 
And so, whate'er His love sees good to 

send, 

I'll trust it's best,— because He knows the 

end. 

Author Uskxown. 

Wearv. 

I WOULD have gone ; God bade me stay : 
I would have work'd ; God bade me 
rest. 



Weeping I laid each heavy burden down. He broke my will from day to day 



As my (Juide gently said, " No cross,— no 
crown. 



He read my yearnings une.xprcss'd. 
And said them nay. 



692 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Now I would stay ; God bids me go : 
Now I would rest ; God bids me work. 

He breaks my heart toss'd to and fro ; 
My soul is wrung with doubts that lurk 
And vex it so ! 

I go, Lord, where Thou sendest me ; 

Day after day I plod and moil ; 
But, Christ my God, when will it be 
That I may let alone my toil, 
And rest with Thee? 

Chkistina Georgina Rossetti. 



Tbe Valediction. 

Vain world, what is in thee? 
What do poor mortals see 
Which should esteemfed be 

Worthy their pleasure ? 
Is it the mother's womb. 
Or sorrows which soon come, 
Or a dark grave and tomb ; 

Wliich is their treasure ? 
How dost thou man deceive 

By thy vain glory? 
Why do they still believe 

Thy false history ? 

Is it children's book and rod, 
The laborer's heavy load, 
Poverty undertrod, 

The world desireth ? 
Is it distracting cares, 
Or heart-tormenting fears, 
Or pining grief and tears. 

Which man requireth? 
Or is it youthful rage. 

Or childish toying ? 
Or is decrepit age 

Worth man's enjoying? 

Is it deceitful wealth. 

Got by care, fraud, or stealth, 

Or short, uncertain health. 

Which thus befool men ? 
Or do the serpent's lies, 
By the world's flatteries 
And tempting vanities. 

Still overrule them? 
Or do they in a dream 

Sleep out their season ? 
Or borne down by lust's stream, 

Which conquers reason ? 



The silly lambs to-day 
Pleasantly skip and play. 
Whom butchers mean to slay, 

Perhaps to-morrow ; 
In a more brutish sort 
Do careless sinners sport, 
Or in dead sleep still snort, 

As near to sorrow ; 
Till life, not well begun, 

Be sadly ended. 
And the web they have spun 

Can ne'er be mended. 

What is the time that's gone, 
And what is that to come ? 
Is it not now as none? 

The present stays not. 
Time posteth, oh how fast! 
Unwelcome death makes haste ; 
None can call back what's past — 

Judgment delays not ; 
Though God bring in the light, 

Sinners awake not — 
Because hell's out of sight, 

They sin forsake not. 

Man walks in a vain show ; 
They know, yet will not know ; 
Sit still when they should go — 

But run for shadows, 
While they might taste and know 
The living streams that flow, 
And crop the flowers that grow. 

In Christ's sweet meadows. 
Life's better slept away 

Than as they use it ; 
In sin and drunken play 

Vain men abuse it. 

Malignant world, adieu 1 
Where no foul vice is new — 
Only to Satan true, 

God still oflTended ; 
Though taught and warn'd by God, 
And His chastising rod, 
Keeps still the way that's broad, 

Never amended. 
Baptismal vows some make. 

But ne'er perform them ; 
If angels from heaven spake, 

'Twould not reform them. 



• "PSALMS AND HYMNS 


AND SPIRITUAL' SONGS." 593 


They dig for holl beneath, 


Of good they choose the least. 


They hibor hard for death, 


Despise that which is best — 


Run themselves out of breath 


The joyful, heavenly feast 


To overtake it. 


Which Christ would give them; 


Hell is not had for naught. 


Heaven hath scarce one cold wish ; 


Damnation's dearly bought, 


They live unto the flesh ; 


And with great labor sought — 


Like swine they feed on wash — 


They'll not forsake it. 


Satan doth drive them. 


Their souls are Satan's fee — 


Like weeds, they grow in mire 


He'll not abate it. 


Which vices nourish — 


Grace is refused that's free — 


Where, warm'd by Satan's fire. 


Mad sinners hate it. 


All sins do flourish. 


Vile man is so perverse, 
It's too rough work for verse 
His badness to rehearse, 

And show his folly; 
He'll die at any rates — 
He God and conscience hates, 
Yet sin he consecrates, 

And calls it holy. 
The grace he'll not endure 

Which would renew him — 
Constant to all, and sure. 

Which will undo him. 


Is this the world men choose. 
For which they heaven refuse, 
And Christ and grace abuse, 

And not receive it? 
Shall I not guilty bo 
Of this in some degree, 
If hence God would me free, 

And I'd not leave it? 


My soul, from Sodom fly. 

Lest wrath there find thee; 

Thy refuge-rest is nigh — 
Look not behind thee ! 




There's none of this ado. 


His head comes first at birth. 


None of the hellish crew; 


And takes root in the earth — 


God's promise is most true — 


As nature shooteth forth. 


Boldly believe it. 


His feet grow highest, 


My friends are gone before. 


To kick at all above, 


And I am near the shore ; 


And spurn at saving love; 


My soul stands at the door — 


His God is in his grove. 


Lord, receive it I 


Because it's nighest ; 


It trusts Christ and His merits— 


He loves this world of strife, 


The dead He raises ; 


Hates that would mend it ; 


Join it with blessed spirits 


Loves death that's called life. 


Who sing Thy praises. 


Fears what would end it. 

All that is good he'd crush, 
Blindly on sin doth rush — 


KiciiARD Baxter. 


/ nOCLD NOT LIVE AlWA}'. 


A pricking tliorny hush. 


I WOULD not live alway — live alway 


Such Christ was crown'd with ; 


below ! 


Their worship's like to this — 


Oh no, I'll not linger, when bidden to go. 


The reed, the Judas kiss : 


The days of our pilgrimage granted us 


Such the religion is 


here 


That these abound with ; 


Are enough for life's woes, full enough for 


They mock Christ with the knee 


its cheer. 


Whene'er they bow it — 


Would I shrink from the path which the 


As if God did not see 


prophets of God, 


The heart, and know it. 
38 


Apostles, and Martyrs so joyfully trod? 



594 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



While brethren and friends are all hasten- 
ing home, 

Like a spirit unblest, o'er the earth would 
I roam? 

I would not live alway : I ask not to 

stay 
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er 

the way ; 
Where, seeking for rest, I but hover 

around 
Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting 

. is found ; 
Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow 

in the air. 
Leaves her brilliance to fade in the night 

of despair. 
And Joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad 

ray, 
Save the gleam of the plumage that bears 

him away. 

I would not live alway, thus fetter'd by 

sin, 
Temptation without, and corruption with- 
in ; 
In a moment of strength, if I sever the 

chain, 
Scarce the victory is mine ere I'm captive 

again. 
E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled 

with fears. 
And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent 

tears. 
The festival trump calls for jubilant 

songs, 
But my spirit her own miserere prolongs. 

I would not live alway : no, welcome the 
tomb ; 



Who, who would live alway, away from 

his God, 
Away from yon Heaven, that blissful 

abode. 
Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the 

bright plains, 
And the noontide of glory eternally 

reigns; 
Where the saints of all ages in harmony 

meet. 
Their Saviour and brethren transported to 

greet. 
While the anthems of rapture unceasingly 

roll, 
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of 

the soul ? 

That heavenly music ! what is it I hear? 
The notes of the harpers ring sweet on my 

ear ! 
And see soft unfolding those portals of 

gold, 
The King all array'd in His beauty behold I 
Oh give me, oh give me the wings of a 

dove ! 
Let me hasten my flight to those mansions 

above : 
Ay ! 'tis now that my soul on swift pinions 

would soar. 
And in ecstasy bid earth adieu evermore. 
WiLMAM Augustus Muhlenberg. 



Stanzas on the death of a 
Friend. 

Thou art gone to the grave : but we will 
not deplore thee. 
Though sorrows and darkness encompass 
the tomb : 



Immortality's lamp burns there bright 'mid Thy Saviour has pass'd through its portal 



the gloom. 



before thee, 



There, too, is the pillow where Christ And the lamp of His love is thy guide 



bow'd his head ; 
Oh, soft be my slumbers on that holy 

bed! 
And then the glad morn soon to follow 

that night. 
When the sunrise of glory shall burst on 

my sight, 
And the full matin-song as the sleepers arise 
To shout in the morning, shall peal through 

the skies. 



through the gloom ! 

Thou art gone to the grave : we no longer 
behold thee, 
Nor tread the rough paths of the world 
by thy side; 
But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to 
enfold thee. 
And sinners may die, for the Sinless has 
died ! 



"PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 595 


Thou art gone to the grave : and, its man- 


But thy spirit, brother, soars away among 


sion forsaking. 


the faithful blest. 


Porhai)s thy weak spirit in fear linger'd 


Where the wickoil cease from troubling. 


long; 


and the weary are at rest. 


But the mild rays of Paradise beam'd on 




thy waking, 


And when the Lord shall summon us, whom 


And the sound which thou heard'st was 


thou hiust left behind, 


the Seraphim's song ! 


May we, untainted by the world, as sure a 




welcome find ! 


Thou art gone to the grave : but we will not 


May each, like thee, depart in peace, to be 


deplore thee ; 


a glorious guest. 


Whose God was thy ransom, thy Guar- 


Where the wicked cease from troubling, 


dian, and Guide! 


and the weary are at rest ! 


He gave thee, He took thee, and He will 


Henry Hart Milmak. 


restore thee ; 




And death has no sting, for the Saviour 




has died ! 


A LITTLF. WfflLE. 


Reoinald Hebek. 






Beyond the smiling and the weeping 




I shall be soon ; 


BURIAL HYMN. 


Beyond the waking and the sleeping, 




Beyond the sowing and the reaping, 


Beother, thou art gone before us; and 


I shall be soon. 


thy saintly soul is flown 


Love, rest, and home ! 


Where tears are wiped from every eye, and 


Sweet hope ! 


sorrow is unknown ; 


Lord, tarry not, but come. 


From the burden of the flesh, and from 




care and fear released, 


Beyond the blooming and the fading 


Where the wicked cease from troubling, 


I shall be soon ; 


and the weary are at rest. 


Beyond the shining and the shading, 




Beyond the hoping and the dreading, 


The toilsome way thou'st travelled o'vt, 


I shall be soon. 


and borne the heavy load ; 


Love, rest, and home ! 


But Christ hath taught thy languid feet to 


Sweet hojje ! 


reach His blest abode: 


Lord, tarry not, but come. 


Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus upon 




his leather's breast. 


Beyond the rising and the setting 


Where the wicked cease from troubling, 


I shall be soon ; 


and the weary are at rest. 


Beyond the calming and the fretting, 




Beyond remembering and forgetting. 


Sin can never taint thee now, nor doubt thy 


I shall be soon. 


faith assail, 


Love, rest, and home ! 


Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ and the 


Sweet hope ! 


Holy Spirit fail : 


Lord, tarry not, but come. 


And there thou'rt sure to meet the good, 




whom on earth thou lovedst best. 


Beyond the gathering and the strowing 


Where the wicked cease from troubling, 


I shall be soon ; 


and the weary are at rest. 


Beyond the ebbing and the flowing, 




Beyond the coming and the going. 


Earth to earth, and dust to dust, the solemn 


I shall be soon. 


])riest hath said; 


Love, rest, and home ! 


So we lay the turf above thee now, and we 


Sweet hope I 


seal thy narrow bed ; 


Lord, tarry not, but come. 



596 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Be^'ond the parting aad the meeting 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the farewell and the greeting, 
Beyond this pulse's fever beating, 
I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home I 
Sweet hope ! 
Lord, tarry not, but come. 

Beyond the frost-chain and the fever 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the rock-waste and the river, 
Beyond the ever and the never, 
I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 
Sweet hope ! 
Lord, tarry not, but come. 

HORATIUS BONAR. 



Address to the Soul. 

Deathless principle, arise ! 
Soar, thou native of the skies ; 
Pearl of price, by Jesus bought. 
To His glorious likeness wrought! 

Go, to shine before His throne; 
Deck His mediatorial crown ; 
Go, His triumphs to adorn ; 
Made for God, to God return ! 

Lo, He beckons from on high ! 
Fearless to His presence fly ! 
Thine the merit of His Blood ; 
Thine the Righteousness of God. 

Angels, joyful to attend. 
Hovering round thy pillow, bend ; 
Wait to catch the signal given, 
And escort thee quick to Heaven. 

Is thy earthly house distrest. 
Willing to retain her guest? 
'Tis not thou, but she, must die; 
Fly, celestial tenant, ily ! 

Burst thy shackles, drop thy clay. 
Sweetly breathe thyself away ; 
Singing, to thy crown remove 
Swift of wing, and fired with love. 

Shudder not to pass the stream ; 
Venture all thy care on Him ; 



Him, whose dying love and power 
Still'd its tossing, hush'd its roar. 

Safe is the expanded wave. 
Gentle as a summer's eve ; 
Not one object of His care 
Ever suii'er'd shipwreck there. 

See the haven full in view; 
Love Divine shall bear thee through ; 
Trust to that propitious gale ; 
Weigh thy anchor, spread thy sail. 

Saints, in glory perfect made. 

Wait thy passage through the shade : 

Ardent for thy coming o'er, 

See, they throng the blissful shore ! 

Mount, their transports to improve; 
Join the longing choir above ; 
Swiftly to their wish be given ; 
Kindle higher joy in Heaven! 

Such the prospects that arise 
To the dying Christian's eyes; 
Such the glorious vista faith 
Opens through the shades of death. 

Augustus Montague Toplady. 



The Dying Christian to his 
Soul. 

Vital spark of heavenly flame, 
Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame ! 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, 
Oh, the pain, the bliss, of dying ! 
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me languish into life ! 

Hark ! they whisper ; angels say. 
Sister Spirit, come away. 
What is this absorbs me quite — 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight. 
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ? 
Tell me, my soul ! can this be death ? 

The world recedes — it disappears ! 
Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring. 
Lend, lend your wings ! I mount, I fly ! 
O Grave ! where is thy victory '? 

Death ! where is thy sting ? 

Ale.xander Pope. 



'PSALMS AyD HYMXS AXD SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



597 



Tbev are All Gone. 

They are all gone into the world of light, 
And I alone sit linfjoring here ! 

Their very memory is lair aud hright, 
And my sad thoughts doth clear. 

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, 
Like stars upon some gloomy grove. 

Or those faint beams in which this hill is 
drest 
Alter the sun's remove. 

I see them walking in an air of glory. 
Whose light dotli trample on my days ; 

My days, which are at best but dull and 
hoary, 
Mere glimmering and decays. 

O holy hope ! and high humility, — 

High as the heavens above ! 
These are your walks, and you have show'd 
them me 

To kindle my cold love. 

Dear, beauteous death, — the jewel of t>.e 
just,- 

Shining nowhere but in the dark I 
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust. 

Could man outlook that mark I 

He that hath found some fledged bird's 
nest may know, 

At first sight, if the bird be flown ; 
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, 

That is to him unknown. 

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams 
Call to the soul when man doth sleep. 

So some strange thoughts transcend our 
wonted themes, 
And into glory peep. 

If a star were confined into a tomb, 

Hercaptive flames must needs burn there J 

But when the hand that lockt her up gives 
room, 
She'll shine through all the sphere. 

O Father of eternal life, and all 

Created glories under Thee ! 
Resume Thy Spirit from this world of thrall 

Into true liberty ! 

Either disperse these mists, which blot and 
fill 
My perspective still as they pa-ss ; 



Or else remove me hence unto that hill 
Where I shall need no gla.s.s. 

HE.VRY VaIUHAN. 



For ever with the Lord. 

For ever with the Lord ! 
Amen ! so let it be! 
Life from the dead is in that word, 
'Tis immortality ! 

Here in the body pent, 
Absent from Him I roam. 
Yet nightly pitch my moving tent 
A day's march nearer home. 

My Father's house on high. 
Home of my soul ! how near, 
At times, to faith's far-seeing eye 
Thy golden gates appear ! 

Ah! then my spirit faints 
To reach the land I love. 
The bright inheritance of saints, 
Jerusalem above! 

Yet clouds will intervene, 
And all my prospect flies; 
Like Noah's dove, I flit between 
Kough seiis and stormy skies. 

Anon the clouds depart, 
The winds and waters cease; 
While sweetly o'er my gladden'd heart 
E.xpands the bow of peace ! 

Beneath its glowing arch. 
Along the hallow'd ground, 
I see cherubic armies march, 
A camp of fire around. 

I hear at morn and even, 
,\t noon and nmlnight hour, 
The choral harmonies of heaven 
Earth's Babel tongues o'erpower. 

Then, then I feel, that He, 
Rcmember'd or forgot. 
The Lord is never far from me, 
Though I perceive Him not. 

Jamks Montuomery. 






598 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



^YHAT ARE THESE IN BRIGHT 
ARRA Y. 

What are these in bright array, 

This innumerable throng, 
Round the altar, night and day, 

Hymning one triumphant song? 
" Worthy is the Lamb, once slain. 

Blessing, honor, glory, power. 
Wisdom, riches, to obtain. 

New dominion every hour." 

These through fiery trials trod; 

These from great affliction came; 
Now, before the Throne, of God, 

Seal'd with His Almighty Name, 
Clad in raiment pure and white, 

Victor-palms in every hand. 
Through their dear Redeemer's might. 

More than conquerors they stand. 

Hunger, thirst, disease unknown, 

On immortal fruits they feed ; 
Them the Lamb amidst the Throne 

Shall to living fountains lead: 
Joy and gladness banish sighs ; 

Perfect love dispels all fear ; 
And for ever from their eyes 

God shall wipe away the tear. 

James Montgomery. 



The Better land. 

" I HEAR thee speak of the better land ; 
Thou call'st its children a happy band ; 
Mother! oh where is that radiant shore — 
Shall we not seek it and weep no more? 
Is it where the flower of the orange 

blows, 
And the fire-flies glance through the 
myrtle boughs?" 
"Not there, not there, my child!" 

" Is it where the feathery palmtrees rise. 
And the date grows ripe under sunny 

skies, 
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering 

seas 
Where fragrant forests perfume the 

breeze. 
And strange, bright birds on their starry 

wings 
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?" 
"Not there, not there, my child!" 



" Is it far away in some region old 
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of 

gold,— 
Where the burning rays of the ruby 

shine. 
And the diamond lights up the secret 

mine. 
And the pearl gleams forth from the 

coral strand, — 
Is it there, sweet mother, that better 

land?" 

" Not there, not there, my child ! 

" Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy I 
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of 

joy, 
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair, — 
Sorrow and death may not enter there : 
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless 

bloom, 
For, beyond the clouds, and beyond the 

tomb. 

It is there, it is there, my child !" 
Felicia Dorothea Remans. 



PSALM LXXXVIL 

Glorious things of thee are spoken, 

Zion, city of our God ; 
He, whose word cannot be broken, 

Form'd thee for His own abode: 
On the Rock of Ages founded. 

What can shake thy sure repose ? 
With salvation's walls surrounded, 

Thou mayst smile at all thy foes. 

See, the streams of living waters, 

Springing from eternal love. 
Well supply thy sons and daughters, 

And all fear of want remove : 
Who can faint, while such a river 

Ever flows their thirst to assuage ; 
Grace, which, like the Lord the giver. 

Never fails from age to age? 

Round each habitation hovering, 

See the cloud and fire appear, 
For a glory and a covering : 

Showing that the Lord is near. 
Thus deriving from their banner 

Light by night, and shade by day, 
Safe they feed upon the manna. 

Which He gives them when they pray. 



'PSALMS AND HYMXS AXD SPIRITUAL SOiWGS." 



599 



Saviour, if of Zion's city 

I, through graft", a member am, 
Let the world deride or pity, 

I will glory in Thy Name ; 
Fading is the worldling's pleasure. 

All his boasted pomp and show; 
Solid joys and lasting treasure 

None but Zion's children know. 

JouN Newton. 



There is a Happy Itaxd. 

There is a happy land, 

Far, far away. 
Where saints in glory stand, 

Bright, bright as day. 
Oh, how they sweetly sing, 
AVorthy is our Saviour King; 
Loud let his praises ring — 

Praise, praise for aye ! 

Come to this happy land — 

Come, come away ; 
Why will ye doubting stand. 

Why still delay ? 
Oh, we shall happy be, 
When, from sin and sorrow free. 
Lord, w& shall live with Thee — 

Blest, blest for aye. 

Bright in that happy land 

Beams every eye : 
Kept by a Father's hand, 

Love cannot die. 
On, then, to glory run ; 
Be a crown and kingdom won ; 
And, bright above the sun. 

Reign, reign for aye. 

Andrkw Yocxo. 



There is a Laxd of Pure 
Delight. 

TiiEHE is a land of pure delight. 
Where saints immortal reign, 

Infinite day excludes the night. 
And ])leasures banish pain. 

There everlasting spring abides, 
And never-withering flowers ; 

Death, like a narrow sea, divides 
This heavenlv land from ours. 



Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood 
Stand dress'd in living green : 

So to the Jews old Canaan stood. 
While Jordan roU'd between. 

But timorous mortals start and shrink 

To cross this narrow sea. 
And linger shivering on the brink, 

And fear to launch away. 

Oh could we make our doubts remove, 
These gloomy doubts that rise. 

And see the Canaan that we love 
Witli unbeclouded eyes, — 

Could we but climb where Moses stood. 

And view the landscape o'er, — 
Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold 
flood. 
Should fright us from the shore. 

Isaac Watts. 



There is a Dwelling- Place 
Above. 

There is a dwelling-place above ; 
Thither, to meet the God of love. 

The poor in spirit go ; 
There is a paradise of rest; 
For contrite hearts and souls distrest 

Its streams of comfort flow. 

There is a goodly heritage. 

Where earthly pa.ssions cea.se to rage ; 

The meek that haven gain : 
There is a board, where they who pine, 
Hungry, athirst, for grace divine. 

May feast, nor crave again. 

There is a voice to mercy true ; 
To them who mercy's path pursue 

That voice shall bliss impart ; 
There is a sight from man conceal'd ; 
That sight, the face of God reveal'd, 

Shall bless the pure in heart. 

There is a name, in heaven bestow'd ; 
That name, which hails them sons of God, 

The friends of peace shall know : 
There is a kingdom in the sky, 
Where they shall reign with (lod on high, 

Who serve Him best below. 



600 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. 



Lord ! be it mine like them to choose 
The better part, like them to use 

The means Thy love hath given ! 
Be holiness my aim on earth, 
That death be welcomed as a birth 

To life and bliss in Heaven ! 

Richard Manx. 



Psalm LXXXIV. 

Pleasant are Thy courts above, 
In the land of light and love ; 
Pleasant are Thy courts below, 
In this land of sin and woe. 
Oh, my spirit longs and faints 
For the converse of Thy saints. 
For the brightness of Thy face. 
For Thy fulness, God of grace ! 

Happy birds that sing and fly 
Round Thy altars, O Most High ! 
Happier souls that find a rest 
In a Heavenly Father's breast ! 
Like the wandering dove, that found 
No repose on earth around, 
They can to their ark repair, 
And enjoy it ever there. 

Happy souls ! their praises flow 
Even in this vale of woe ; 
Waters in the desert rise, 
]Manna feeds them from the skies : 
On they go from strength to strength, 
Till they reach Thy throne at length. 
At Thy feet adoring fall, 
Who has led them safe through all. 

Lord ! be mine this prize to win ! 
Guide me through a world of sin ! 
Keep me by Thy saving grace ; 
Give me at Thy side a place : 
Sun and Shield alike Thou art; 
Guide and guard my erring heart! 
Grace and glory flow from Thee ; 
Shower, oh shower them, Lord, on me ! 
Henky Francis Lyte. 



The Hearts Home. 

Haek ! hark ! my soul ! angelic songs are 
swelling 
O'er earth's green fields and ocean's 
wave-beat shore. 



How sweet the truth those blessed strains 
are telling 
Of that new life, when sin shall be no 
more ! 

Darker than night life's shadows fall 
around us, 
And like benighted men we miss our 
mark : 
God hides Himself, and grace has scarcely 
found us. 
Ere death finds out his victims in the 
dark. 

Onward we go, for still we hear them sing- 
ing, 
" Come, weary souls, for Jesus bids you 
come ;" 
And through the dark, its echoes sweetly 
ringing. 
The music of the Gospel leads us home. 

Far, far away, like bell at evening pealing. 
The voice of Jesus sounds o'er land and 
sea. 
And laden souls by thousands meekly 
stealing. 
Kind Shepherd, turn their weary steps 
to Thee. 

Rest comes at last, though life be long and 
dreary. 
The day must dawn, and darksome night 
be past, 
All journeys end in welcomes to the weary. 
And heaven, the heart's true home, will 
come at last. 

Frederick William Fabek. 



The Hea JUT'S Longing. 

O Paradise ! O Paradise ! 

Who doth not crave for rest? 
Who would not seek the hajipy land, 
Where they that loved are blest ? 
Where loyal hearts and true 

Stand ever in the light, 
All rapture through and through. 
In God's most holy sight. 

O Paradise I O Paradise ! 

'Tis weary waiting here : 
We long to be where Jesus is, 

To feel, to see Him near ; 



Where loyal hearts and true 
Staiul ever in tlic li^'lif, 

All rapture through and tlirougli. 
In God's most holy sight. 

O Paradise ! O Paradise ! 

We want to sin no more ; 
We want to be as pure on earth 
As on tliy spotless shore ; 
Where loyal hearts and true 

Stand ever in the light, 
All rapture through and through, 
In God's most holy sight. 

Frederick William Fabkr. 



St. AGNES' Eve. 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon : 
My breath to heaven like vapor goes : 

May my soul follow soon ! 
The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snowy sward, 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord : 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As arc the frosty skies, 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soil'd and 
dark, 

To yonder shining ground ; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round ; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My s|)irit before Thee ; 
So in mine cartlily house I am, 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, Lord ! and far, 

Thro' all yon starlight keen. 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lift-s me to the golden doors ; 

The flashes come and go ; 
All heaven burst-s her starry floors. 

And strews her lights below. 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

Koll back, and far within 
For me tlie Ileaveidy Bridegroom waits, 

To make mc pure of sin. 



The sabbaths of Eternity, 
One salibath deeji and wide — 

A light upon the shining sea — 
The Bridegroom with his bride ! 

.\lfred Tk.v.nvson. 



Tell me, ye W/xged IVixds. 

Tell me, ye wingfed winds. 

That round my pathway roar. 
Do ye not know some spot 

Where mortals weep no more? 
Some lone and pleasant dell, 

Some valley in the west, 
AVhere, free from toil and pain, 
The weary soul may rest? 
The loud wind dwindled to a whisper 

low, 
And sigh'd for pity as it auswer'd, " No." 

Tell me, thou mighty deep, 

AVhose billows round me play, 
Know'st thou some favor'd spot, 

Some island far away. 
Where weary man may find 

The bliss for which he sighs, — 
Where sorrow never lives. 
And friendship never dies? 
The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow, 
Stopp'd for a while, and sigh'd to answer, 
" No." 

And thou, serenest moon, 

That with such lovely face 
Dost look upon the earth. 

Asleep in night's embrace, 
Tell me, in all thy round 

Hitst thou not seen some spot 
Where miserable man 
May find a happier lot? 
Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe. 
And a voice, sweet but sad, responded, 
" No." 

Tell me, my secret soul, 

Oh, tell me, Hope and Faith, 
Is there no resting-place 

From sorrow, sin, and death? 
Is there no happy spot 

Where mortals may be blossM, 
Where grief may find a balm. 

And weariness a rest? 



602 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mor- 
tals given, 
Waved their bright wings, and whispcr'd, 

" Yes, in heaven." 

Charles Mackay. 



The New Jerusalem; 

Or, the Soul's Breathing after the 
Heavenly Country. 

"SiDce Christ's fair truth needs no man's art, 
Take this rude soug in better part." 

O MOTHER dear, Jerusalem, 

When shall I come to thee ? 
When shall my sorrows have an end — 

Thy joys when shall I see '? 
O happy harbor of God's saints ! 

O sweet and pleasant soil ! 
In tlice no sorrows can be found — 

No grief, no care, no toil. 

In thee no sickness is at all. 

No hurt, nor any sore ; 
There is no death nor ugly night, 

But life for evermore. 
No dimming cloud o'ershadows thee. 

No cloud nor darksome night. 
But every soul shines as the sun — 

For God himself gives light. 

There lust and lucre cannot dwell. 

There envy bears no sway ; 
There is no hunger, thirst, nor heat. 

But pleasures every way. 
Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! 

Would God I were in thee ! 
Oh ! that my sorrows had an end. 

Thy joys that I might see ! 

No pains, no pangs, no grieving grief. 

No woeful night is there ; 
No sigh, no sob, no cry is heard — 

No well-away, no fear. 
Jerusalem the city is 

Of God our King alone ; 
The Lamb of God, the light thereof. 

Sits there upon His throne. 

O God ! that I Jerusalem 
With speed may go behold ! 

For why? the pleasures there abound 
Which here cannot be told. 

Thy turrets and thy pinnacles 
With carbuncles do shine — 



With jasper, pearl, and chrysolite, 
Surpassing pure and fine. 

Thy houses are of ivory. 

Thy windows crystal clear. 
Thy streets are laid with beaten gold — 

There angels do appear. 
Thy walls are made of precious stone. 

Thy bulwarks diamond square. 
Thy gates are made of orient pearl — 

O God ! if I were there ! 

Within thy gates nothing can come 

That is not passing clean ; 
No spider's web, no dirt, nor dust, 

No filth may there be seen. 
Jehovah, Lord, now come away. 

And end my griefs and plaints — 
Take me to Thy Jerusalem, 

And place me with Thy saints ! 

Who there are crown'd with glory great. 

And see God face to face, 
They triumph still, and aye rejoice — 

Most happy is their case. 
But we that are in banishment 

Continually do moan ; 
We sigh, we mourn, we sob, we weep — 

Perpetually we groan. 

Our sweetness mixfed is with gall. 

Our pleasures are but pain. 
Our joys not worth the looking on — 

Our sorrows aye remain. 
But there they live in such delight. 

Such jjleasure and such play. 
That unto thera a thousand years 

Seems but as yesterday. 

O my sweet home, Jerusalem ! 

Thy joys when shall I see — 
The King sitting upon His throne, 

And thy felicity ? 
Thy vineyards, and thy orchards, 

So wonderfully rare, 
Are furnish'd with all kinds of fruit. 

Most beautifully fair. 

Thy gardens and thy goodly walks 

Continually are green ; 
There grow such sweet and pleasant 
flowers 

As nowhere else are seen. 
There cinnamon and sugar grow. 

There nard and balm abound ; 



•PSALMS AND HYMXS AND SPIRITUAL SOXOS." 



603 



No tongue can tell, no heart can think, 
The pleasures there are found. 

There nectar and ambrosia spring — 

There music's ever sweet ; 
There many a fair and dainty thing 

Is trod down under feet. 
Quite through the streets, with pleasant 
sound. 

The flood of life doth flow ; 
Upon the banks, on every side. 

The trees of life do grow. 

Those trees each month yield ripen'd 
fruit— 

For evermore they spring; 
And all the nations of the world 

To thee their honors bring. 
Jerusalem, God's dwelling-place. 

Full sore I long to see ; 
Oil ! that my .sorrows had an end, 

That I might dwell in thee ! 

Tljere David stands, witli liarp in 
hand, 

As master of the choir ; 
A thousand times that man were blest 

That might his music hear. 
There Mary sings " Magnificat," 

With tunes surpassing sweet ; 
And all the virgins bear their part, 

Singing about her feet. 

" To Deuni '' doth St. Ambrose sing, 

St. Austin doth the like ; 
Old Simeon and Zacharie 

Have not their songs to seek. 
There Magdalene hath left her moan, 

And cheerfully doth sing, 
With all blest .saints whose harmony 

Through every street doth ring. 

Jerusalem I Jerusalem ! 

Thy joys fain wonld I see; 
Come quickly, Lord, and end my grief. 

And take me home to Thee ; 
Oh ! paint Thy name on my forehead. 

And take me hence away, 
That I m:iy dwell with Thee in bliss. 

And sing Thy praises aye. 

Jerusalem, the happy home — 
Jehovah's throne on high I 



sacred city, queen, and wife 
Of Chri.st eternally ! 

comely queen with glory clad. 
With honor and degree. 

All fair thou art, exceeding bright — 
No spot there is in thee ! 

1 long to see Jerusalem, 
The comfort of us all ; 

For thou art fair and beautiful — 

None ill can thee befall. 
In thee, Jerusalem, I say. 

No darkness dare appear — 
No night, no shade, no winter foul — 

No time doth alter there. 

No candle needs, no moon to shine, 

No glittering star to light ; 
For Christ, the King of righteousness. 

For ever shineth bright. 
A Lamb unspotted, white and pure 

To Thee doth stand in lieu 
Of light — so great the glory is 

Thine heavenly King to view. 

He is the King of kings, be.set 

In midst His servants' sight ; 
And they, II is hapi>y household all, 

Do serve Him day and night. 
There, there the choir of angels sing — 

There the supernal sort 
Of citizens, which hence are rid 

From dangers deep, do sport. 

There be the prudent prophets all, 

The apostles si.\ and six, 
The glori(ms martyrs in a row, 

And confessors betwixt. 
There doth the crew of righteous men 

And matrons all consist — 
Young men and maids that here on 
earth 

Their pleasures did resist. 

The sheep and lambs, that hardly 
'scaped 

The snare of death and hell. 
Triumph in joy eternally. 

Whereof no tongue can tell ; 
And though the glory of each one 

Doth differ in degree. 
Yet is the joy of all alike 

And common, as we see 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



There love and charity do reign, 

And Christ is all in all, 
Whom they most perfectly behold 

In joy celestial. 
They love, they praise — they praise, they 
love ; 

They " Holy, holy," cry ; 
They neither toil, nor faint, nor end, 

But laud continually. 

Oh ! happy thousand times were I, 

If, after wretched days, 
I might with listening ears conceive 

Those heavenly songs of praise, 
Which to the eternal King are sung 

By happy wights above, 
By sav^d souls and angels sweet. 

Who love the God of love. 

Oh ! passing happy were my state, 

Might I be worthy found 
To wait upon my God and King, 

His praises there to sound ; 
And to enjoy my Christ above, 

His fiivor and His grace, 
According to His promise made, 

Which here I interlace : 

" O Father dear," quoth he, " let them 
Which Thou hast put of old 
To me, be there where lo ! I am — 

Thy glory to behold ; 
Which I with Thee before the world 

Was made in perfect wise, 
Have had — from whence the fountain 
great 
Of glory doth arise." 

Again : " If any man will serve 

Thee, let him follow Me ; 
For where I am, he there, right sure, 

Then shall My servant be." 
And still : " If any man loves Me, 

Him loves My Father dear, 
Whom I do love — to him Myself 

In glory will ajjpear." 

Lord, take away my misery, 

That then I may be bold 
With Thee, in Thy Jerusalem, 

Thy glory to behold ; 
And so in Zion see my King, 

My love, my Lord, my all — 



Where now as in a glass I see. 
There face to face I shall. 

Oh ! blessed are the pure in heart — 

Their Sovereign they shall see ; 
O ye most happy, heavenly wights. 

Which of God's household be ! 
O Lord, with speed dissolve my bands, 

These gins and fetters strong ; 
For I have dwelt within the tents 

Of Kedar over long. 

Yet search me, Lord, and find me out ! 

Fetch me Thy fold unto, 
That all Thy angels may rejoice, 

While all' Thy will I do. 
O mother dear ! Jerusalem ! 

When shall I come to thee ? 
When shall my sorrows have an end, 

Thy joys when shall I see? 

Yet once again I pray Thee, Lord, 

To quit me from all strife, 
That to Thy hill I may attain. 

And dwell there all my life — 
With cherubims and seraphims 

And holy souls of men. 
To sing Thy praise, O God of hosts ! 

For ever and amen ! 

Author Unknown. 

iHE Celestial Country. 

The world is very evil ; 

The times are waxing late: 
Be sober and keep vigil; 

The Judge is at the gate : 
The Judge that comes in mercy, 

The Judge that comes with might 
To terminate the evil, 

To diadem the riglit. 
When the just and gentle Monarch 

Shall summon from the tomb, 
Let man, the guilty, tremble, 

For Man, the God, shall doom. 
Arise, arise, good Christian ! 

Let right to wrong succeed ; 
Let penitential sorrow 

To heavenly gladness lead ; 
To the light that hath no evening. 

That knows nor moon nor sun, 
The light so new and golden, 

The light that is but one. 



Ami wlii'ii tlie Sole-Begotten 

Shall reiulor up once more 
The kingdom to the Father 

Whose own it was before, — 
Then glory yet unheard of 

Shall shed abroad its ray, 
Resolving all enigmas, 

An endless Sabbath-day. 
Then, then from his 0|)pressor3 

The Hebrew shall go free, 
And celebrate in triumph 

The year of Jubilee ; 
And the sunlit land that recks not 

Of temiiest nor of fight, 
Shall fold within its bosom 

Each happy Israelite : 
The home of fadeless splendor. 

Of flowers that fear no thorn, 
Where they shall dwell as children. 

Who here as exiles mourn. 
Midst power that knows no limit. 

And wisdom free from bound, 
The Beatific vision 

Shall glad the saints around : 
The peace of all the faithful, 

The calm of all the blest, 
Inviolate, unvaried, 

Divinest, sweetest, best. 
Yes, peace ! for war is needless, — 

Yes, calm ! for storm is past, — 
And goal from finish'd labor. 

And anchorage at last. 
That ])eace — liut who may claim it ? 

The guileless in their way, 
AVho keep the ranks of battle, 

Who mean the thing they say: 
The peace that is for heaven, 

And shall be for the earth : 
The palace that re-echoes 

With festal song and mirth ; 
The garden, breathing spices. 

The paradise on high ; 
Grace beautified to glory. 

Unceasing minstrelsy. 
There nothing can be feeble. 

There none can ever mourn, 
There nothing is divided. 

There nothing can be torn: 
'Tis fury, ill, and scandal, 

'Tis peaceless peace below ; 
Peace, endle.s3, strifeless, ageless, 

The halls of Sion know : 



O happy, holy portion, 

Refection for the blest ; 
True vision of true beauty. 

Sweet cure of all distrest! 
Strive, man, to win that glory ; 

Toil, man, to gain that light ; 
Send hope before to grasp it. 

Till hope be lost in sight : 
Till Jesus gives the portion 

Those blessed souls to fill, 
The insatiate, yet satisfied, 

The full, yet craving still. 
That fulness and that craving 

Alike arc free from pain, 
Where thou, midst heavenly citizens, 

A home like theirs shalt gain. 
Here is the warlike trumpet ; 

There, life set free from sin ; 
When to the last Great Supper 

The faithful shall come in : 
When the heavenly net is laden 

With fishes numy and great; 
So glorious in its fulness, 

Yet so inviolate : 
And the perfect from the shatter'd, 

And the fall'ii from them that stand. 
And the sheep-flock from the goat-herd 

Shall ]iart on either hand ! 
And these shall pass to torment. 

And those shall triumph, then ; 
The new peculiar nation. 

Blest number of blest men. 
Jerusalem demands them : 

They paid the price on earth. 
And now shall reap the harvest 

In blissfulness and mirth : 
The glorious holy people, 

Who evermore relied 
Upon their Chief and Father, 

The King, the Crucified: 
The sacred ransom'd number 

Now bright with endless sheen. 
Who made the Cross their watchword 

Of Jesus Nazarene : 
Who, fed with heavenly nectar. 

Where soul-like odors play. 
Draw out the endless leisure 

Of that long vernal day: 
And through the .sacred lilies. 

And flowers on every side. 
The happy dear-bought jjcople 

Go wandering far and wide. 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Their breasts are filled with gladness, 

Tlieir mouths are tuned to praise, 
What time, now safe for ever. 

On former sins they gaze : 
The fouler was the error, 

The sadder was the fall, 
The ampler are the praises 

Of Ilim who pardon'd all. 
Their one and only anthem. 

The fulness of His love. 
Who gives instead of torment 

Eternal joys above ; 
Instead of torment, glory ; 

Instead of death, that life 
Wherewith your happy country, 

True Israelites, is rife. 



Brief life is here our portion. 

Brief sorrow, short-lived care, 
The life that knows no ending. 

The tearless life, is there. 
O happy retribution ! 

Short toil, eternal rest, 
For mortals and for sinners 

A mansion with the blest ! 
That we should look, poor wand'rers. 

To have our home on high ! 
That worms should seek for dwellings 

Beyond the starry sky ! 
To all one happy guerdon 

Of one celestial grace ; 
For all, for all, who mourn their fall. 

Is one eternal place ; 
And martyrdom hath roses 

Upon that heavenly ground, 
And white and virgin lilies 

For virgin-souls abound. 
There grief is turn'd to pleasure, 

Such pleasure as below 
No human voice can utter, 

No human heart can know; 
And after fleshly scandal. 

And after this world's night. 
And after storm and whirlwind. 

Is calm, and joy, and light. 
And now we fight the battle, 

But then shall wear the crown 
Of full and everlasting 

And passionless renown ; 
And now we watch and struggle, 

And now we live in hope, 



And Sion, in her anguish, 

With Babylon must cope; 
But He whom now we trust in 

Shall then be seen and known. 
And they that know and see Him 

Shall have Him for their own. 
The miserable pleasures 

Of the body shall decay ; 
The bland and flattering struggles 

Of the flesli shall pass away. 
And none shall there be jealous, 

And none shall there contend ; 
Fraud, clamor, guile — what say I? 

All ill, all ill shall end! 
And there is David's Fountain, 

And life in fullest glow. 
And there the light is golden, 

And milk and honey flow; 
The light that hath no evening. 

The health that hath no sore, 
The life that hath no ending, 

But lasteth evermore. 



There Jesus shall embrace us, 

There Jesus be embraced, — 
That spirit's food and sunshine 

Whence earthly love is chased. 
Amidst the happy chorus. 

A place, however low. 
Shall show Him us, and showing. 

Shall satiate evermo. 
By hope we struggle onward. 

While here we must be fed 
By milk, as tender infants. 

But there by Living Bread. 
The night was full of terror. 

The morn is bright with gladness: 
The Cross becomes our harbor. 

And we triumph after sadness. 
And Jesus to His true ones 

Brings trophies fair to see, 
And Jesus shall be loved, and 

Beheld in Galilee ; 
Beheld, when morn shall waken. 

And shadows shall decay. 
And each true-hearted servant 

Shall shine as doth the day ; 
And every ear shall hear it,^ 

Behold thy King's array. 
Behold thy God in beauty. 

The Law hath past away ! 



I 



"PSALMS AKD HVMSS AXD SPIRITUAL SONGS." 607 




Yes I God my King and Portion, 


Dear fountain of refreshment 


In fulness of His grace, 


To pilgrims far away ! 




We then shall see for ever. 


Ujioii the Rock of Ages 




And worship face to face. 


They raise thy holy tower : 




Then Jacob into Israel, 


Thine is the victor's laurel. 




From earthlier self estranged, 


And thine the golden dower: 




And Leah into Rachel, 


Thou fccl'st in mystic rapture. 




For ever shall be changed : 


O Bride that know'st no guile. 




Then all the halls of Sion 


The Prince's sweetest kisses. 




For aye shall he complete. 


The Prince's loveliest smile; 




And, in the Land of Beauty, 


Unfading lilies, bracelets 




All things of beauty meet. 


Of living pearl thine own ; 
The Lamb is ever near thee. 
The Bridegroom thine alone; 




For thee, oh dear dear Country ! 

Jline eyes their vigils keep; 
For very love, beholding 

Thy hap])y name, they weep : 
The mention of thy glory 

Is unction to the breast. 


The Crown is He to guerdon. 
The Buckler to protect. 

And lie Himself the Mansion, 
And He the Architect. 

The only art thou ncedest, 
Tiianksgiving for thy lot: 




And medicine in sickness. 
And love, and life, and rest. 

one, onely Mansion ! 
Paradise of Joy! 

AVhere tears are ever banish'd. 
And smiles have no alloy; 


The only joy thou seekest. 
The Life where Death is not: 

And all thine endless leisure 
In sweetest accents sings. 

The ill that was thy merit, — 
The wealth that is thy King's I 




Beside thy living waters 






All plants are, great and small. 






The cedar of the forest. 


Jerusalem the golden. 




The hyssop of the wall: 


With milk and honey blest. 




AVith jaspers glow thy bulwarks; 


Beneath thy contemplation 




Thy streets with emeralds blaze ; 


Sink heart and voice op[ircss'd : 




The sardius and the topaz 


I know not, oh I know not. 




Unite in thee their rays: 


What social joys are there; 




Thine ageless walls ere bonded 


What radiancy of glory. 




With amethyst unpriced: 


What light beyond compare! 




Thy Saints build up its fabric. 


And when I fain would sing them. 




And the corner-stone is Christ. 


My spirit fails and faints; 




The Cross is all thy splendor, 


And vainly would it image 




The Crucified thy praise: 


The a.s,sembly of the Saints. 




His laud and benediction 


They stand, those halls of Sion, 




Thy ransom'd people raise : 


Conjubilant with song. 




Jesus, the Gem of Beauty, 


And bright with many an angel, 




True God and Man, they sing: 


And all the martyr throng: 




The never-failing Garden, 


The Prince is ever in them ; 




The ever-golden Ring: 


The daylight is serene ; 




The Door, the Pledge, the Husband, 


The pa.stures of the Blessed 




The Guardian of his Court: 


Are deck'd in glorious sheen. 




The Day-star of Salvation, 


There is the Throne of David,— 




The Porter and the Port. 


.\nd there, from care released. 




Thou hast no shore, fair ocean! 


The song of them that triumph. 




Thou hast no time, bright day ! 


The shout of them that feast ; 





608 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 




And they who, with their Leader, 


Whose everlasting music 


Have conquer'd iu tlie fight. 


Is the glorious decachord ! 




For ever and for ever 


And there the band of Prophets 




Are clad in robes of white I 


United praise ascribes. 
And there the twelvefold chorus 




holy, placid harp-notes 


Of Israel's ransom'd tribes : 




Of that eternal hymn ! 


The lily-beds of virgins. 




sacred, sweet refection, 


The roses' martyr-glow. 




And peace of Seraphim ! 


The cohort of the Fathers 




thirst for ever ardent. 


Who kept the faith below. 




Yet evermore content ! 


And there the Sole-Begotten 




true peculiar vision 


Is Lord in regal state ; 




Of God cunctipotent ! 


He, Judah's mystic Lion, 




Ye know the many mansions 


He, Lamb Immaculate. 




For many a glorious name. 


fields that know no sorrow ! 




And divers retributions 


state that fears no strife ! 




That divers merits claim : 


princely bow'rs ! land of flow'rs ! 




For midst the constellations 


realm and home of life ! 




That deck our earthly sky. 






This star than that is brighter, — 


Jerusalem, exulting 




And so it is on high. 


On that securest shore, 
I hope thee, wish thee, sing thee, 




Jerusalem the glorious ! 


And love thee evermore ! 




The glory of the Elect ! 


I ask not for my merit : 




dear and future vision 


I seek not to deny 




That eager hearts expect : 


My merit is destruction, 




Even now by faith I see thee : 


A child of wrath am I : 




Even here thy walls discern : 


But yet with Faith I venture 




To thee my thoughts are kindled. 


And Hope upon my way ; 




And strive and pant and yearn : 


For those perennial guerdons 




Jerusalem the onely, 


I labor night and day. 




That look'st from heaven below, 


The best and dearest Father 




In thee is all my glory ; 


Who made me, and who saved, 




In me is all my woe : 


Bore with me in defilement. 




And though my body may not. 


And from defilement laved ; 




My spirit seeks thee fain. 


When in His strength I struggle. 




Till flesh and earth return me 


For very joy I leap, 




To earth and flesh again. 


When in my sin I totter. 




Oh none can tell thy bulwarks. 


I weep, or try to weep ; 




How gloriously they rise : 


And grace, sweet grace celestial. 




Oh none can tell thy capitals 


Shall all its love display. 




Of beautiful device : 


And David's royal Fountain 




Thy loveliness oppresses 


Purge every sin away. 




All human thought and heart : 






And none, Peace, Sion, 


mine, my golden Sion ! 




Can sing thee as thou art. 


lovelier far than gold! 




New mansion of new people, 


With laurel-girt battalions. 




Whom God's own love and light 


And safe victorious fold ; 




Promote, increase, make holy, 


sweet and blessed country, 




Identify, unite. 


Shall I ever see thy face ? 




Thou City of the Angels ! 


sweet and blessed country. 




Thou City of the Lord 1 


Shall I ever win thy grace? 





"PSALMS AKD HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 609 


I have the hope within me 


Quantus tremor est futurus, 


To comfort ami to bless ! 


Quando Judex est venturus. 


Shall 1 ever win the prize itself? 


Cuncta stride discu.ssurus. 


Oh, tell me, tell me. Yes ! 






Tuba miruin spargens sonum 


Exult, dust and ashes ! 


Per sepulcra regionum. 


The Lord shall be thy part ; 


Coget omnes ante thronum. 


His only. His for ever, 




Tliou shah bo, and thou art ! 


Mors stupebit, et natura. 


Exult, dust and ashes ! 


Quuin resurget creatura, 


The Lord shall be thy part ; 


Judicanti responsura. 


His only, His for ever. 




Thou shalt be, and thou art ! 


Lil)('r scriptus proferetur, 


Bersabd ok Cluxy. 


In quo totum continetur, 


(Translation of John Masos Neale.) 


Unde mundus judicetur. 




Judex ergo cum sedebit. 


Christ will Gather in His 


Quid(]uid latet, apparebit : ' 


Own. 


Nil inultum romanebit. 


Christ will gather in His own 


Quid sum, miser 1 tunc dicturus, 


To the place where He is gone, 


Queni patronum rogaturus. 


Where their heart and treasure lie, 


Quum vix Justus sit seourus? 


Where our life is hid on high. 






Rex tremendte majestatis, 


Day by day the voice saith, " Come, 


Qui .salvandos salvas gratis, 


Enter this eternal home;" 


Salva me, fons piotatis ! 


Asking not if we can spare 




This dear soul its suiumons there. 


Recordare, Jesu pie, 




Quod sum causa tux vix ; 


Had He ask'd us, well we know 




AVc should crj', " Oh spare this blow I" 


Ne me perdas ilia die ! 


Yes, with streaming tears should pray. 


Quierens me, sedisti lassus, 


" Lord, we love him ; let him stay." 


Ki'demisti, crucem passus : 


But the Lord doth naught amiss. 


Tantus labor noii sit cassus. 


And, since He hath ordered this. 


.luste Judex ultionis. 




We have naught to do but still 






Donum fac remissionis 


Rest in silence on His will. 


Ante diem rationis. 


Many a heart no longer here, 




Ah ! was all too inly dear: 
Yet, O Love, 'tis Thou dost call, 


Ingemisco tanquam reus, 


Culpfl rubet vultus mens, 


Thou wilt be our all in all. 


.Supplicanti parce, Deus 1 


Author Cskkown. 






Qui Mariam absolvisti, 


.o. 


Et latronem exaudisti, 


Dies Irje. 


Mihi quoque spem dedisti. 


Dies Irw, Dies Ilia, dies trlbulationis et nngiisllw, 
dies calainitalis ct miserisc, dies tenel)raruiu ot call- 


Preces mere non sunt dignse. 


ginis, dies nebula; ot turbinls, dies tuba; et clangoris 


Sed Tu bonus fac benigne 


super civilatis munitas, el super angulos exolsus :— 


Ne perenni cremer igne 1 


Sophonia, i. 15, 16. 




Dies Ira, Dies Ilia ! 


Inter oves locum pnesta. 


Solvet Bseclum in favilla, 


Et ab hicdis me sequestra, 


Teste David cum Sybilia. 

39 

. 


Statuens in parte dextra. 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. 



Confutatis maledictis, 
Flanimis acribus addictis, 
Voca me cum benedictis ! 

Oro supplex et acclinis, 
Cor contritum quasi cinis, 
Gere curam mei finis. 

Lacrymosa dies illft ! 
Qua resurget ex favillft. 
Judicandus homo reus ; 
Huic ergo parce, Deus ! 

Thomas de Celano. 



Dies Irm. 

Translation of William J. Irons. 

Day of wratli ! O day of mourning ! 
See! once more tlie Cross returning, 
Heaven and earth in ashes burning I 

Oil wliat fear man's bosom rendeth 
When from Heaven the Judge descendeth, 
On whose sentence all dependeth ! 

Wondrous sound the Trumpet flingeth, 
Through earth's sepulchres it ringeth, 
All before the throne it bringeth ! 

Death is struck, and Nature quaking, 

All creation is awaking. 

To its Judge an answer making ! 

Lo, the Book, exactly worded ! 
Wherein all hath been recorded ; 
Thence shall judgment be awarded. 

When the Judge His seat attaineth, 
And each hidden deed arraigneth, 
Nothing unavenged remaiiieth. 

What shall I, frail man, be pleading, 
Who for me be interceding. 
When the just are mercy needing? 

King of Majesty tremendous. 
Who dost free salvation send us, 
Fount of pity ! then befriend us ! 

Think ! kind Jesu, my salvation 
Caused Thy wondrous incarnation ; 
Leave me not to reprobation! 

Faint and weary Thou hast sought me. 
On the Cross of suffering bought me, 
Shall such grace be vainly brought me? 



Righteous Judge of retribution. 

Grant Thy gift of absolution, 

Ere that reck'ning day's conclusion ! 

Guilty, now I pour my moaning. 
All my shame with anguish owning ; 
Spare, God, Thy suppliant groaning ! 

Thou the sinful woman .savedst. 
Thou the dying thief forgavest ; 
And to me a hope vouchsafest I 

Worthless are my prayers and sighing, 
Yet, good Lord, in grace complying. 
Rescue me i'rom fires undying ! 

With Thy favor'd sheep, oh place me ! 
Nor among the goats abase me ; 
But to Thy right hand upraise me. 

While the wicked are confounded, 
Doom'd to flames of woe unbounded. 
Call me ! with Thy saints surrounded. 

Low I kneel with heart submission ; 
See, like ashes, my contrition ; 
Help me, in my last condition ! 

Ah ! that Day of tears and mourning ! 
From the dust of earth returning, 
Man for judgment must prepare him ; 
Spare, O God, in mercy spare him ! 

Lord, who didst our souls redeem. 
Grant a blessed Requiem ! Amen. 



DIES IRM. 

Paraphrase of Sir Walter Scott. 

That day of wrath, that dreadful day. 
When heaven and earth shall pass away, 
What power shall be the sinner's stay ? 
How shall he meet that dreadful d.iy ? 

When, shrivelling like a parchfed scroll. 
The flaming heavens together roll ; 
When louder yet, and yet more dread. 
Swells the high trump that wakes the dead ; 

Oh, on that day, that wrathful day, 
W^hen man to judgment wakes from clay, 
Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay. 
Though heaven and earth shall pass away ! 



'PSALMS AND HYMNS AND SPIRITUAL SONGS." 



Oil 



Dies Irm. 

Translation of Joiis A. Dix. 

Day of vengeance, without morrow! 
Earth shall end in flame and sorrow, 
As from saint and seer we borrow. 

Ah ! what terror is impending, 
When the Judge is seen descending, 
And each secret veil is rending ! 

To the throne, the trumpet sounding, 
Through the sepulchres resounding, 
Summons all, with voice astounding. 

Death and Nature, 'mazed, are quaking, 
When, the grave's longslumber breaking, 
Man to judgment is awaking. 

On the written volume's pages 
Life is shown in all its stages, — 
Judgment-record of past ages ! 

Sits the Judge, the raised arraigning. 
Darkest mysteries explaining. 
Nothing unavenged remaining. 

What shall I then say, unfriended. 

By no advocate attended. 

When the just are scarce defended? 

King of majesty tremendous. 
By Thy saving grace defend us. 
Fount of pity, safety send us ! 

Holy Jesus, meek, forbearing, 

For my sins the death-crown wearing. 

Save me, in that day, despairing. 

Worn and weary, Thou hast sought me, 
By Thy cross and passion bought me, — 
Spare the hope Thy labors brought me. 

Righteous Judge of retribution. 
Give. oh. give me absolution 
Ere the day of dissolution. 

As a guilty culprit groaning, 
Flush'd my face, my errors owning. 
Hear, O God, my spirit's moaning! 

Thou to Mary gav'st remission, 
Heard'st the dying thief's petition, 
Bad'st me hope in my contrition. 



In my prayers no grace discerning. 
Yet on me Thy favor turning. 
Save my soul from endless burning. 

Give me, when thy sheep confiding 
Thou art from the goats dividing, 
On Thy riglit a ])lace abiding ! 

When the wicked are confounded. 
And by bitter flames surrounded. 
Be my joyful pardon sounded. 

Prostrate, all my guilt discerning. 
Heart as though to ashes turning. 
Save, oh, save me from the burning! 

Day of weeping, when from ashes 
Man shall rise 'mid lightning-flashes, 
Guilty, trembling with contrition, 
Save him. Father, from perdition ! 



Lo'. HE Comes, with Clouds 

DESCENDING! 

Lo! He conies, with clouds descending! 

Hark ! the trump of God is blown, 
And th' Archangel's voice attending 

Makes the high procession known : 
Sons of Adam ! 

Rise, and stand before your God ! 

Crowns and sceptres fall before Him, 
Kings and conquerors own His sway ; 

Haughtiest monarchs now adore Him, 
While they see His lightnings play : 

How triumphant 
Is the world's Redeemer now ! 

Hear His voice, as mighty thunder 

Sounding in eternal roar. 
While its echo rends in sunder 

Rocks and mountains, sea and shore : 
Hark ! His accents 

Through th' unfathom'd deep resound ! 

" Come, Lord Jesus ! Oh come quickly !" 
Oft has pray'd the mourning Bride : 

"Lo!" He answers, "I come quickly!" 
Who Thy coming may abide? 

.Ml who loved Him, 
All who long'd to see His day. 



612 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


" Come," lie saith, " ye heirs of glory ; 


Hosts angelic all adore Him 


Come, ye purchase of my blood ; 


Circling round His orient seat ; 


Claim the Kingdom now before you, 


Elders cast their crowns before Him, 


Rise, and fill the mount of God, 


Fall and worship at His feet ; 


Fix'd for ever 


how holy 


Where the Lamb on Sion stands." 


And how reverend is Thy Name ! 


See ! ten thousand burning seraphs 


Hail, Thou Alpha and Omega ! 


From their thrones as lightnings fly; 


First and Last, of all alone ! 


"Take," they cry, "your seats above us, 


He that is, and was, and shall be, 


Nearest Him that rules the sky !" 


And beside whom there is none ! 


Patient sullerers, 


Take the Glory, 


How rewarded are ye now ! 


Great Eternal Three in One ! 




Thomas Olivers. 


Now their trials all are ended : 




Now the dubious warfare's o'er ; 


•<•• 


Joy no more with sorrow blended. 
They shall sigh and weep no more ; 




LORD, DlSillSS US WITH THY 


God for ever 


BLESSING. 


Wipes the tear from every eye. 


Lord, dismiss us with Thy blessing. 


Through His passion all victorious 


Fill our hearts with joy and peace ; 


Now they drink immortal wine ; 


Let us each, Thy love possessing, 


In Emmanuel's likeness glorious 


Triumph in redeeming grace ; 


As the tirmanent they shine ; 


Oh refresh us. 


Shine for ever. 


Travelling through this wilderness. 


With the bright and morning Star. 


Thanks we give, and adoration. 


Shout aloud, ye ethereal choirs ! 


For Thy gospel's joyful sound ; 


Triumph in Jehovah's praise! 


May the fruit of Thy salvation 


Kindle all your heavenly fires. 


In our hearts and lives abound : 


All your palms of victory raise ! 


May Thy presence 


Shout His conquests, 


With us evermore be found. 


Shout salvation to the Lamb ! 






So, whene'er the signal's given 


In full triumph see them marching 


Us from earth to call away. 


Through the gates of massy light, 


Borne on angels' wings to heaven. 


While the City walls are sparkling 


Glad the summons to obey. 


With meridian glory bright ; 


May we ever 


Oh how lovely 


Reign with Christ in endless day. 


Are the dwellings of the Lamb ! 


Walter Shirley. 



PART XI. 



Moral and Didactic Poetry 




1 



Moral and Didactic Poetry. 



Life. 

The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man 

Less than a span : 
In his conception wretched, from the womb, 

So to the tomb ; 
Curst from his cradle, and brought up to 
years 

With cares and fears. 
Who then to frail mortality shall trust. 
But limns on water, or but writes in dust. 

Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest, 

What life is best ? 
Courts are but only superficial schools 

To dandle fools : 
The rural parts are turn'd into a den 

Of savage men : 
A nd Where's a city from foul vice so free, 
But may be term'd the worst of all the 
three ? 

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed. 

Or pains his head : 
Those that live single, take it for a curse, 

Or do things worse : 
Some would have children : those that 
have them, moan 

Or wish them gone : 
What is it, then, to have, or have no wife. 
But single thraldom, or a double strife? 

Our own affection still at hiiiue to please 

Is a disease : 
To cross the seas to any foreign soil. 

Peril and toil : 
Wars with their noise affright us ; when 
they cease, 

We are worse in peace ; — 
What then renmins, but that we still 

should cry 
For being born, or, being born, to die? 

Lord Bacox. 



Life. 

Life ! I know not what thou art. 
But know that thou and I must part ; 
And when, or how, or where we met 
I own to me's a secret yet. 

Life ! we've been long together. 

Through pleasant and through cloudy 

weather ; 
'Tis hard to part when friends arc dear — 
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; 

— Then steal away, give little warning. 
Choose thine own time ; 
Say not Good-Night, — but in some brighter 

clime 
Bid me Good-Morning. 

ASSA L^TITIA BaBBACLD. 



My Psalm. 

I MOURN' no more my vanish'd years: 

Beneath a tender rain. 
An April rain of smiles and tears, 

My heart is young again. 

The west winds blow, and, singing low, 
I hear the glad streams run ; 

The windows of my soul I throw 
Wide open to the sun. 

No longer forward nor behind 

I look in hope or fear; 
But, grateful, take the good I find, 

The best of now and here. 

I plough no more a desert land. 

To harvest weed and tare ; 
The manna dropping from God's hand 

Rebukes my painful care. 



I break my pilgrim staff, - 
Aside the toiling oar ; 



-I lay 



615 



616 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



The angel sought so far away 
I welcome at my door. 

The airs of spring may never play 

Among the ripening corn, 
Nor freshness of the flowers of May 

Blow tlirough the autumn morn ; 

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look 
Through fringfed lids to heaven, 

And the pale aster in the brook 
Shall see its image given ; — 

The woods shall wear their robes of praise. 

The south wind softly sigh, 
And sweet, calm days, in golden haze 

Melt down the amber sky. 



Not less shall manly deed and word 

Rebuke an age of wrong ; 
The graven flowers that wreathe 
sword 

Make not the blade less strong. 



the 



But smiting hands shall learn to heal, — 

To build as to destroy ; 
Nor less my heart for others feel 

That I the more enjoy. 

All as God wills, who wisely heeds 

To give or to withhold. 
And knoweth more of all my needs 

Than all my prayers have told ! 

Enough that blessings undeserved 
Have mark'd my erring track; — 

That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved, 
His chastening turn'd me back ; — 

That more and more a Providence 

Of love is understood, 
Making the springs of time and sense 

Sweet with eternal good ; — 

That death seems but a cover'd way 

Which opens into light. 
Wherein no blinded child can stray 

Beyond the Father's sight ; — 

That care and trial seem at last, 
Through Memory's sunset air, 

Like mountain-ranges overpast. 
In purple distance fair ; — 



That all the jarring notes of life 
Seem blending in a psalm. 

And all the angles of its strife 
Slow rounding into calm. 

And so the shadows fall apart, 
And so the west winds play ; 

And all the windows of my heart 
I open to the day. 

John Geeenleaf Whittier. 



Sonnet. 

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going. 

Crumbling away beneath our very feet ; 
Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing 

In current unperceived, because so fleet; 
Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in 
sowing — 
But tares, self-sown, have overtopp'd the 
wheat ; 
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in 
blowing — 
And still, oh still, their dying breath is 
sweet ; 
And sweet is youth, although it hath be- 
reft us 
Of that which made our childhood 
sweeter still ; 
And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us 

A nearer good to cure an older ill ; 
And sweet are all things, when we learn to 

prize them 
Not for their sake, but His who grants 
them or denies them ! 

AUBKEY DE VERE. 



The Stream of life. 

O STREAM descending to the sea. 
Thy mossy banks between. 

The flow'rets blow, the grasses grow, 
The leafy trees are green. 

In garden-plots the children play, 
The fields the laborers till. 

And houses stand on either hand. 
And thou descendest still. 

life descending into death. 

Our waking eyes behold 
Parent and friend thy lapse attend. 

Companions young and old. 



MORAL AXD DIDACTIC POETRY. 617 


Strong purposes our minds possess, 


Footprints that perhaps another, 


Our hearts affections fill ; 


Sailing o'er life's solemn main 


We toil and earn, we seek and learn, 


A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother, 


And thou descendest still. 


Seeing, shall take heart again. 


end to which our currents tend, 


Let us, then, be up and doing. 


Inevitable sea 


With a heart for any fate ; 


To which wc flow, what do we know, 


Still achieving, still pursuing. 


What shall we guess of thee ? 


Learn to labor and to wait. 




Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


A roar we hear upon thy shore. 




As we our course fulfil ; 


■-' 


Scarce we divine a sun will shine 


Life. 


And be above us still. 




ABTIIUR IlUGU Clough. 


We are born ; we laugh ; we weep ; 




We love ; we droop ; we die ! 




Ah I wherefore do we laugh or weep ? 


A Psalm of Life. 


Why do we live or die ? 




Who knows that secret deep ? 
Alas, not I ! 


What tue Heart of the Young Man 


SAID to the Psalmist. 




Tell me not in mournful numbers, 


Why doth the violet spring 


" Life is but an empty dream !" 


Unseen by human eye? 


For the soul is dead that slumbers. 


Why do the radiant seasons bring 


And things are not what they seem. 


Sweet thoughts that quickly fly ? 


* 


Why do our fond hearts cling 


Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 


To things that die ? 


And the grave is not its goal ; 




" Dust thou art, to dust rcturnest," 


We toil — through pain and wrong; 


Was not spoken of the soul. 


We fight — and fly ; 




We love ; we lose ; and then, ere long. 


Kot enjoyment, and not sorrow, 


Stone-dead we He. 


Is our destined end or way ; 


life ! is all thy song 


But to act, that each to-morrow 


"Endure and— die?" 


Finds us farther than to-day. 


Bryan Wallrr Proctee 




(Barry Coeswall.) 


Art is long, and time is fleeting. 




And our heart-*, thoufih stout and brave. 


'" 


Still, like muffled drums, are beating 


THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. 


Funeral marches to the grave. 




" Be Cometh forth like a flower, and Is cut down."— 


In the world's broad field of battle. 


Job xlT. 2. 


In the bivouac of life, 


Behold, 


Be not like dumb, driven cattle, 


IIow short a span 


Be a hero in the strife I 


Was long enough of old 




To measure out the life of man ; 


Trust no future, howe'er pleasant ! 


In those well-temper'd days! his time 


Let the dead past bury its dead ! 


was then 


Act — act in the living present ! 


Survey'd, cast up, and found but three- 


Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 


score years and ten. 


Lives of great nieu all remind us 


Ala^.' 


We can make our lives sublime, 


And what is that? 


And, departing, leave behind us 


They come, and slide, and pass, 


Footprints on the sands of time- 


Before my pen can tell thee what. 



618 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



The posts of time are swift, which hav- 
ing run 
Their seven short stages o'er, their short- 
lived task is done. 

Our days 
Begun we lend 
To sleep, to antic plays 
And toys, until the first stage end : 
Twelve waning moons, twice five times 
told, we give 
To unrecover'd loss : we rather breathe 
than live. 

We spend 
A ten years' breath 
Before we apprehend 
What 'tis to live, or fear a death : 
Our childish dreams are fiU'd with 
painted joys, 
Which please our sense a while, and wak- 
ing, prove but toys. 

Hoio mill, 
How wretched, is 
Poor man, that doth remain 
A slave to such a state as this 1 
His days are short, at longest ; few at 
most ; 
They are but bad, at best ; yet lavish'd out, 
or lost. 

T!iey be 
The secret springs 
That make our minutes flee 
On wheels more swift than eagles' 
wings : 
Our life's a clock, and every gasp of 
breath 
Breathes forth a warning grief, till Time 
shall strike a death. 

How soon 
Our new-born light 
Attains to full-aged noon ! 
And this, how soon to gray-hair'd 
night ! 
We spring, we bud, we blossom, and we 
blast, 
Ere we can count our days, our days they 
flee so fast. 



They end 
When scarce begun ; 
And ere we apprehend 
That we begin to live, our life is 
done : 
Man, count thy days ; and, if they fly 
too fast 
For thy dull thoughts to count, count 
every day the last. 

Francis Qdarles. 



Stajvzas. 

My life is like the summer rose 

That opens to the morning sky, 
But, ere the shades of evening close, 
Is scatter'd on the ground — to die I 
Yet on the rose's humble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
As if she wept the waste to see- 
But none shall weep a tear for me 1 

My life is like the autumn leaf 

That trembles in the moon's pale ray ; 
Its hold is frail — its date is brief. 

Restless — and soon to pass away ! 
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, 
The parent tree will mourn its shade, 
The winds bewail the leafless tree — 
But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 

My life is like the prints which feet 
Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; 

Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 
All trace will vanish from the sand ; 

Yet, as if grieving to efface 

All vestige of the human race. 

On that lone shore loud moans the sea — 

But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 

Richard Henry Wilde. 



The Common Lot. 

Once, in the flight of ages past. 
There liv'd a man ; and who was he ? 

Mortal ! howe'er thy lot be cast. 
That man resembled thee. 

Unknown the region of his birth, 
The land in which he died unknown ; 

His name has perish'd from the earth, 
This truth survives alone : 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



619 



That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear, 
Alternate triumph'd in his breast ; 

His bliss and woe, — a smile, a tear ! 
Oblivion hides the rest. 

He suffer'd, — but his pangs are o'er ; 

Enjoy'd, — but his delights are fled ; 
Had friends, — his friends are now no 
more ; 

And foes, — his foes are dead. 

He saw whatever thou hast seen ; 

Encounter'd all that troubles thee : 
He was — whatever thou hast been ; 

He is what thou shalt be. 

The rolling seasons, day and night. 
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and 
main, 

Erewhile his portion, life, and light, 
To him exist in vain. 

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye 
Tliat once their shades and glory threw. 

Have left in yonder silent sky 
No vestige where they flew. 

The annals of the human race, 
Their ruins, since the world began, 

Of him afford no other trace 
Than this, — there lived a man ! 

James Montgomery. 



The Three Warnings. 

The tree of deepest root is found 
Least willing still to quit the ground : 
'Twas therefore said by ancient sages, 

That love of life increased with years 
So much, that in our later stages. 
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, 

The greatest love of life appears. 
This great affection to believe. 
Which all confess, but few perceive, 
If old a.ssertions can't prevail, — 
He pleased to hear a modern tale. 

When sports went round, and all were 

On neighbor Dodson's wedding-day. 
Death call'd aside tlie jocund groom 
With him into another room. 
And looking grave — " You must," says he, 
" t^uit your sweet bride, and come with 
me." 



" With you ! and quit my Susan's side ! 
With you !" the haple.ss husband cried ; 
" Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard ! 
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared : 
My thoughts on other matters go: 
This is my wedding-day, you know." 

What more he urged, I have not heard ; 
His reasons could not well be stronger ; 

So Death the poor delinquent spared. 
And left to live a little longer. 
Yet calling up a serious look — 
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke — 
" Neiglibor," he said, "' farewell I Xo more 
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour; 
And farther, to avoid all blame 
Of cruelty upon my name. 
To give you time for preparation. 
And fit you for your future station, 
Three several warnings you shall have. 
Before you're summon'd to the grave. 
Willing for once I'll quit my prey, 

And grant a kind reprieve. 
In hopes you'll have no more to say, 
But, when I call again this way. 

Well pleased the world will leave." 
To these conditions both consented. 
And parted perfectly contented. 

What next the hero of our tale befell. 
How long he lived, how wise, how well. 
How roundly he pursued his course, 
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his 
horse. 

The willing Muse shall tell. 
He ciiatfer'd then, he bought, he sold, 
Nor once perceived his growing old, 

Nor thought of Death as near ; 
His friends not false, his wife no shrew, 
Many liis gains, his children few, 

He pa.-'s'd liis hours in peace. 
But while he view'd his wealth increase, 
While thus along Life's dusty road 
The beaten track content he trod. 
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, 
Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares, 

Brought on his eightieth year. 
.Vnd now, one night, in musing mood 

As all alone he sate, 
Th' unwelcome messenger of Fate 

Once more before him stood. 
Half kill'd with anger and surprise, 
" So soon return'd I" old Dodson cries. 

"So soon, d'ye call it'?" Death replies : 



620 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



" Surely, my friend, you're but in jest 1 

Since I was here before 
'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, 

And you are now fourscore." 

"So much the worse," the clown re- 
join'd; 
"To spare the aged would be kind: 
However, see your search be legal ; 
And your authority — is't regal? 
Else you are come on a fool's errand, 
With but a secretary's warrant. 
Besides, you promised me Three Warn- 
ings, 
Which I have look'd for nights and morn- 
ings; 
But for that loss of time and ease, 
I can recover damages." 

" I know," cries Death, " that at the 
best 
I seldom am a welcome guest; 
But don't be captious, friend, at least : 
I little thought you'd still be able 
To stump about your farm and stable ; 
Your years have run to a great length ; 
I wish you joy, though, of your strength!" 

" Hold," says the farmer, " not so fasti 
I have been lame these four years past." 

"And no great wonder," Death re- 
plies: 
"However, you still keep your eyes ; 
And sure, to see one's loves and friends. 
For legs and arms would make amends." 

" Perhaps," says Dod-son, " so it might, 
But latterly I've lost my sight." 

"This is a shocking tale, 'tis true. 
But still there's comfort left for you : 
Each strives your sadness to amuse ; 
I warrant you hear all the news." 

" iTiere's none," cries he ; "and if there 
were, 
I'm grown so deaf I could not hear." 
" Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoin'd, 

" These are unwarrantable yearnings ; 
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind. 

You've had your three sufficient warn- 
ings ; 
So, come along, no more we'll part ;" 
He said, and touch'd him with his dart. 
And now old Dodson, turning pale, 
Yields to his fate — so ends my tale. 

Hester Thrale Piozzi. 



NOW AND Afterwards. 

" Two hands upon the breast, and labor is past." 
Russian Pkoverb. 

" Two hands upon the breast, 

And labor's done ; 
Two pale feet cross'd in rest, — 

The race is won ; 
Two eyes with coin-weights shut. 

And all tears cease ; 
Two lips where grief is mute. 

Anger at peace :" 
So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot ; 
God in His kindness answereth not. 

" Two hands to work addrest 

Aye for His praise ; 
Two feet that nevier rest 

Walking His ways ; 
Two eyes that look above 
Through all their tears ; 
Two lips still breathing love. 
Not wrath, nor fears :" 
So pray we afterwards, low on our knees ; 
Pardon those erring prayers ! Father, hear 
these I 

Dinah Maria Mulock Ceaik. 



TOMMY'S DEAD. 

You may give over plough, boys. 

You may take the gear to the stead, 
All the sweat o' your brow, boys, 

Will never get beer and bread. 
The seed's waste, I know, boys. 

There's not a blade will grow, boys, 
'Tis cropp'd out, I trow, boys. 

And Tommy's dead. 

Send the colt to fair, boys. 

He's going blind, as I said, 
My old eyes can't bear, boys. 

To see him in the shed ; 
The cow's dry and spare, boys. 
She's neither here nor there, boys, 

I doubt she's badly bred ; 
Stop the mill to-morn, boys. 
There'll be no more corn, boys, 

Neither white nor red ; 
There's no sign of grass, boys. 
You may sell the goat and the ass, boys, 
The land's not what it was, boys. 

And the beasts must be fed ; 



MORAL ASD DIDACTIC POETRY. 



621 



You may turn Peg away, boys, 

You may pay oil" old Xed, 
We've had a dull day, boys, 

And Tommy's dead. 

Move my chair on the floor, boys, 

Let me turn my head ; 
She's standinf? there in the door, boj-s. 

Your sister Winifred ! 
Take her away from me, boys. 

Your sister Winifred ! 
Move me round in my place, boys. 

Let me turn my head, 
Take her away from me, boys. 

As she lay on her death-bed, 
The bones of her thin face, boys, 

As she lay on her death-bod ! 
I don't know how it be, boys. 

When all's done and said. 
But I see her looking at me, boys, 

Wherever I turn my head ; 
Out of the big oak tree, boys. 

Out of the garden bed, 
And the lily as pale as she, boys. 

And the rose that used to be red. 

There's something not right, boys. 

But I think it's not in my head, 
I've kept my precious sight, boys, — 

The Lord be hallowfed ! 
Outside and in 

The ground is cold to my tread, 
The hills are wizen and thin, 

The sky is shrivell'd and shred. 
The liedges down by the loan 
I can count them bone by bone. 

The leaves are open and spread. 
But I see the teeth of the land. 
And hands like a dead man's hand. 

And the eyes of a dead man's head. 
There's nothing but cinders and sand. 

The rat and the mouse have fed. 
And the summer's empty and cold ; 
Over valley and wold 

AV^herever I turn my head 
There's a mildew and a mould, 

The sun's going out overhead, 
And I'm very old. 

And Tommy's dead. 

What am I staying for, boys? 
You're all born and bred. 



'Tis fifty years and more, boys. 

Since wife and I were wed, 
And she's gone before, boys. 

And Tommy's dead. 

She was always sweet, boys. 

Upon his curly head. 
She knew she'd never see't, boys, 

And she stole off to bed ; 
I've been sitting up alone, boys. 

For he'd come home, be said. 
But it's time I was gone, boys. 

For Tommy's dead. 

Put the shutters up, boys. 

Bring out the beer and bread, 
Make haste and sup, boys. 

For my eyes are heavy as lead ; 
There's something wrong i' the cup, boys. 

There's something ill wi' the bread, 
I don't care to sup, boys. 

And Tommy's dead. 

I'm not right, I doubt, boys, 

I've such a sleepy head, 
I shall nevermore be stout, boys. 

You may carry me to bed. 
What are you about, boys ? 

The prayers are all said. 
The fire's raked out, boj's. 

And Tommy's dead. 

The stairs are too steep, boys. 
You may carry me to the head. 

The night's dark and deep, boys, 
Your mother's long in bed, 

'Tis time to go to sleep, boys. 
And Tommy's dead. 

I'm not used to kiss, boys. 
You may shake my hand instead. 

All things go amiss, boys. 

You may lay me where she is, boys, 
And I'll rest my old head : 

'T is a poor world, this, boys, 
And Tommy's dead. 

SiDKET DOBEU. 



Thk b a Roy's Last Banquet. 

O'er a low couch the setting sun 
Had thrown its latest ray. 

Where in his last strong agony 
A dying warrior lay. 



The stern, old Baron Rudiger, 
Whose frame had ne'er been bent 

By wasting pain, till time and toil 
Its iron strength had spent. 

" They come around me here, and say 

My days of life are o'er, 
That I shall mount my noble steed 

And lead my band no more ; 
They come, and to my beard they dare 

To tell me now, that I, 
Their own liege lord and master born, — 

That I — ha ! ha ! — must die. 

" And what is Death ? I've dared him 
oft 

Before the Paynim spear, — 
Think ye he's enter'd at my gate. 

Has come to seek me here ? 
I've met him, faced him, scorn'd him, 

When the lijrht was raging hot, — 
I'll try his might — I'll brave his power ; 

Defy, and fear him not. 

" Ho ! sound the tocsin from my tower, — 

And fire the culverin, — 
Bid each retainer arm with speed, — 

Call every vassal in ; 
Up with my banner on the wall, — 

The banquet-board prepare, — 
Throw wide the portal of my hall, 

And bring my armor there !" 

A hundred hands were busy then, — 

The banquet forth was spread, — 
And rung the heavy oaken floor 

With many a martial tread, 
While from the rich, dark tracery 

Along the vaulted wall. 
Lights gleam'd on harness, plume, and 
spear. 

O'er the proud old Gothic hall. 

Fast hurrying through the outer gate. 

The mail'd retainers pour'd. 
On through the portal's frowning arch. 

And throng'd around the board. 
While at its head, within his dark, 

Carved oaken chair of state, 
Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger, 

With girded falchion, sate. 



" Fill every beaker up, my men. 

Pour forth the cheering wine; 
There's life and strength in every drop, — 

Thanksgiving to the vine ! 
Are ye all there, my vassals true ? — 

Mine eyes are waxing dim ; — 
Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, 

Each goblet to the brim. 

" Ye're there, but yet I see ye not. 

Draw forth each trusty sword, — 
And let me hear your faithful steel 

Clash once around my board : 
I hear it faintly : — Louder yet ! — 

What clogs my heavy breath ? 
Up all, — and shout for Rudiger, 

' Defiance unto Death !' " 

Bowl rang to bowl, — steel clang'd to steel 

— And rose a deafening cry 
That made the torches flare around, 

And shook the flags on high : — 
" Ho ! cravens, do ye fear him? — 

Slaves, traitors ! have ye flown ? 
Ho ! cowards, have ye left me 

To meet him here alone? 

" But /defy him: — let him comel" 

Down rang the massy cup, 
While from its sheath the ready blade 

Came flashing half-way up; 
And, with the black and heavy plumes 

Scarce trembling on his head. 
There, in his dark, carved, o.aken chair, 

Old Rudiger sat, dead. 

Albert G. Greene. 



The Sleep. 

" He giveth Ilis beloved sleep." — Psalm c.xxvii. 2. 

Or all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar 

Along the Psalmist's music deep. 
Now tell me if that any is 
For gift or grace surpassing this, — 

" He giveth His beloved sleep " ? 

What would we give to our beloved? 
The hero's heart to be unmoved, 

Tlie poet's star-tuned harp to sweep, 
The patriot's voice to teach and rouse, 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



623 



The monarch's crown to light the brows? 
" He givcth His beloved sleep." 

What do wo pivo to our holovcd? 
A little faith all undisproved, 

A little du3t to overweep, 
And bitter memories to make 
The whole earth blasted for our sake. 

" Ho givcth His beloved sleep." 

" Pleep soft, beloved !" we sometimes say, 
But have no tunc to charm away 

Sad dreams that through the eyelids 
creep. 
But never doleful dream again 
Shall break the happy slumber when 

'' He givcth His beloved .sleep." 

earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
• O men, with wailing in your voices! 
O dclv6d gold, the wallers heap ! 

strife, O curse, that o'er it fall ! 
God strikes a silence through you all, 

And " givcth His beloved sleep." 

His dews drop mutely on the hill, 
His cloud above it sailcth still, 

Though on its slope men sow and reap. 
More softly than the dew is shed. 
Or cloud is floated overhead, 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

Ay, men may wonder while they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man, 

Confirm'd in such a rest to keep ; 
liut angels say — and through the word 

1 think their happy smile is heard — 
" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

For me, my heart, that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show. 

That sees through tears the mummers 
leap. 
Would now its weary vision close, 
Would childlike on His love repose 

Who " giveth His beloved sleep !" 

.4nd, friends, dear friends, when it .shall be 
That tliis low breath is gone from me, 

And routid my bier ye eonie to weep. 
Let one, most loving of you all. 
Say, " Xot a tear must o'er her fall, — 

He givcth Uis beloved .sleep." 

EUZADETU BaHBETT BBOWKINO. 



DEATH'S Final Conquest. 

The glories of our blood and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
There is no armor against fate ; 
Death lays his icy hand on kings ; 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down. 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill, 
But their strong nerves at last must yield; 
They tame but one another still ; 
Early or late 
They stoop to fate. 
And must give up their murmuring 

breath 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

The garlands wither on your brow ; 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; 
Upon Death's purple altar now 
See where the victor-victim bleeds ; 
Your heads mu<t come 
To the cold tomb ; 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. 
James Shirley. 



The Last Conqueror. 

Victorious men of earth, no more 

Proclaim how wide your empires are ; 
Though you bind in every shore 
And your triumphs reach as far 

As night or day. 
Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey. 
And mingle with forgotten ashes, when 
Death calls ye to the crowd of common 
men. 

Devouring Famine, Plague, and War, 

Each able to undo mankind. 
Death's servile emissaries are ; 

Nor to these alone confined. 
He hath at w-ill 

More quaint and subtle wMys to kill ; 

A smile or kiss, as he will use the art, 

Shall have the cunning skill to break a 

heart. 

Jambs Suiri-kv. 



624 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Thanatopsis. 

To him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she 

speaks 
A various language; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
Into his darker musings, with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When 

thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow 

house, 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at 

heart; — 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To Nature's teachings, while from all 

around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of 

air, — 
Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and 

thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold 

ground, 
Where thy pale form was laid, with many 

tears. 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourish'd thee, 

shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again. 
And, lost each human trace, surrenderingup 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix for ever with the elements. 
To be a brother to the insensible rock, 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude 

swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. 

The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce 

thy mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst thou 

wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie 

down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with 

kings, 



The powerful of the earth — the wise, the 

good. 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The. hills 
Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun; the 

vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
The venerable woods ; rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green ; and, pour'd 

round all. 
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of 

heaven. 
Are shining on the .sad abodes of death. 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that 

tread ^ 

The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. — Take the 

wings 
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness. 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no 

sound 
Save his own dashings — yet the dead are 

there : 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them 

down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign there 

alone. 
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou with- 
draw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure ? All that 

breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will 

laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of 

care 
Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall 

leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and 

shall come, 
And make their bed with thee. As the 

long train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 
The youth in life's green spring, and he 

who goes 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



625 



In the full strength of years, matron and 

maid, 
The spceeliless babe, and the jrray-headod 

man, — 
Shall one by one be gather'd to thy side. 
By those who in their turn shall follow 

them. 

So live, tliat when thy summons comes 

to join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall 

take 
ilis chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at 

night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustain'd and 

soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, ai)|)roach thy 

grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his 

couch 

About him, and lies down to pleasant 

dreams. 

William Culles Bryant. 



]Vii£y Coldness Wraps this 
Suffering Clay. 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay. 

Ah, whither strays the immortal mind? 
It cannot die, it cannot stay, 

But leaves its darken'd dust behind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 

By steps each planet's heavenly way? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes, that all survey? 

Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 

A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
.Vll, all in earth or skies display'd. 

Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
Each fainter trace that memory holds 

So darkly of departed years, 
In one broad glance the soul beholds, 

And all that was at once appears. 

Before creation peojded earth, 

Its eye shall roll through chaos back; 

And where the farthest heaven had birth, 
The spirit trace its rising track. 

And where the future mars or makes, 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
40 



While sun is quench'd or system breaks, 
Fi.\'d in its own eternity. 

Above or love, hope, hate, or fear. 
It lives all passionless and pure : 

An age shall fleet like earthly year; 
Its years as moments shall endure. 

Away, away, witlioiit a wing, 
O'er all, through all, its thoughts .shall 

fly- 

A nameless and eternal thing. 
Forgetting what it was to die. 

Lord Byron. 

A Death-bed. 

Hek suffering ended with the day ; 

Yet lived she at its close. 
And breathed the long, long night away, 

In statue-like repose. 

But when the sun, in all his state. 

Illumed the eastern skies. 
She pass'd through glory's morning-gate, 

And walk'd in Paradise ! 

James Aldricu. 

The Deathbed. 

We watch'd her breathing through the 
night, 

Her breathing soft and low. 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seem'd to speak. 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 

Our fears our hopes belied — 
We thought her dying when she slept. 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came dim and sad 

And chill with early showers. 

Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 

Another morn than ours. 

Thomas Hood. 

Coronach. 

He is gone on the mountain. 

He is lost to the forest, 
Like a summer-dried fountain. 

When our need was the sorest. 



626 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



The font, reappearing, 

From the raindrojis shall borrow. 
But to us comes no cheering, 

To Duncan no morrow ! 

The band of the reaper 

Takes the ears that are boary, 
But the voice of the weeper 

Wails manhood in glory. 
The autumn winds, rushing, 

Waft the leaves that are serest ; 
But our flower was in flushing 

.When blighting was nearest. 

Fleet foot on the correi. 

Sage counsel in cumber, 
Bed hand in the foray. 

How sound is thy slumber ! 
Like the dew on the mountain, 

Like the foam on the river, 
Like the bubble on the fountain. 

Thou art gone, and for ever ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



The KNIGHT'S Tomb. 

Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kel- 

lyn? 
Where may the grave of that good man 

be?— 
By the side of a spring, on the breast of 

Helvellyn, 
Under the twigs of a young birch tree ! 
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear. 
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the 

year. 
And whistled and roar'd in the winter 

alone. 
Is gone, — and the birch in its stead is 

grown. — 
The knight's bones are dust. 
And his good sword rust ; — 
His soul is with the saints, I trust. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



The Voiceless. 

We count the broken lyres that rest 
Where the sweet wailingsingers slumber, 

But o'er their silent sister's breast 
The wild-flowers who will stoop to num- 
ber? 



A few can touch the magic string, 

And noisy Fame is proud to win 
them : — 

Alas for those that never sing. 

But die with all their music in them ! 

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone 

Whose song has told their hearts' sad 
story,— 
Weep for the voiceless, who have known 

The cross without the crown of glory ! 
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 

O'er Sappho'& memory-haunted billow, 
But where the glistening night-dews weep 

On nameless sorrow's churchyard pil- 
low. 

O hearts that break and give no sign 

Save whitening lip and fiiding tresses, 
Till Death pours out his cordial wine 

Slow-dropp'd from Misery's crushing 
presses, — 
If singing breath or echoing chord 

To every hidden pang were given. 
What endless melodies were pour'd. 

As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven ! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



MAN'S MORTALITY. 

Like as the damask rose you see, 

Or like the blossom on the tree. 

Or like the dainty flower in May, 

Or like the morning of the day. 

Or like the sun, or like the shade. 

Or like the gourd which Jonas had, — 

E'en such is man ; — whose thread is 

spun. 
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. — 

The rose withers, the blossom blasteth. 

The flower fades, the morning hasteth. 

The sun sets, the shadow flies. 

The gourd consumes, — and man he dies ! 

Like to the grass that's newly sprung. 
Or like a tale that's new begun. 
Or like the bird that's here to-day, 
Or like the pearlfed dew of May, 
Or like an hour, or like a span. 
Or like the singing of a swan, — 
E'en such is man ;— who lives by breath, 
Is here, now there, in life and death.— 



i 



MORAL AM) DIDACTIC POETRY. 627 

1 


The grass withers, the tale is ended, 


The peasant whose lot was to sow and to 


The bird is flown, the dew's ascendtd. 


reap, 


The hour is short, the span is long. 


The herdsman who climb'd with his goats 


The swan's near death, — man's life is done ! 


to the steep, 


Simon Wastell. 


The beggar who wander'd in search of his 




bread. 


Off nv/r snouLD the Spirit of 


Have faded away like the grass that we 
tread. 


MORTAL BE PROUDt 


On, why should the spirit of mortal bo 


The saint who enjoy'd the communion of 


proud ? 


heaven, 


Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying 


The sinner who dared to remain unfor- 


cloud. 


given. 


A flash of the lightning, a break of the 


The wise and the foolish, the guilty and 


wave. 


just. 


He passeth from life to his rest in the 


Have quietly mingled their bones in the 


grave. 


dust. 


The leaves of the oak and the willow shall 


So the multitude goes, like the flower and 


fade. 


the weed, 


Be seatter'd around and together be laid ; 


That wither away to let others succeed ; 


And tiic young and the old, and the low 


So the multitude comes, even those we be- 


and tlie high. 


hold, 


Shall moulder to dust and together shall 


To repeat every tale that hath often been 


lie. 


told. 


The child that a mother attended and 


For we are the same things our fathers 


loved. 


have been ; 


The mother that infant's affection who 


We see the same sights that our fathers 


proved. 


have seen, — 


The husband that mother and infant who 


We drink the same stream, and we feel the 


blcss'd, — 


same sun. 


Each, all, are away to their dwellings of 


And run the same course that our fathers 


rest. 


have run. 


The mai<l on whose cheek, on whose brow, 


The thoughts we arc thinking our fathers 


ill whose eye, 


would think ; 


Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs 


From the death we are shrinking from. 


are by ; 


they too would shrink ; 


And the memory of those who have loved 


To the life we are clinging to, they too 


her and praised, 


would cling ; 


Are alike from tlie minds of the living 


But it speeds from the earth like a bird on 


erased. 


the wing. 


The hand of the king that the sceptre hath 


They loved, but their storj- we cannot un- 


borne. 


fold ; 


The brow of the priest that the mitre hath 


They scorn'd, but the heart of the haughty 


worn, 


is cold ; 


The eye of the sage, and the heart of the 


They grieved, but no wail from their slum- 


brave. 


bers will come ; 


Are hi<iden and lost in the depths of the 


They joy 'd, but the voice of their gladness 


grave. 


is dumb. 



628 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



They died, — ay ! they died; and we things I As I lay in my dream ; yet was it a chime 



that are now, 

Who walk on the turf that lies over their 
brow, 

Who make in their dwellings a transient 
abode. 

Meet the changes they met on their pil- 
grimage road. 

Yea, hope and despondence, and pleasure 

and pain, 
Ai'e mingled together in sunshine and 

rain ; 
And the smile and the tear, the song and 

the dirge. 
Still follow each other, like surge upon 

surge. 

'Tis the twink of an eye, 'tis the draught 

of a breath. 
From the blossom of health to the paleness 

of death. 
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the 

shroud, — 

Oh why should the spirit of mortal be 

proud ? 

William Knox. 

Pausing Away. 

Was it the chime of a tiny bell 
That came so sweet to my dreaming ear, 

Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell 
That he winds, on the beach, so mellow 
and clear. 

When the winds and the waves lie to- 
gether asleep. 

And the Moon and the Fairy are watching 
the deep, 

She dispensing her silvery light. 

And he his notes as silvery quite, 

While the boatman listens and ships his 
oar, 

To catch the music that comes from the 
shore ? 

Hark ! the notes on my ear that play 

Are set to words ; as they float, they say, 
" Passing away ! passing away !" 

But no ; it was not a fairy's shell, 
Blown on the beach, so mellow and 
clear ; 

Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell. 
Striking the hour, that fill'd my ear 



That told of the flow of the stream of 

time. 
For a beautiful clock from the ceiling 

hung, 
And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, 

swung 
(As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring 
That hangs in his cage, a canary-bird 

swing) ; 
And she held to her bosom a budding 

bouquet. 
And, as she enjoy'd it, she seem'd to say, 
" Passing away ! passing away !" 

Oh how bright were the wheels, that told 
Of the lapse of time, as they moved 

round slow ; 
And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial 

of gold, 
Seem'd to point to the girl below. 
And lo ! she had changed: in a few short 

hours 
Her bouquet had become a garland of 

flowers. 
That she held in her outstretch'd hands, 

and flung 
This way and that, as she, dancing, swung 
In the fulness of grace and of womanly 

pride. 
That told me she soon was to be a bride ; 
Yet then, when expecting her happiest 

day. 
In the same sweet voice I heard her say, 
" Passing away ! passing away !" 

While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a 
shade 
Of thought or care stole softly over. 
Like that by a cloud in a summer's day 
made. 
Looking down on a field of blossoming 
clover. 
The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its 

flush 
Had something lost of its brilliant blush ; 
And the light in her eye, and the light on 
the wheels. 
That march'd so calmly round above her. 
Was a little dimm'd, — as when Evening 
steals 
Upon Noon's hot face. Y'et one couldn't 
but love her. 



MORAL AXD DIDACTIC POETRY. 



629 



For she look'd like a mother whose first 

babe lay 
Rock'd on her breast, as she swung all day ; 
And she seem'd, in the same silver tone, 
to say, 
" Passing away ! passing away !" 

While yet I look'd, what a change there 

came ! 
Her eye was qucnch'd, and her cheek 

was wan; 
Stooping and staff'd was her withcr'd 

frame, 
Yet just as busily swung she on ; 
The garland beneath her had fallen to 

dust ; 
The wheels above her were eaten with 

rust; 
The hands, that over the dial swept, 
Grew crooked and tarnish'd, but on they 

kept, 
And still there came that silver tone 
From the shrivell'd lips of the toothless 

crone 
(Let me never forget till my dying day 
The tone or the burden of her lay), 
" Passing away ! passing away !" 

JoUN PlERPOST. 



Old Age axd Death. 

TllK seas are quiet when the winds give 

o'er; 
So calm are we when passions arc no 

more. 
For then we know how vain it was to 

boast 
Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost. 

Clouds of afl'ection from our younger eyes 

Conceal that emptiness which age de- 
scries. 

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and de- 
cay'd 

Lets in now light through chinks that 
time has made. 

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become. 
As they draw near to their eternal home. 
Leaving the old, both worlds at once tliey 

view. 
That stand upon the threshold of the new. 
liiiMiND Waller. 



Over the River. 

Over the river they beckon to me, — 
Loved ones who've cross'd to the farther 
side ; 
The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 
15ut their voices are drown'd in the 
rushing tide. 
There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 
And eyes, the reflection of heaven's own 
blue; 
He cro.ss'd in the twilight, gray and cold, 
And the pale mist hid him from mortal 
view. 
We saw not the angels who met him tliere ; 

The gates of the city we could not see ; 
Over the river, over the river. 
My brother stands waiting to welcome me ! 

Over the river, the boatman pale 

Carried another, — the household pet : 
Her brown curls waved in the gentle 
gale- 
Darling Minnie ! I .see her yet. 
She cross'd on her bosom her dimpled 
hands, 
And fearlessly enter'd the phantom 
bark ; 
We watch'd it glide from the silver sands, 
And all our sunshine grew strangely 
dark. 
We know she is safe on the farther side. 
Where all the ransom'd and angels be; 
Over the river, the mystic river. 
My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 

For none return from those quiet shores, 
Who cross with the boatman cohl and 
pale ; 
We hear the dip of the golden oars, 

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail, — 
And lo ! they have pass'd from our yearn- 
ing heart ; 
They cross the stream, and are gone for 
aye ; 
We may not sunder the veil apart. 

That hides from our vision the gates of 
day. 
We only know that their barks no more 

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; 
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen 
shore, 
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 



630 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 

Is flushing river, and hill, and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the water cold. 
And list for the sound of the boatman's 
oar ; 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping 
sail ; 
I shall hear the boat as it gains the 
strand ; 
I shall pass from sight, with the boatman 
pale, 
To the better shore of the spirit land ; 
I shall know the loved who have gone be- 
fore, — 
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
^Vhen over the river, the peaceful river, 
The Angel of Death shall carry me. 

Nancy A. W. Wakefield. 



Tme Hour of Death. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's 
breath, 
And stars to set, — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, 
Death ! 

Day is for mortal care, 
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous 
hearth. 
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice 
of prayer, — 
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth ! 

The banquet hath its hour. 
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and 
wine ; 
There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelm- 
ing power, — 
A time for softer tears, — but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 
3Iay look like things too glorious for 
decay, 
And smile at thee, — but thou art not of 
those 
That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their 
prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's 
breath. 



And stars to set, — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, 
Death ! 

We know when moons shall wane, 
When summer birds from far shall cross 
the sea. 
When autumn's hues shall tinge the 
golden grain, — 
But who shall teach us when to look for 
thee? 

Is it when Spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the violets 
lie? 
Is it when roses in our paths grow 
pale ? — 
They have one season, — all are ours to die ! 

Thou art where billows foam, 
Thou art where music melts upon the 
air; 
Thou art around us in our peaceful 
home ; 
And the world calls us forth, — and thou 
art there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend. 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest, — 
Thou art where foe meets foe, and trum- 
pets rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the 
princely crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's 
breath. 

And stars to set, — but all, 

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, 

Death ! 

Felicia Dorothea Bemans. 



Elegy. 

Written in a Country Churchyard. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting 
day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the 
lea, 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary 
way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to 
me. 



MORAL AXD DIDACTIC POETRY. 



631 



Now fades the glimmering landscape on 
the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning 
flight. 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant 
folds: 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
The in<>i)ing owl docs to the moon com- 
plain 
Of such as, wandering near her secret 
bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's 
shade. 
Where heaves the turf in many a moul- 
dering heap. 
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 
The swallow twittering from the straw- 
built shed, 
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing 
horn, 
I Xo more shall rouse them from their 

lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall 

burn 

Or busy housewife ply her evening care : 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to 

share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has 
broke ; 
How jocund did they drive their team 
afield ! 
How bow'd the woods beneath their 
sturdy stroke! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful 
smile 
The short and simple annals of the 
poor. 

The boast of heraldry, tlio pomp of power. 
And all tliat beauty, all that wealth e'er 
gave, 



Await alike th' inevitable hour : — 
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the 
fault 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies 
raise. 
Where through the long-drawn aisle and 
fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of 
praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting 
breath ? 
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust. 
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of 
Death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
Ijonie heart once pregnant with celestial 
fire; 
Hands, that the rod of empire might have 
sway'd, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample 
page 
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er 
unroll ; 
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage. 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean 
bear : 
Full many a flower is born to lilu'.i un- 
•secn. 
And waste its sweetness on the desert 
air. 

Some village Hampden, that with daunt- 
less breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 
Some mute inglorious Milton here may 
rest, 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's 
blood. 

Th' applause of list'ning senates to com- 
mand. 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their history in a nation's 
eyes, 



632 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes 
confined ; 
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a 
throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on man- 
kind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to 
hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous 
shame, 
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's 
flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble 
strife 
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray ; 
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their 
way. 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to pro- 
tect 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculp- 
ture deck'd, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlct- 
ter'd Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply : 
And many a holy text around she strews 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing anxious being e'er re- 
sign'd, 
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful 
day, 
Nor cast one longing lingering look be- 
hind? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies. 
Some pious drops the closing eye re- 
quires ; 
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature 
cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd 
dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale re- 
late, 



If chance, by lonely Contemplation led. 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy 
fate,— 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
" Oft have we seen him at the peep of 
dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn ; 

" There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so 

high. 

His listless length at noontide would he 

stretch, 

And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in 
scorn. 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would 
rove ; 
Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one for- 
lorn. 
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hope- 
less love. 

" One morn I miss'd him on the 'custom'd 
hill. 
Along the heath, and near his favorite 
tree; 
Another came, nor yet beside the rill. 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was 
he; 

" The next with dirges due in sad array 
Slow through the churchway path we 
saw hira borne ; 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) 
the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged 
thorn." 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
A youth, to fortune and to fame un- 
known ; 
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble 
birth, 
And Melancholy mark'd him for her 
own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sin- 
cere ; 
Heaven did a recompense as largely 
send: 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



633 



He gave to Misery all he had, — a tear, 
He gain'd from Heaven — 'twas all he 
wish'd — a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose. 
Or draw his frailties from their dread 
abode 
(There they alike in trembling hope re- 
pose), 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

TUOMAS UKAY. 

Lines Written is RiarMOXD 
Churchyard, Yorkshire. 

JIkthixks it is good to be here ; 
If thou wilt, let us build, — but for whom? 

Nor Elias nor Moses appear. 
But the shadows of eve that encompass the 

gloom. 
The abode of the dead and the place of the 
tomb. 

Shall we build to Ambition ? Oh, no ! 
Affrighted, he shrinketh away ; 

For, see ! they would piu him below, 
In a small, narrow cave, and, begirt with 

cold clay. 
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a 
prey. 

To Beauty? ah, no! She forget.s 
The charms wiiich she wielded before. 

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets 
The skin which but yesterday fools could 

adore, 
For the smoothness it held, or the tint 
which it wore. 

Shall we build to the purple of Pride, 
The trappings which 'dizen the proud? 

Alas I they are all laid aside, 
And here's neither dress nor adornment 

allow'd. 
But the long winding-sheet and the fringe 
of the shroud. 

To Riches? alas ! 'tis in vain ; 
Who hid, in their turn have been hi<l ; 
Tlie treasures are s<|uander'd again, 
And here in the grave are all metals for- 
bid, 
But the tinsel that shines on the dark cof- 
fin-lid. 



To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, — 
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? 

Ah ! here is a plentiful board ! 
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful 

cheer, 
And none but the worm is a reveller here. 

Shall we build to Affection and Love? 
Ah, no ! they have wither'd and died. 

Or fled with the spirit above : 
Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side 

by side. 
Yet none have saluted, and none have re- 
plied. 

Unto Sorrow? — The dead cannot grieve; 
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, 

Which compassion itself could relieve. 
Ah ! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, 

nor fear, — 
Peace, peace is the watchword, the only 
one here ! 

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must 
bfiw ? 
Ah, no ! for his empire is known, 

-Vnd here there are trophies enow- ! 
Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the 

dark stone, 
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may 
disown ! 

The first tabernacle to Hope we will 
build. 
And look for the sleepers around us to 
i rise ; 

The second to Faith, which ensures it 
fulliird; 
And the third to the Lamb of the great 

.sacrifice. 
Who bequeathed us them both when he 
rose to the skies. 

Uerdert Knowles, 



Hallowed Ground. 

What's hallow'd ground? Has earth a 

clod 
Its Maker meant not should bo trod 
By man, the image of his (iod, 

Erect and free, 
Unscourged by su4)erstitiou's rod 

To bow the knee ? 



G31 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



That's hallow'd ground where, mourn'd and 

miss'd, 
The lips repose our love has kiss'd : — 
But Where's their memory's mansion ? Is't 

Yon churchyard's bowers ? 
No ! in ourselves their souls exist, 

A part of ours. 

A kiss can consecrate the ground 
Where mated hearts are mutual bound ; 
The spot where love's first links were 
wound, 

That ne'er are riven, 
Is hallow'd, down to earth's profound, 

And up to heaven! 

For time makes all but true love old ; 
The burning thoughts that then were 

told 
Eun molten still in memory's mould ; 

And will not cool 
Until the heart itself be cold 

In Lethe's pool. 

What hallows ground where heroes sleep ? 
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap ! — ■ 
In dews that heavens far distant weep 

Their turf may bloom. 
Or genii twine beneath the deep 

Their coral tomb. 

But strew his ashes to the wind 
Whose sword or voice has served man- 
kind — ■ 
And is he dead whose glorious mind 

Lifts thine on high? — 
To live in hearts we leave behind 

Is not to die. 

Is't death to fall for Freedom's right? 
He's dead alone that lacks her light ! 
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 

The sword he draws : — ■ 
What can alone ennoble fight ? 

A noble cause ! 

Give that ! and welcome War to brace 
Her drums, and rend Heaven's reeking 

space ! 
The colors planted face to face, 

The charging cheer, 
Though Death's pale horse lead on the 
chase, 
Shall still be dear. 



And place our trophies where men kneel 
To Heaven! — But Heaven rebukes my 

zeal. 
The cause of truth and human weal, 

God above ! 
Transfer it from the sword's appeal 

To Peace and Love. 

Peace ! Love ! — the cherubim that join 
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine ! 
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 

Where they are not ; 
The heart alone can make divine 

Religion's spot. 

To incantations dost thou trust. 
And pompous rites in domes august? 
See mouldering stones and metal's rust 

Belie the vaunt, 
That men can bless one pile of dust 

With chime or chaunt. 

The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man! 
Thy temples — creeds themselves grow wan ! 
But there's a dome of nobler span, 

A temple given 
Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — 

Its space is Heaven ! 

Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling, 
Where, trancing the rapt spirit's feeling, 
And God Himself to man revealing, 

The harmonious spheres 
Make music, though unheard their pealing 

By mortal ears. 

Fair stars ! are not your beings pure? 
Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure? 
Else why so swell the thoughts at your 

Aspect above? 
Ye must be heavens that make us sure 

Of heavenly love ! 

And in your harmony sublime 
I read the doom of distant time : 
That man's regenerate soul from crime 

Shall yet be drawn, 
And reason, on his mortal clime. 

Immortal dawn. 

What's hallow'd ground ? 'Tis what gives 

birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth! — 



MORAL AXD DIDACTIC POETRY. 



635 



Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth, 

Earth's compass round ; 
And your high priesthood shall make 
earth 
All hallow'd ground! 

Thomas Campbell. 

Epitaph upon Hcsbasd and 
Wife 

■WHO Died and were Buried togetheb. 
To these, whom death again did wed, 
This grave's the second marriage-bed. 
For thougii the hand of fate could force 
'Twixt soul and body a divorce. 
It could not sever man and wife. 
Because they both lived but one life. 
Peace, good reader, do not weep 
Peace, the lovers are asleep ! 
They (sweet turtles) folded lie. 
In the last knot love could tie. 
Let them sleep, let them sleep on. 
Till this stormy night be gone, 
And the eternal morrow dawn ; 
Then the curtains will be drawn. 
And they wake into a light 
Whose day shall never end in night. 

Richard C'rasuaw, 



Elegy to the Memory of ax 
Unfortuxate Lady. 

What bcck'niiig ghost, along the moon- 
light shade. 

Invites my steps, and points to yonder 
glade ? 

'Tis she ! — but why that bleeding bosom 
gored ? 

Wiiy dimly gleams the visionary sword ? 

O ever beauteous ! ever friendly ! tell. 

Is it in Heav'n a crime to love too well? 

To bear too tender or too firm a heart. 

To act a lover's or a Roman's part ? 

Is there no bright reversion in the sky 

For those who greatly think or bravely 
die? 
\\'\\\ bade ye else, ye pow'rs I her soul 
aspire 

Above the vulgar flight of low desire ? 

Ambition first sprung from your blest 
abodes, 

The glorious fault of angels and of gods : 



Thence to their images on earth it flows. 
And in the breasts of kings and heroes 

glows. 
Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an 

age. 
Dull sullen pris'ners in the body's cage : 
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of 

years, 
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres ; 
Like Eastern kings, a lazy state they keep. 
And, close confined to their own palace, 

sleep. 
From these perhaps (ere Nature bade 

her die) 
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky. 
As into air the purer spirits flow. 
And sep'rate from their kindred dregs 

below' ; 
So flew the soul to its congenial place. 
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. 
But thou, false guardian of a charge too 

good. 
Thou mean deserter of thy brother's blood ! 
See on these ruby lips the trembling 

breath. 
These cheeks now fading at the blast of 

death ! 
Cold is that breast which warm'd the 

world before, 
And those love-darting eyes must roll no 

more. 
Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball. 
Thus shall your wives, and thus your chil- 
dren fall : 
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, 
And frequent hearses shall besiege your 

gates : 
There passengers shall stand, and pointing 

say 
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the 

way), 
" Lo ! these were they, whose souls the 

Furies steel'd. 
And cursed with hearts unknowing how to 

yield." 
Thus unlamented pass the proud aw.ay, 
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! 
j So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to 
I glow 

For others' good, or melt at others' woe. 
What can atone (O over-injured shade!) 
[ Thy fate unpiticd and thy rites un|)aid? 



636 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 


No friend's complaint, no kind domestic 


Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mourn- 


tear 


ful lays, 


Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy 


Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he 


mournful bier ; 


pays ; 


By foreign hands thy dying eyes were 


Then from his closing eyes thy form shall 


closed, 


part, 


By foreign hands thy decent limbs com- 


And the last pang shall tear thee from his 


posed, 


heart ; 


By foreign hands thy humble grave 


Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, 


adorn'd, 


The I\Iuse forgot, and thou beloved no 


By strangers honor'd and by strangers 


more ! 


mourn'd. 


Alexander Pope. 


What though no friends in sable weeds 




appear, 
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a 


The Land o' the Leal. 


year. 


I'm wearin' awa', Jean, 


And bear about the mockery of woe 


Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean, 


To midnight dances and the public 


I'm wearin' awa' 


show ? 


To the land o' the leal. 


What though no weeping Loves thy ashes 


There's nae sorrow there, Jean, 


grace, 


There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, 


Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face ? 


The day is aye fair 


What though no sacred earth allow thee 


In the land o' the leal. 


room, 




Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy 


Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean, 


tomb ? 


She was baith gude and fair, Jean, 


Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be 


And oh ! we grudged her sair 


dress'd, 


To the land o' the leal. 


And the green turf lie lightly on thy 


But sorrow's sel' wears past, Jean, 


breast : 


And joy's a-comin' fast, Jean, 


There shall the morn her earliest tears 


The joy that's aye to last 


bestow, 


In the land o' the leal. 


There the first roses of the year shall 




blow : 


Sae dear that joy was bought, Jean, 


While angels with their silver wings o'er- 


Sae free the battle fought, Jean, 


shade 


That sinfu' man e'er brought 


The ground now sacred by thy relics 


To the land o' the leal. 


made. 


Oh ! dry your gli.stening e'e, Jean, 


So peaceful rests, without a stone, a 


My soul langs to be free, Jean, 


name, *• 


And angels beckon me 


What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and 


To the land o' the leal. 


fame. 




How loved, how honor'd once, avails thee 


Oh ! hand ye leal and true, Jean, 


not, 


Your day it's wearin' thro', Jean, 


To whom related, or by whom begot ; 


And I'll welcome you 


A heap of dust alone remains of thee. 


To the land o' the leal. 


'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall 


Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, 


be! 


This warld's cares are vain, Jean, 


Poets themselves must fall like those 


We'll meet, and we'll be fain, 


they sung, 


In the land o' the leal. 


Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tune- 


Lady Carolina Nairne. 


ful tongue. 





MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



637 



Staxzas. 

Farkweli., life ! my senses swim, 
And the wurkl is growiufr dim ; 
Tlironjiing shadows elmid the light, 
Like the advent of the night, — 
Colder, colder, colder still, 
Upward steals a vapor chill ; 
Strong the earthy odor grows, — 
I smell the mould above the rose ! 

Welcome, life ! the spirit strives ! 
Strength returns and hope revives : 
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn 
Fly like shadows at the morn, — 
O'er the earth there comes a bloom ; 
Sunny light for sullen gloom, 
Warm jxrl'iime for vapor cold, — 
I smell the rose above the mould ! 

TiioMAS Hood. 



The DYiyo Man is his Garden. 

Why, Damon, with the forward day 
Dost thou thy little spot survey. 
From tree to tree, with doubtful cheer, 
Pursue the progress of the year, 
What winds arise, what rains descend, 
When thou before that year shalt end? 

What do thy noontide walks avail, 
To clear the leaf, and pick the snail. 
Then wantonly to death decree 
An insect uscfuller than tiiee? 
Thou and the worm are brother-kind, 
As low, as eartliy, and as blind. 

Vain wretch I canst thou expect to see 
The downy peach make court to thee ? 
f)r that thy sense shall ever meet 
The bean-flower's dee|)-embosom'd sweet 
K.xhaling with an evening blast? 
Thy evenings then will all be past! 

Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green 
(For vanity's in little seen), 
All must be left when Death appears. 
In spite of wishes, groans, and tears ; 
Nor one of all thy plants that grow 
But Rosemary will with thee go. 

Gkoroe Skwkll. 



Dirge. 

From " Cymbei.ixe." 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 
Nor the furious winter's rages ; 

Thou thy worldly task ha.st done. 
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages : 

Golden lads and lasses must. 

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 

Fear no more the frown o' the great, 
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 

Care no more to clothe, and eat ; 
To thee the reed is as the oak : 

The sceptre, learning, physic, must 

All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning flash 
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; 

Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan : 

All lovers young, all lovers must. 

Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

William Shakespeare. 



DIRGE IN CYMRELINE. 

SrXG BV GUIDERUS AND ArVIRAGUS OVER 
FlUELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DeAD. 

To fair Fidele's gra.ssy tomb 

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom. 

And rifle all the breathing spring. 

No wailing ghost shall dare appear. 
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; 

But shepherd lads assemble here. 
And melting virgins own their love. 

No wither'd witch shall here be seen — 
No goblins lead their nightly crew ; 

The female fays shall haunt the green. 
And dress thy grave with pearly dew. 

The redbreast oft, at evening hours, 
Shall kindly lend his little aid. 

With hoary moss, aud gather'd flowers. 
To deck the ground where thou art laid. 

When howling winds and beating rain 
In tempests shake the sylvan cell, 

Or 'midst the chase, on every plain. 
The tender thought on thee shall dwell, 



638 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Each lonely scene shall thee restore, 
For thee the tear be duly shed ; 

Beloved till life can charm no more, 
And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead. 
William Collins. 



DIKGE. 

From " The White Devil." 
Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, 
Since o'er shady groves they hover, 
And with leaves and flowers do cover 
The friendless bodies of unburied men. 
Call unto his funeral dole 
The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, 
To raise him hillocks that shall keep him 

warm. 
And, when gay tombs are robb'd, sustain 

no harm ; 
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to 

men, 
For with his nails he'll dig them up again. 
John Webster. 

Dirge. 

Softly ! 
She is lying 
With her lips apart; 

Softly ! 
She is dying of a broken heart. 

Whisper ! 
She is going 
To her final rest ; 
Whisper ! 
Life is growing 

Dim within her breast. 

Gently ! 
She is sleeping ; 
She has breathed her last ! 
Gently ! 
While you're weeping, 
She to heaven has pass'd. 

Charles Gamage Eastman. 



Friend after Friend Departs. 

Friend after friend departs: 
Who hath not lost a friend? 

There is no union here of hearts 
That finds not here an end ; 



Were this frail world our only rest, 
Living or dying, none were blest. 

Beyond the flight of time, 

Beyond tliis vale of death. 
There surely is some blessed clime 
Where life is not a breath, 
Kor life's affections transient fire. 
Whose sparks fly upward to expire. 

There is a world above, 

Where parting is unknown ; 
A whole eternity of love, 
Form'd for the good alone; 
And faith beholds the dying here 
Translated to that happier sphere. 

Thus star by star declines, 

Till all are pass'd away, 

As morning high and higher shines. 

To pure and perfect day ; 

Nor sink those stars in empty night; 

They hide themselves in heaven's own 

light. 

James Montgomery. 



Gane were but the Winter 
Ca uld. 

Gane were but the winter cauld. 
And gane were but the snaw, 

I could sleep in the wild woods, 
Where primroses blaw. 

Cauld's the snaw at my head, 

And cauld at my feet. 
And the finger o' Death's at my e'en. 

Closing them to sleep. 

Let nane tell my father 

Or my mither sae dear ; 
I'll meet them baith in heaven 

At the spring o' the year. 

Allan Cunningham. 



The Alpine Sheep. 

When on my ear your loss was kneli'd, 
And tender sympathy upburst, 

A little spring from memory well'd. 

Which once had quench'd my bitter 

thirst. 



MORAL AXD DIDACTIC POETRY'. 



639 



And I was fain to bear to you 

A portion of its mild relief, 
That it might be as healing dew, 

To steal some fever from your grief. 

After our child's untroubled breath 
Up to the Father took its way, 

And on our home the shade of Death 
Like a long twilight haunting lay, 

And friends came round, with us to weep 
Her little spirit's swift remove, 

The story of the Alpine sheep 
Was told to us by one we love. 

They, in the valley's sheltering care. 
Soon crop the meadow's tender prime. 

And when the sod grows brown and bare. 
The shepherd strives to make them climb 

To airy shelves of pasture green. 

That hang along the mountain's side. 
Where grass and flowers together loan, 
And down through mist the sunbeams 
slide. 

But naught can tempt the timid things 
The steep and rugged paths to try. 

Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings, 
And sear'd below the pastures lie. 

Till in his arms their lambs he takes, 

Along the dizzy verge to go ; 
Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks. 

They follow on, o'er rock and snow. 

And in those pastures, lifted fair, 
More dewy-soft than lowland mead. 

The shepherd drops his tender care. 
And sheep and lambs together feed. 

This parable, by Nature breathed. 
Blew on me as the south wind free 

O'er frozen brooks, that flow unsheathed 
From icy thraldrom to the sea. 

A blissful vision, through the night. 
Would all my happy senses sway. 

Of the good Shepherd on the height, 
Or climbing up the starry way. 

Holding onr little lamb asleep, — 
While, like tiie nuirniur of the sea. 

Sounded that voice along the deep. 
Saying, " Arise and follow me !" 

Maria Wuite Lowell. 



Tom Bowling. 

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 

The darling of our crew ; 
No more he'll hear the tempest howling — 

For Death has broach'd him to. 
His form was of the manliest beauty ; 

His heart was kind and soft; 
Faithful below he did his duty; 

But now he's gone aloft. 

Tom never from his word departed — 

His virtues were so rare ; 
His friends were many and true-hearted ; 

His Poll was kind and fair. 
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly — 

Ah, many's the time and oft ! 
But mirth is turn'd to melancholy. 

For Tom is gone aloft. 

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, 

When He, who all commands. 
Shall give, to call life's crew together, 

The word to pipe all hands. 
Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, 

In vain Tom's life has doff'd; 
For, though his body's under hatches. 

His soul is gone aloft. 

Charles Dibdin. 



Only Waiting. 

On'LY waiting till the shadows 

Are a little longer grown, 
Only waiting till the glimmer 

Of the day's last beam is flown ; 
Till the night of earth is faded 

From the heart once full of day ; 
Till the stars of Heaven are breaking 

Through the twilight soft and gray. 

Only waiting till the reapers 

Have the hist sheaf gather'd home. 
For the summer-time is faded, 

.\nd the autumn winds have come. 
Quickly, reapers ! gather quickly 

The last ripe hours of my heart, 
For the bloom of life is withcr'd. 

And I hasten to depart. 

Only waiting till the angels 
Open wide the mystic gate. 

At whose feet I long have linger'd. 
Weary, poor, and desolate. 



640 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Even iiinv I hear the footsteps, 
And their voices far away ; 

If they call me I am waiting, 
Only waiting to obey. 

Only waiting till the shadows 

Are a little longer grown, 
Only waiting till the glimmer 

Of the day's last beam is flown. 
Then from out the gather'd darkness, 

Holy, deathless stars shall rise, 
By whose light my soul shall gladly 

Tread its pathway to the skies. 

AnTHOR Unknown. 



The Closing Scene. 

Within his sober realm of leafless trees 

The russet year inhaled the dreamy air ; 
Like some tanu'd reaper in his hour of 
ease, 
When all the fields are lying brown and 
bare. 

The gray barns looking from their hazy 
hills 
O'er the dim waters widening in the 
vales, 
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, 
On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 

All sights were mellow'd and all sounds 
subdued, 
The hills seem'd farther and the streams 
sang low ; 
As in a dream the distant woodman hew'd 
His winter log with many a muftled 
blow. 

The embattled forests, erewhile arm'd in 
gold. 
Their banners bright with every martial 
hue. 
Now stood, like some sad beaten host of 
old. 
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. 

On slumb'rous wings the vulture held hi.s 
flight ; 
The dove scarce heard its sighing mate's 
complaint ; 
And like a star slow drowning in the light. 
The village church-vane seem'd to pale 
and faint. 



The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew, 
Crew thrice, and all was stiller than be- 
fore, — 
Silent till some replying warder blew 
His alien horn, and then was heard no 
more. 

Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall 
crest. 
Made garrulous trouble round her un- 
fledged young, 
And where the oriole hung her swaying 
nest, 
By every light wind like a censer 
swung ; — 

Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves, 
The busy swallows circling ever near, 

Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 
An early harvest and a plenteous 
year ;— 

Where every bird which charm'd the ver- 
nal feast. 
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings 
at morn, 
To warn the reaper of the rosy east, — 
All now was songless, empty, and for- 
lorn. 

Alone from out the stubble piped the 
quail, 
And croak'd the crow through all the 
dreamy gloom ; 
Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, 
Made echo to the distant cottage loom. 

There was no bud, no bloom, upon the 
bowers ; 
The spiders wove their thin shrouds 
night by night ; 
The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, 
Sail'd slowly by, pass'd noiseless out of 
sight. 

Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, 
And where the woodbine shed upon the 
porch 
Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood 
there 
Firing the floor with his inverted torch ; 

Amid all this, the centre of the scene. 
The white-hair'd matron with monoto- 
nous tread, 



MORAL A.yn DIDACTIC POETRY. 



641 



Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless ] The storm that wrecks the winter sky 

mien, I No more disturbs llieir deep repose 

Sat, like a Fate, and watcli'd the flying Than summer evening's latest sigh 

thread. 



She had known Sorrow, — he had walk'd 
with her, 
Oft supp'd and broke the bitter ashen 
crust ; 
And in the dead leaves still she heard the 
stir 
Of his black mantle trailing in the 
dust. 

While yet her cheek was bright with sum- 
mer bloom. 
Her country summon'd and she gave her 
all ; 
And twice War bow'd to her his sable 
plume, — 
Kegave the swords to rust upon her 
wall. 

Regave the swords, — but not the hand that 
drew 

And struck for Liberty its dying blow, 
Xor him who, to his sire and country true, 

Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe. 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel 
went on. 
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ; 
Long, but not loud, the memory of tlie 
gone 
Breathed through her lips a sad and 
tremulous tune. 

At last the thread was snapp'd : her head 
was bow'd : 
Life dropt the distaff through his hands 
serene ; 
And loving neighbors smoothed her care- 
ful sliroud, 
While Death and Winter closed the 
autumn scene. 

TII0MA9 BCCIIANAN READ. 



THE GRAVE. 

Thkre is a calm for tliose who weep, 

A rest for weary pilgrims found ; 

They softly lie and sweetly sleep 

Low in the ground. 
41 



That shuts the rose. 

I long to lay this painful head 

And aching heart beneath the soil, 
To slumber in that dreamless bed 
From all my toil. 

For Misery stole me at my birth. 

And cast me helpless on the wild : 
I perish ; — O my mother Earth, 

Take home thy child. 

On thy dear lap these limbs reclined, 

ytiall gently moulder into thee; 
JJor leave one wretched trace behind 
Resembling me. 

Hark! — a strange sound affrights mine ear, 
My pulse, — my brain runs wild, — I rave; 
1 — Ah ! who art thou whose voice I hear? 
" I am the Grave ! 

" The Grave, that never spake before. 

Hath found at length a tongue to chide: 
Oh listen ! — I will speak no more : — 
Be silent, Pride ! 

"Art thou a Wretch of hope forlorn, 

The victim of consuming care? 
Is thy distracted conscience torn 
By fell despair ? 

"Do foul misdeeds of former times 

Wring with remorse thy guilty breast? 
And ghosts of unforgiven crimes 
Murder thy rest ? 

" Lash'd by the furies of the mind. 

From Wrath and Vengeance wouldst 
thou flee? 
Ah ! think not, hope not, fool, to find 
A friend in me. 

" By all the terrors of the tomb, 

Beyond the power of tongue to tell ; 
By the dread secrets of my womb ; 
By Death and Hell; 

" I charge thee live ! — repent and pray, 

In dust thine infamy deplore ; 

There yet is mercy — go thy way. 

And sin no more. 



642 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



" Art thou a Mourner ? — Hast thou known 

The joy of innocent delights, 
Endearing days tor ever flown, 

And tranquil nights? 

" Oh live ! — and deeply cherish still 

The sweet remembrance of the past : 
Rely on Heaven's unchanging will 
For peace at last. 

" Art thou a Wanderer? — Hast thou seen 
O'erwhelming tempests drown thy bark? 
A shipwreck'd sufferer hast thou been. 
Misfortune's mark ? 

" Though long of winds and waves the 
sport, 
Condemn'd in wretchedness to roam, 
Live ! — thou shalt reach a sheltering port, 
A quiet home. 

" To Friendship didst thou trust thy fame, 

And was thy friend a deadly foe, 
Who stole into thy breast to aim 
A surer blow ? 

" Live ! — and repine not o'er his loss, 

A loss unworthy to be told, 
Thou hast mistaken sordid dross 

For friendship's gold. 

" Seek the true treasure seldom found. 
Of power the fiercest griefs to calm, 
And soothe the bosom's deepest wound 
With heavenly balm. 

" Did Woman's charm thy youth beguile, 
And did the Fair One faithless prove ? 
Hath she betray'd thee with a smile. 
And sold thy love? 

" Live ! 'Twas a false bewildering fire : 

Too often Love's insidious dart 
Thrills the fond soul with wild desire, 
But kills the heart. 

" Thou yet shalt know how sweet, how 
dear. 
To gaze on listening Beauty's eye ; 
To ask, — and pause in hope and fear 
Till she reply. 

" A nobler flame shall warm thy breast, 

A brighter maiden faithful prove ; 
Thy youth, thine age, shall yet be blest 
In woman's love. 



" — Whate'er thy lot, — whoe'er thou be — 

Confess thy folly, kiss the rod. 
And in thy chastening sorrows see 
The hand of God. 

" A bruisfed reed He will not break ; 

Afflictions all his children feel ; 
He wounds them for His mercy's sake. 
He wounds to heal. 

" Humbled beneath His mighty hand. 

Prostrate His Providence adore : 
'Tis done ! — Arise ! He bids thee stand, 
To fall no more. 

" Now, Traveller in the vale of tears 

To realms of everlasting light, 
Through Time's dark wilderness of years, 
Pursue thy flight. 

" There is a calm for those who weep, 

A rest for weary Pilgrims found ; 
And while the mouldering ashes sleep 
Low in the ground, 

" The Soul, of origin divine, 

God's glorious image, freed from clay, 
In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine 
A star of day. 

" The Sun is but a spark of fire, 
A transient meteor in the sky ; 
The Soul, immortal as its Sire, 

Shall never die." 

James Montgomery. 



To A Skeleton: 

Behold this ruin ! 'Twas a skull 
Once of ethereal spirit full. 
This narrow cell was Life's retreat, 
This space was Thought's mysterious seat. 
What beauteous visions fiU'd this spot ! 
What dreams of pleasure long forgot ! 
Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear. 
Have left one trace of record here. 

Beneath this mouldering canopy 

Once shone the bright and busy eye, 

But start not at the dismal void, — 

If social love that eye employ'd, 

If with no lawless fire it gleam'd, 

But through the dews of kindness beam'd. 

That eye shall be for ever bright 

When stars and sun are sunk in night. 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 643 1 

1 


■W'ithin this hollow cavern hung 


Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood. 


The reiuly, swift, and tunil'iil tongue; 


With dauntless words and high, 


If Falsehood's honey it disdained, 


That shook the sere leaves from the wood, 


And when it could not praise was chain'd; 


As if a storm pass'd by. 


If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke, 


Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun ! 


Yet gentle concord never broke, — 


Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 


This silent tongue shall plead for thee 


'Tis Mercy bids thee go; 


When Time unveils Eternity I 


For thou ten thousand thousand years 




Hast seen the tide of human tears. 


Say, did these fingers delve the mine? 


That shall no longer flow. 


Or with the envied rubies shine? 

To hew the rock or wear a gem 

Can little now avail to them. 

But if the page of Truth they sought, 

Or comfort to the mourner brought. 

These hands a richer meed shall claim 

Than all that wait on Wealth and Fame. 


What though beneath thee man put forth 
His pomp, his pride, his skill ; 

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth 
The vassals of his will? 

Y'ct mourn I not thy parted sway. 

Thou dim, discrowned king of day; 
For all those trophied arts 


Avails it whether bare or shod 
These feet the paths of duty trod ? 
If from the bowers of Ease they fled, 
To seek Affliction's humble shed; 
If Grandeur's guilty bribe they s])urn'd. 
And home to Virtue's cot return'd, — 


And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, 
Heal'd not a passion or a pang 
Entail'd on human hearts. 

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall 

Upon the stage of men. 
Nor with thy rising beams recall 


These feet with angel wings shall vie. 
And tread the palace of the sky! 

AiTUOE Unknown. 


Life's tragedy again : 
Its piteous pageants bring not back. 
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 




Of pain anew to writhe ; 


*' 


Stretch'd in disea-se's shapes abhorr"d. 


THE Last Max. 

Alt, worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 

The Sun himself must die, 
Before this mortal shall iLssume 


Or mown in battle by the sword. 
Like grass beneath the scythe. 

Even I am weary in yon skies 
To watch tliy fading fire ; 


Its immortality ! 


Test of all sumless agonies. 


I saw a vision in my sleep, 
That gave my spirit strength to sweep 
1 Adown the gulf of Time ! 
I saw the last of human mould 
That shall Creation's death behold, 
As Adam saw her prime ! 


Behold not me expire. 
Jly lips that speak thy dirge of death, 
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 

To see thou shalt not boast. 
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall. 
The majesty of Darkness shall 

Receive my parting ghost ! 


The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, 


This spirit shall return to Him 


The Earth with age was wan ; 


Who gave its heavenly spark ; 


The skeletons of nations were 


Y'et think not, Sun, it shall be dim 


Around that lonely man! 


When thou thyself art dark ! 


Some had expired in fight, — the brands 


No! it shall live again, and shine 


Still rusted in their bony hands, 


In bliss unknown to beams of thine. 


In plague and famine some ! 


By Him recall'd to breath, 


1 Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; 


Who captive le<l captivity, 


And ships were drifting with the dead 


Who robb'd the grave of Victory, 


To shores where all was dumb! 


And took the sting from Death I 



Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up 

Oil Nature's awful waste 
To drink this last and bitter cup 

Of grief that man shall taste, — 
Go, tell the night that hides thy face, 
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, 

On Earth's sepulchral clod, 
The darkening universe defy 
To quench his immortality. 

Or shake his trust in God ! 

Thomas Campbell. 



Ode. 

Intimations of Immortality from 

Recollections of Early Childhood. 

I. 

There was a time when meadow, grove, 

and stream, 

The earth, and every common sight, 

To me did seem 
Apparell'd in celestial light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore ; 
Turn wheresoe'er I may. 
By night or day. 
The things which I have seen I now can 
see no more. 

II. 

The Rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the Rose, 
The Moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are 
bare. 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath pass'd away a glory from 
the earth. 

III. 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous 
song. 
And while the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of 

grief: 
A timely utterance gave that thought re- 
lief. 
And I again am strong : 



The cataracts blow their trumpets from the 
steep ; 
No more shall grief of mine the season 

wrong ; 
I hear the Echoes through the mountains 
throng. 
The Winds come to me from the fields of 
sleep. 
And all the earth is gay ; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity. 
And with the heart of May 
Doth every Beast keep holiday ; — 
Thou Child of Joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, 
thou happy 
Shepherd boy ! 

IV. 

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 
My heart is at your festival, 
My head hath its coronal, 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
O evil day ! if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adorning. 
This sweet Jlay morning. 
And the Children are culling 
On every side, 
In a thousand valleys far and wide. 
Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, 
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's 
arm : — 
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
— But there's a Tree, of many, one, 
A single Field which I have look'd upon. 
Both of them speak of something that is 
gone : 
The Pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat : 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 



Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's 
Star, 
Hath had elsewhere its setting, 

And Cometh from afar : 
Not in entire forgetfulness. 
And not in utter nakedness. 



MORAL AXn DIDACTIC POETRY. 



645 



But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home : 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But he beholds the light, and whence it 
flows, 

He sees it in his joy ; 
The Youth, who daily farther from the east 

Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended ; 
At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 



Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her 
own ; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural 

kind, 
And, even with something of a Mother's 
mind, 
And no unworthy aim, 
The homely Nurse doth all she can 
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 

Forget the glories he hath known. 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 

VII. 

Behold the child among his new-born 
blisses, 
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he 
lies. 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. 
With light upon him from his father's 
eyes ! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. 
Some fragment from his dream of 
human life, 
Shaped by himself with uewly-learnfed 
art; 
A wedding or a festival, 
A mourning or a funeral; 

.\nd this hath now his heart. 
And unto this he frames his song: 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of busine-ss, love, or strife ; 
But it will not be long 
Ere tliis be thrown aside, 
-■Vnd with new joy and pride 
The little Actor cons another part ; 



Filling from time to time his "humorous 

stage " 
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

VIII. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

The Soul's immensity ; 
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind. 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal 
deep, 
Haunted for ever by the eternal miud, — 
Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! 
On whom those truths do rest, 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find. 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 

Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a 
Slave, 
A Presence which is not to be put by ; 
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the 

might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's 

height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou 

provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at 
strife? 
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly 

freight. 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight. 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

IX. 

Oh joy ! that in our embers 

Is something that doth live, 
That Nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our j^ast years in me 

doth breed 
Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest 

Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in 
his breiust : — 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 



646 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


But for those obstinate questionings 


In the soothing thoughts that spring 


Of sense and outward things 


Out of human suffering ; 


Fallings from us, vanishings ; 


In the faith that looks through death. 


Blank misgivings of a Creature 


In years that bring the philosophic mind. 


Moving about in worlds not realized, 




High instincts before which our mortal 


XI. 


Kature 


And ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and 


Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : 


Groves, 


But for those first affections 


Forebode not any severing of our loves ? 


Those shadowy recollections. 


Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 


Which, be they what they may. 


I only have relinquish'd one delight 


Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, 


To live beneath your more habitual sway. 


Are yet a master light of all our seeing; 


I love the Brooks which down their chan- 


Uphold us, cherish, and have power to 


nels fret, 


make 


Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as 


Our noisy years seem moments in the 


they ; 


being 


The innocent brightness of a new-born 


Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake, 


Day 


To perish never ; 


Is lovely yet ; 


Which neither listlessness, nor mad en- 


The Clouds that gather round the setting 


deavor. 


sun 


Nor Man nor Boy, 


Do take a sober coloring from an eye 


Nor all that is at enmity with joy. 


That hath kept watch o'er man's mortal- 


Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 


ity ; 


Hence in a season of calm weather 


Another race hath been, and other palms 


Though inland far we be, 


are won. 


Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 


Thanks to the human heart by which we 


Which brought us hither. 


live, 


Can in a moment travel thither. 


Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and 


And see the Children sport upon the 


fears. 


shore, 


To me the meanest flower that blows can 


And hear the mighty waters rolling ever- 


give 


more. 


Thoughts that do often lie too deep for 


X. 


tears. 




William Woedswortii. 


Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous 




song ! 
And let the young Lambs bound 


Resign A tion. 


As to the tabor's sound ; 




We in thought will join your throng, 


There is no flock, however watch'd and 


Ye that pipe and ye that play. 


tended. 


Ye that through your hearts to-day 


But one dead lamb is there! 


Feel the gladness of the May ! 


There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 


What though the radiance which was once 


But has one vacant chair! 


so bright 


The air is full of farewells to the dying. 


Be now for ever taken from my sight. 


And mournings for the dead ; 


Though nothing can bring back the hour 


Theheartof Rachel, for herchildren crying. 


Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the 
flower • 


Will not be comforted ! 


We will grieve not, rather find 


Let us be patient ! These severe afHictions 


Strength in what remains behind ; 


Not from the ground arise, 


In the primal sympathy 


But oftentimes celestial benedictions 


Which having been must ever be ; 


Assume this dark disguise. 



MORAL ANB DIDACTIC POETRY. 



647 



We see but dimly tlirough the mists aud 
vapors ; 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no Death ! What seems so is tran- 
sition : 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life eiysian, 

Whose portal we eall Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our affec- 
tion, — 
!5ut gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor pro- 
tection. 
And Christ Himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclu- 
sion. 
By guardian angels led, 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollu- 
tion, 
She lives whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air ; 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk witli her, and keep un- 
broken 
The bond which Nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, though 
unspoken, 
May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child sliall we again behold her; 

For when with raptures wikl 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child : 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expan- 
sion 

Shall we behold her face. 

And though, at times, impetuous with 
emotion 
And anguish long suppre.ss'd. 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like 
the ocean. 
That cannot be at rest, — 



We will be patient, and assuage the feel- 
ing 
We may not wliolly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 
The grief that must have way. 

Hknky Wadsworth Longfellow. 



The crowded Street. 

Let me move slowly through the street, 
Fill'd with an ever-shifting train. 

Amid the sound of steps that beat 
The murmuring walks like autumn rain. 

How fast the flitting figures come ! 

The mild, the fierce, the stony face — 
Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and 
some 

^V^lere secret tears have left their trace. 

They pass to toil, to strife, to rest — 
To halls in which the feast is spread — 

To chambers where the funeral guest 
In silence sits beside the dead. 

And some to hapjiy homes repair, 

Where children, pressing cheek to cheek. 

With mute caresses shall declare 
The tenderness they cannot speak. 

And some, who walk in calmness here. 
Shall shudder a-s they reach the door 

Where one who made their dwelling dear. 
Its flower, its light, is seen no more. 

Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, 
And dreams of greatness in thine eye ! 

Go'st tliou to buihl an early name, 
Or early in the task to die ? 

Keen son of trade with eager brow 1 
Who is now fluttering in thy snare? 

Thy golden fortunes, tower they now. 
Or melt the glittering spires in air ? 

Who of this crowd to-night shall tread 
The dance till daylight gleam again ? 

Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead ? 
Who writhe in throes of mortal pain ? 

Some, famine-struck, shall think how long 
The cold, dark hours, how slow the 
light ; 

And some, who flaunt amid the throng, 
Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. 



648 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Each where his tasks or pleasures call, 


But lately I mark'd when majestic on 


They pass, and heed each other not. 


high 


There is Who heeds. Who holds them all 


She shone, and the planets were lost in 


In His large love and boundless thought. 


her blaze. 




Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness 


These struggling tides of life, that seem 


pursue 


In wayward, aimless course to tend. 


The path that conducts thee to splendor 


Are eddies of the mighty stream 


again ! 


That rolls to its appointed end. 


But man's faded glory what change shall 


William Cullen Bryant. 


renew ? 


*<>• 


Ah, fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! 


THE Hermit. 


"'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely 




no more. 


At the close of the day, when the hamlet 


I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn 


is still. 


not for you ; 


And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness 


For morn is approaching your charms to 


prove. 


restore. 


When naught but the torrent is heard on 


Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glit- 


the hill, 


tering with dew. 


And naught but the nightingale's song 


Nor yet for the ravage of winter I 


in the grove. 


mourn, — 


'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain 


Kind Nature the embryo blossom will 


afar, 


save ; 


While his harp rung symphonious, a 


But when shall spring visit the moulder- 


hermit began ; 


ing urn ? 


No more with himself or with Nature at 


Oh, when shall day dawn on the night 


war. 


of the grave ? 


He thought as a sage, though he felt as 




a man : 


" 'Twas thus, by the glare of false science 




betray'd. 


" Ah ! why, all abandon'd to darkness and 


That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to 


woe. 


blind. 


Why, lone Philomela, that languishing 


My thoughts wont to roam from shade on- 


fall ? 


ward to shade, 


For spring shall return, and a lover be- 


Destruction before me, and sorrow be- 


stow, 


hind. 


And sorrow no longer thy bosom in- 


'Oh pity, great Father of light,' then I 


thrall. 


cried. 


But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad 


' Thy creature, who fain would not wan- 


lay,— 


der from Thee ! 


Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls 


Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my 


thee to mourn ; 


pride ; 


Oh, soothe him whose pleasures like thine 


From doubt and from darkness Thou 


pass away ! 


only canst free !' 


Full quickly they pass,— but they never 




return. 


" And darkness and doubt are now flying 




away ; 


" Now, gliding remote on the verge of the 


No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. 


sky, 


So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, 


The moon, half extinguish'd, her cres- 


The bright and the balmy efl'ulgence of 


cent displays ; 


morn. 



MORAL AXD DIDACTIC POETRY. 



649 



See truth, love, and mercy iu triumph | Wide wasting pest ! that rages unconfined 

Aiul crowds with crimes the records of 

mankind ; 
For gold his sword the hireling ruffian 

draws, 
For gold the hireling judge distorts the 

laws ; 
Wealth heap'd on wealth, nor truth nor 

safety buys. 
The dangers gather as the treasures rise. 



descending, 

And Nature all glowing in Eden's first 

bloom ! 

On the cold cheek of death smiles and 

roses are blending. 

And beauty immortal awakes from the 

tomb." 

James Beattie. 



THE Vasity of Human Wishes. 

In Imitation of the Tenth Satire of 

JUVENAI. 

IjET Observation, with extensive view, 
Purvey mankind from China to Peru; 
Remark each anxious toil, each eager 

strife, 
And watch the busy scenes of crowded 

life; 
Then say how hope and fear, desire and 

hate, 
O'erspread with snares the clouded maze 

of fate. 
Where wavering man, betray'd by vontur- 



Let History tell where rival kings com- 
mand, 
And dubious title shakes the madded land, 
When statutes glean the refuse of the 

sword. 
How much more safe the vassal than the 

lord ! 
Low skulks the hind below the rage of 

power, 
And leaves the wealthy traitor in the 

Tower ; 
Untouch'd his cottage, and his slumbers 

sound. 
Though Confiscation's vultures hover 

round. 



ous pride 
To chase the dreary paths without a The needy traveller, serene and gay, 

„,,ifip Walks the wild heath, and sings his toi 



guide. 
As treacherous phantoms in the midst 

delude, 
."^huns fancied ills, or chases airy good ; 



toil 



awav. 



Does envy seize thee? crush th' upbraid- 
ing joy, 



How rarelv reason guides the stubborn 1 Increase his riches, and his peace de- 



choice. 



stroy : 



Rules the bold hand, or prompts the sup- Now fears in dire vicissitude invade 



pliant voice ; 

How nations sink, by darling schemes op- 
press'd. 

When Vengeance listens to the fool's re- 
quest. 

Fate wings with every wish th' afflictive 
dart. 

Each gift of Nature and each grace of 
art; 

With fatal heat impetuous cour.ige glows, 

With fatal sweetness elocution flows, 

Impeachment stops the speaker's jiowerful 
breath. 

And restless fire precipitates on death. 

But, scarce observed, the knowing and 
the bold 
Fall in the general massacre of gold ; 



The rustling brake alarms, and quivering 

shade. 
Nor light nor darkness bring his pain 

relief, 
One shows the plunder and one hides the 

thief. 

Yet still one general cry the skies assails, 
And gain and grandeur load the tainted 

gales ; 
Few know the toiling statesman's fear or 

care. 
The insidious rival and the gaping heir. 

Once more, Democritus, arise on earth, 

With cheerful wisdom and instructive 

I mirth ; 

See motley life in modern trappings dress'd, 

And feed with varied fools th' eternal jest: 



650 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. 



Thou who couldst laugh, where want en- 

chain'd caprice, 
Toil crush'd conceit, aud man was of a 

piece ; 
Where wealth unloved without a mourner 

died, 
And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride ; 
Where ne'er was known the form of moclc 

debate, 
Or seen a new-made mayor's unwieldy 

state ; 
Where change of favorites made no change 

of laws, 
And senates heard before they judged a 

cause ; 
How wouldst thou shake at Britain's 

modish tribe. 
Dart the quick taunt and edge the piercing 

gibe? 
Attentive truth and nature to descry. 
And pierce each scene witli philosophic 

eye, 
To thee were solemn toys, or empty show. 
The robes of pleasure, and the veils of 

woe : 
All aid the farce, and all thy mirth main- 
tain. 
Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs 

are vain. 

Such was the scorn that fill'd the sage's 
mind, 

Eenew'd at every glance on human 
kind ; 

How just that scorn ere yet thy voice de- 
clare. 

Search every state, and canvass every 
prayer. 

Unnumber'd suppliants crowd Prefer- 
ment's gate, 

Athirst for wealth, and burning to be 
great ; 

Delusive Fortune hears th' incessant call, 

They mount, they shine, evaporate and 
fall. 

On every stage the foes of peace attend, 

Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks 
their end. 

Love ends with hope, the sinking states- 
man's door 

Pours in the morning worshipper no 
more; 



For growing names the weekly scribbler 

lies, 
To growing wealth the dedicator flies; 
From every room descends the painted 

face 
That hung the bright palladium of the 

place, 
And, smoked in kitchens, or in auctions 

sold, 
To better features yields the frame of gold ; 
For now no more we trace in every line 
Heroic worth, benevolence divine ; 
The form distorted justifies the fall. 
And detestation rids th' indignant wall. 

But will not Britain hear the last appeal, 

Sign her foes' doom, or guard the favorite's 
zeal? 

Through Freedom's .sons no more remon- 
strance rings. 

Degrading nobles and controlling kings; 

Our supple tribes repress their patriot 
throats. 

And ask no questions but the price of 
votes ; 

With weekly libels and septennial ale, 

Their wish is full to riot and to rail. 

In full-flown dignity see Wolsey stand. 
Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand ; 
To him the church, the realm, their powers 

consign, 
Through him the rays of regal bounty 

shine, 
Turn'd by his nod the stream of honor 

flows. 
His smile alone security bestows ; 
Still to new heights his restless wishes 

tower. 
Claim leads to claim, and power advances 

power ; 
Till conquest unresisted ceased to please, 
And rights submitted left him none to 

seize ; 
At length his sovereign frowns — the train 

of state 
Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign 

to hate. 
Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's 

eye. 
His suppliants 'scorn him, and his followers 

fly; 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



651 



Now drops at once the pride of awful 

state, 
The goKlen canopy, the glittering plate, 
The regal palace, the luxurious board, 
The liveried army, and the menial lord ; 
With age, with cares, with maladies op- 

press'd, 
He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. 
Grief aids disease, rememlier'd folly stings. 
And his last sighs reproach the faitli of 

kings. 

Speak, thou whose thoughts at humble 

peace repine. 
Shall Wolsey's wealth with Wolsey's end 

be thine? 
Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride content. 
The wisest justice on tlie lianks of Trent? 
For why did Wolsey, near the steeps of 

fate, 
On weak foundations raise th' enormous 

weight ? 
Why liut to sink beneath misfortune's blow, 
With louder ruin to the gulfs below? 

A\'hat gave great Villiers to the assassin's 

knife, 
And fixed disea.se on Harley's closing life? 
Wiiat nuirder'd Wentworth, and what 

exiled Hyde, 
By kings protected and to kings allied? 
What but their wish indulged in courts to 

shine 
And power too great to keej) or to resign ? 

When first the college rolls receive his 

name. 
The young enthusiast quits his ease for 

fame ; 
Resistless burns the fever of renown, 
Caught from the strong contagion of the 

gown ; 
O'er Bodley's dome his future labors 

spread. 
And Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his 

head. 
Are these thy views? Proceed, illustrious 

youth, 
And Virtue guard tliee to tlie throne of 

Truth ! 
Yet should thy soul indulge the generous 

heat 
Till captive Science yields her last retreat; 



Should Reason guide thee with her bright- 
est ray, 
And pour on misty Doubt resistless day ; 
Should no false kindness lure to loose de- 

light, 
Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright ; 
Should tempting Novelty thy cell refrain. 
And Sloth diffuse her opiate fumes in vain ; 
Should Beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart. 
Nor claim the triumph of a letter'd heart ; 
Should no disesise thy torpid veins invade, 
Nor Jlelancholy's phantoms haunt thy 

shade ; 
Yet hope not life from grief or danger 

free, 
Nor think the doom of man reversed for 

thee. 
Deign on the passing world to turn thine 

eyes, 
And pause a while from letters to be wise ; 
: There mark wliat ills the scholar's life 

assail. 
Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail. 
See nations, slowly wise and meanly just, 
To buried merit raise the tardy bust. 
If dreams yet flatter, yet again attend. 
Hear Lydiat's life and Galileo's end. 

Nor deem, when Learning her last prize 

bestows. 
The glittering eminence exempt from foes; 
See, when the vulgar 'scapes, despised or 

awed, 
Rebellion's vengeful talons seize on Laud. 
From meaner minds, though smaller fines 

content 
The plunder'd jtalace, or sequester'd rent, 
JIark'd out by dangerous part.s, he meets 

the shock. 
And fatal Learning leads him to the block ; 
Around his tomb let Art and (Jenius weep. 
But hear his death, ye blockheads, hear 

and sleep. 

The festal blazes, the triumphal show. 
The ravish'd standard, and the captive foe. 
The senate's thanks, the Gazette's pompous 

tale. 
With force resistless o'er the brave prevail. 
Such bribes the rapid Greek o'er Asia 

whirl'd, 
For such tlie steady Romans shook the 

world ; 



652 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


For such in distant lands the Britons 


But did not Chance at length her error 


shine, 


mend ? 


And stain with blood the Danube or the 


Did no subverted empire mark his end? 


Rhine ; 


Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ? 


This power has praise, that virtue scarce 


Or hostile millions press him to the 


can warm 


ground ? 


Till Fame supplies the universal charm. 


His fall was destined to a barren strand, 


Yet Reason frowns on War's unequal game, 


A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; 


Where wasted nations raise a single name ; 


He left the name, at which the world grew 


And mortgaged states their grandsire's 


pale. 


wreaths regret, 


To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 


From age to age in everlasting debt ; 




Wreaths which at last the dear-bought 


All times their scenes of pompous woes 


right convey 


afford, 


To rust on medals, or on stones decay. 


From Persia's tyrant to Bavaria's lord. 




In gay hostility and barbarous pride, 


On what foundation stands the warrior's 


With half mankind embattled at his side, 


pride, 


Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain 


How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles 


prey. 


decide : 


And starves exhausted regions in his way ; 


A frame of adamant, a soul of fire. 


Attendant Flattery counts his myriads o'er, 


No dangers fright him, and no labors tire; 


Till counted myriads soothe his pride no 


O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide 


more ; 


domain. 


Fresh praise is tried till madness fires his 


Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of 


mind, 


pain ; 


The waves he lashes, and enchains the 


No joys to him pacific sceptres yield. 


wind. 


War sounds the trump, he rushes to the 


New powers are claim'd, new [lowers are 


field; 


still bestow'd. 


Behold surrounding kings their powers 


Till rude resistance lops the spreading 


combine. 


god. 


And one capitulate, and one resign ; 


The daring Greeks deride the martial 


Peace courts his hand, but spreads her 


show. 


charms in vain ; 


And heap their valleys with the gaudy 


" Think nothing gain'd," he cries, " till 


foe ; 


naught remain, 


Th' insulted sea with humbler thought he 


On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards 


gains, 


fl.v, 


A single skiff" to speed his flight remains ; 


And all be mine beneath the polar sky!" 


Th' encumber'd oar scarce leaves the 


The march begins in military state, 


dreaded coast 


And nations on his eye suspended wait ; 


Through purple billows and a floating host. 


Stern Famine guards the solitary coast. 




And Winter barricades the realms of 


The bold Bavarian, in a luckless hour. 


Frost ; 


Tries the dread summits of Cassarean 


He comes, nor want nor cold his course 


power. 


delay ; — 


With unexpected legions bursts away, 


Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day : 


And sees defenceless realms receive his 


The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken 


sway ; 


bands, 


Short sway ! fair Austria spreads her 


And shows his miseries in distant lands ; 


mournful charms. 


Condemn'd a needy supplicant to wait, 


The queen, the beauty, sets the world in 


While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. 


arms ; 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



653 



From hill to hill the beacon's rousing 

blaze 
Spreads wide the hope of plunder and of 

praise ; 
The fierce Croatian and the wild Hussar, 
With all the sons of ravage crowd the 

war ; 
The baffled prince, in honor's flattering 

bloom 
Of hasty greatness, finds the fatal doom. 
His foes' derision, and his subjects' blame, 
And steals to death from anguish and from 

shame. 

" Enlarge my life with multitude of 
days !" 

In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant 
prays ; 

Hides from himself his. state, and shuns to 
know 

That life protracted is protracted woe. 

Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy. 

And shuts up all the passages of joy. 

In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons 
pour, 

The fruit autumnal and the vernal flower ; 

With listless eyes the dotard views the 
store, 

He views, and wonders that they please no 
more ; 

>'ow pall the tasteless meats, and joyless 
wines. 

And Luxury with sighs her slave resigns. 

Approach, ye minstrels, try the soothing 
strain, 

Difl'use the tuneful lenitives of pain ; 

No sounds, alas ! would touch th' imper- 
vious car. 

Though dancing mountains witness'd Or- 
jiheus near : 

Nor lute nor lyre his feeble powers at- 
tend, 

Nor sweeter music of a virtuous friend ; 

Hut cverhLitiiig dictates crowd his tongue, 

Perversely grave, or positively wrong. 

The still returning tale, and lingering 
jest 

Perplex the fawning niece and panipcr'd 
guest. 

While growing hopes scarce awe the gath- 
ering sneer. 

And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear ; 



The watchful guests still hint the last 
ofl'ence ; 

The daughter's petulance, the son's ex- 
pense ; 

Improve his heady rage with treacherous 
skill. 

And mould his passions till thev make his 
will. 

Unnumber'd maladies his joints invade. 
Lay siege to life, and press the dire 

blockade ; 
But unextinguish'd Avarice still remains. 
And dreaded losses aggravate his pains ; 
He turns, with anxious heart and crippled 

hands. 
His bonds of debt, and mortgages of lands; 
Or views his coffers with sus])icious eyes. 
Unlocks his gold, and counts it till he 

dies. 

But grant, the virtues of a temperate 

prime 
Bless with an age exempt from scorn or 

crime ; 
An age that melts with unperceived decay, 
And glides in modest innocence away ; 
Whose peaceful day Benevolence endears, 
AVhose night congratul.iting Conscience 

cheers ; 
The general favorite as the general friend ; 
Such age there is, and who shall wish its 

end? 

Yet even on this her load Misfortune 
I flings. 

To press the weary minutes' flagging wings ; 

New sorrow rises as the day returns, 

A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns ; 

Now kindred Merit fills the sable bier, 
I Now lacerated Friendship claims a tear; 
• Year chases year, decay pursues decay. 

Still drops some joy from withering life 
away ; 

New forms arise, and diflferent views en- 

I g«ge, 

' Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage. 
Till pitying Nature signs the last release, 
And bids afllicted worth retire to peace. 

But few there are whom hours like these 
I await, 

Who set unclouded in the gulfs of Fate. 



654 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



From Lydia's monarch should the search 

descend, 
By Solon caution'd to regard his end, 
In life's last scene what prodigies surprise, 
Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise ; 
From Marlborough's eyes the streams of 

dotage flow. 
And Swift expires a driveller and a show! 

The teeming mother, anxious for her 

race. 
Begs for each birth the fortune of a face; 
Yet Vane could tell wliat ills from beauty 

spring ; 
And Sedley cursed the form that pleased a 

king. 
Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes, 
Whom Pleasure keeps too busy to be wise ; 
Whom joys with soft varieties invite. 
By day the frolic, and the dance by night; 
Who frown with vanity, who smile with 

art. 
And ask the latest fashion of the heart; 
What care, what rules, your heedless 

charms shall save. 
Each nymph your rival, and each youth 

your slave? 
Against your fame with fondness hate 

combines, 
The rival batters, and the lover mines: 
With distant voice neglected Virtue calls. 
Less heard and less, the faint remonstrance 

falls ; 
Tired with contempt, she quits the slippery 

reign. 
And Pride and Prudence take her seat in 

vain. 
In crowd at once, where none the pass de- 
fend. 
The harmless freedom, and the private 

friend ; 
The guardians yield, by force superior 

plied: 
To Interest, Prudence ; and to Flattery, 

Pride. 
Here Beauty falls betray'd, despised, dis- 

tress'd, 
And hissing Infamy proclaims the rest 

Where then shall Hope and Fear their 
objects find ? 
Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant 
mind? 



Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate. 
Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate? 
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise. 
No cries invoke the mercies of the skies? 
Inquirer, cease ; petitions yet remain 
Which Heaven may hear, nor deem Re- 
ligion vain. 
Still raise for good the supplicating voice. 
But leave to Heaven the measure and the 

choice. 
Safe in His power whose eyes discern 

afar 
The secret ambush of a specious prayer, 
Implore His aid, in His decisions rest, 
Secure, whate'er He gives. He gives the 

best. 
Yet, when the sense of sacred presence 

fires. 
And strong devotion to the skies aspires. 
Pour forth thy fervors for a healthful 

mind. 
Obedient passions, and a will resign'd ; 
For love, which scarce collective man can 

fill; 
For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted 

ill; 
For feith, that, panting for a happier 

seat, 
Counts deatli kind Nature's signal of re- 
treat. 
These goods for n^an the laws of Heaven 

ordain ; 
These goods He grants who grants the 

power to gain ; 
With these celestial Wisdom calms the 

mind. 

And makes the liappiness she does not 

find. 

Samuel Johnson. 



The Vanity of the World. 

False world, thou ly 'st ; thou canst not lend 

The least delight : 
Thy favors cannot gain a friend, 

They are so slight : 
Thy morning pleasures make an end 

To please at night : 
Poor are the wants that thou supply'st. 
And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st 
With heaven ; fond earth, thou boast'st ; 
false world, thou ly'st. 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



655 



Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales 

Of endless treasure ; 
Thy bounty oft'ers easy sales 

Of lasting pleasure ; 
Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails, 

And swear'st to ease her ; 
There's none can want where thou sup- 
ply "st : 
There's none can give where thou deny'st. 
Alas! fond world, thou boast'st; false world, 
thou ly'st. 

What well-advisfed ear regards 

What earth can say? 
Thy words are gold, but thy rewards 

Are painted clay : 
Thy cunning can but pack the cards, 

Thou canst not play : 
Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st ; 
If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st: 
Thou art not what thou seem'st ; false 
world, thou ly'st. 

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint 

Of new-coin'd treasure : 
A paradise, that has no stint. 

No change, no measure ; 
A painted cask, but nothing in't, 

Nor wealth, nor pleasure : 
Vain earth ! that falsely thus comply'st 
With man ; vain man, that thou rely'st 
On earth; vain man, thou doat'st; vain 
earth, thou ly'st. 

What mean dull souls, in this high meas- 
ure, 

To habcrdash 
In earth's bsisc wares, whose greatest treas- 
ure 

Is dross and trash ; 
The height of whose enchanting pleasure 

Is but a flash ? 

Are these the goods that thou supply'st 

Us mortals with ? Are these the higli'st? 

Can the.se bring cordial peace? False 

world, thou ly'st. 

Fbascis QL'AKLES. 

The Lie. 

Go, soul, the body's guest. 
Upon a thankless arrant ; 

Fear not to touch the best, 
Tlic truth shall be thv warrant : 



Go, since I needs must die. 
And give the world the lie. 

Go, tell the court it glows 

And shines like rotten wood; 
Go, tell the Church it shows 
What's good, and doth no good. 
If Church and court reply, 
Then give them both the lie. 

Tell potentates they live 

Acting by others' action. 
Not loved unless they give. 
Not strong but by a faction. 
If potentates reply. 
Give potentates the lie. 

Tell men of high condition 

That rule affairs of state. 

Their purpose is ambition. 

Their practice only hate. 

And if they once reply, 

Then give them all the lie. 

Tell them that brave it most, 

They beg for more by spending, 
Who, in their greatest cost, 
Seek nothing but commending. 
And if they make reply. 
Then give them all the lie. 

Tell zeal it lacks devotion. 

Tell love it is but lust. 
Tell time it is but motion, 
Tell flesh it is but dust ; 
And wish them not reply. 
For thou must give the lie. 

Tell age it daily vvasteth. 

Tell honor how it alters, 
Tell beauty how she blasteth, 
Tell favor how it falters. 
And as they shall reply, 
Give every one the lie. 

Tell wit how much it wrangles 
In tickle points of niceness; 
Tell wisdom she entangles 
Herself in over-wiseness. 
And when they do reply. 
Straight give them both the lie. 

Tell physic of her boldness. 
Tell skill it is pretension, 

Tell charity of coldness. 
Tell law it is contention. 



656 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



And as they do reply, 
So give them still the lie. 

Tell fortune of her blindness, 

Tell Nature of decay, 
Tell friendship of unkindness, 
Tell justice of delay. 
And if they will reply. 
Then give them all the lie. 

Tell arts they have no soundness. 

But vary by esteeming ; 
Tell schools they want profoundness, 
And stand too much on seeming. 
If arts and schools reply, 
Give arts and schools the lie. 

■Tell faith it's fled the city; 

Tell how the country erreth ; 
Tell, manhood shakes off pity; 
Tell, virtue least preferreth. 
And if they do reply. 
Spare not to give the lie. 

So when thou hast, as I 

Commauded thee, done blabbing, 
Although to give the lie 
Deserves no less than stabbing, 
Yet, stab at thee who will. 
No stab the soul can kill. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 



ARMSTRONG'S Good-Night. 

This night is my departing night. 
For here nae langer must I stay ; 

There's neither friend nor foe o' mine 
But wishes me away. 

What I have done thro' lack o' wit 

I never, never can recall. 
I hope ye' re a' my friends as yet : 

Good-night ! and joy be wi' you all ! 
Author Unknown. 



Melancholy. 

Hence, all you vain delights, 
As short as are the nights 

Wherein you spend your folly: 
There's naught in this life sweet 
If man were wise to see't. 
But only Melancholy, 
sweetest Melancholy I 



Welcome, folded arms and fixfed eyes, 
A sigh that piercing mortifies, 
A look that's fasten'd to the ground, 
A tongue chain'd up without a sound ! 
Fountain-heads and pathless groves. 
Places which pale passion loves ! 
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
Are warmly housed save bats and owls ! 
A midnight bell, a parting groan ! 
These are the sounds we feed upon ; 

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy 
valley ; 

Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely Melan- 
choly. 

John Fletcher. 



Sonnet. 

A GOOD that never satisfies the mind, 

A beauty fading like the April showers, 
A sweet with floods of gall that runs com- 
bined, 
A pleasure passing ere in thought made 
ours, 
A honor that more fickle is than wind, 
A glory at opinion's frown that lowers, 
A treasury which bankrupt time de- 
vours, 
A knowledge than grave ignorance more 
blind, 
A vain delight our equals to command, 
A style of greatness in effect a dream, 
A swelling thought of holding sea and 
land, 
A servile lot deck'd with a pompous name : 
Are the strange ends we toil for here 

below 
Till wisest death make us our errors 

know. 

William Drummond. 



THERE'S NOT A JOY THE WORLD 

CAN Give. 

There's not a joy the world can give like 

that it takes away 
When the glow of early thought declines 

in feeling's dull decay ; 
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush 

alone which fades so fast, 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere 

youth itself be past. 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



657 



riicii the I'lW whose spirits float above the 

wreck of happiness 
Are flriven o'er the siioals of guilt or ocean 

of excess : 
The iiiiignot of tiieir course is gone, or only 

points in vain 
The shore to which their shivcr'd sail shall 

never stretch again. 

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like 
death itself comes down; 

It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not 
dream its own ; 

That heavy chill has frozen o'er the foun- 
tain of our tears, 

And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis 
where the ice appears. 

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and 

mirth distract the breast, 
Through midnigiit hours that yield no more 

their former hope of rest; 
'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd 

turret wreathe, 
All green and wildly fresh without, but 

worn and gray beneath. 

Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I 

have been. 
Or weep as I could once have wept o'er 

many a vanish'd scene, — 
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all 

brackish though they be, 
So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those 

tears would flow to me ! 

Lord Byros. 

GOOD-BVE. 

Goon-BYE, proud world I I'm going home; 

Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine. 
Long through thy weary crowds I roam ; 

A river-ark on the ocean brine. 
Long I've been toss'd like the driven foam, 
But now, proud world, I'm going home. 

Oood-bye to flattery's fawning face, 
To grandeur, with his wise grimace, 
To upstart wealth's averted eye, 
To supple otlice, low and liigh. 
To crowded halls, to court and street, 
To frozen hearts and hasting feet, 
To those who go and those who come, — 
Good-bye, proud world I I'm going home. 
" 42 



I am going to my own hearthstone, 
Bosom'd in yon green hills alone — 
A secret nook in a pleasant land. 
Whose groves the frolic fairies plann'd, 
Where arclies green, the livelong day. 
Echo the blackbird's roundelay, 
And vulgar feet have never trod, — 
A spot that is sacred to thought and God. 

Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home, 
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome, 
And when I am stretch'd beneath the 

pines, 
Where the evening star so holy shines, 
I laugh at the lore and pride of man, 
At the sophist schools, and the learnM 

clan ; 
For what are they all, in their high conceit, 
When man in the bush with God may 

meet ? 

Ralph Waldo Euekson. 



iVo AGE Context with hjs Own 
Est A TE. 

Laid in my quiet bed. 

In study as I were, 
I saw within my troubled head 

A heap of thoughts appear. 

And every thought did show 

80 lively in mine eyes, 
That now I sigh'd, and then I smiled, 

As cause of thoughts did rise. 

I saw the little boy. 

In thought how oft that he 
Did wish of God to 'scape the rod, 

A tall young man to be. 

The young man eke that feels 
His bones with pains opprcss'd, 

How he would be a rich old man. 
To live and lie at rest. 

The rich old man that sees 

His end draw on so sore. 
How he would be a boy again, 

To live so much the more. 

Whereat full oft I smiled, 

To see how all these three. 
From boy to man, from man to boy, 

Would chop and change degree. 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



And musing thus, I think, 

The case is very strauge, 
That man from wealth, to live in woe, 

Doth ever seek to change. 

Thus thoughtful as I lay, 

I saw my wither'd skin. 
How it doth show my dented thews, 

The flesh was worn so thin ; 

And eke my toothless chaps, 

The gates of my right way, 
That opes and shuts as I do speak, 

Do thus unto me say : 

" The white and hoarish hairs, 
The messengers of age, 
That show, like lines of true belief. 
That this life doth assuage ; 

" Bid thee lay hand, and feel 
Them hanging on my chin. 
The which do write two ages past. 
The third now coming in. 

" Hang up, therefore, the bit 
Of thy young wanton time. 
And thou that therein beaten art, 
The happiest life define." 

Whereat I sigh'd, and said, 

" Farewell my wonted joy ! 
Truss up thy pack, and trudge from me. 
To every little boy, 

" And tell them thus from me. 
Their time most happy is, 
If to their time they reason had. 
To know the truth of this." 

Henry Howard 

(Earl of Surrey). 



Different Minds. 

Some murmur when their sky is clear 

And wholly bright to view. 
If one small speck of dark appear 

In their great heaven of blue ; 
And some with thankful love are fill'd 

If but one streak of light, 
One ray of God's good mercy, gild 

The darkness of their night. 

In palaces are hearts that ask, 
In discontent and pride. 



Why life is such a dreary task. 
And all good things denied ; 

And hearts in poorest huts admire 
How Love has in their aid 

(Love that not ever seems to tire) 
Such rich provision made. 

Richard Chenevix Tkench. 



The Praise of a Solitary Life. 

Thrice happy he, who by some shady 
grove. 
Far from the clamorous world, doth live 

his own ; 
Though solitary, who is not alone, 
But doth converse with that eternal Love. 
Oh how more sweet is bird's harmonious 
moan, 
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, 
Than those smooth whisperings near a 
prince's throne, 
Which good make doubtful, do the evil 
approve ! 
Oh ! how more sweet is Zephyr's whole- 
some breath. 
And sighs embalm'd, which new-born 
flowers unfold. 
Than that applause vain honor doth be- 
queath I 
How sweet are streams to poison drank in 
gold ! 
The world is full of horrors, troubles, 

slights : 
Woods' harmless shades have only true 

delights. 

William Drummond. 



On a Contented Mind. 

When all is done and said, 

In the end this shall you find : 
He most of all doth bathe in bliss 

That hath a quiet mind ; 
And, clear from worldly cares, 

To deem can be content 
The sweetest time in all his life 

In thinking to be spent. 



The body subject is 

To fickle Fortune's power. 
And to a million of mishaps 

Is casual every hour ; 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



659 



And Death in time doth change 

It to a cloil of day, 
When as the mind, which is divine, 

Runs never to decay. 

Companion none is like 

Unto the mind alone. 
For many have been harm'd by 
speech. 

Through thinking, few or none. 
Fear oftentimes rcstraineth words, 

I?iit makes not thoughts to cease, 
And he speaks best that hath the skill 

When for to hold his peace. 

Our wealth leaves us at death. 

Our kinsmen at the grave, 
But virtues of the mind unto 

The heavens with us we have; 
Wherefore, for virtue's sake, 

I can be well content 
The sweetest time of all my life 

To deem in thinking spent. 

TuouAs, Lord Vaux. 



A IlYMX TO CoyTENTilENT. 

Lovely, lasting peace of mind I 
Sweet delight of human kind ! 
Heavenly born, and bred on high, 
To crown the favorites of the sky 
With more of happiness below. 
Than victors in a triumph know ! 
^\'hither, oh whither art thou fled. 
To lay thy meek, contented head? 
What happy region dost thou please 
To make the seat of calms and ease ? 

Ambition searches all its sphere 
Of pomp and state, to meet thee there. 
Increasing Avarice would find 
Thy presence in its gold enshrined. 
The bold adventurer ploughs his way, 
Through rocks amidst the foaming .sea. 
To gain thy love ; and then perceives 
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. 
The silent heart, which grief assails. 
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, 
See daisies open, rivers run, 
And seeks (as I have vainly done) 
Amusing thought ; but learns to know 
That Solitude's the nurse of woe. 



No real happiness is found 

In trailing i)urple o'er the ground : 

Or in a soul exalted high. 

To range the circuit of the sky, 

Converse with stars above, and know 

All Nature in its forms below ; 

The rest it seeks, in seeking dies. 

And doubts at la-st for knowledge rise. 

Lovely, lasting peace, appear ! 
This world itself, if thou art here. 
Is once again with Eden blest. 
And man contains it in his breast. 

'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, 
I sung my wishes to the wood, 
And, lost in thought, no more perceived 
The branches whisper as they waved : 
It seem'd as all the quiet place 
Confess'd the presence of the Grace. 
When thus she spoke — Go rule thy will. 
Bid thy wild passions all be still, 
Know God — and bring thy heart to know 
The joys which from religion flow: 
Then every Grace shall prove its guest. 
And I'll be there to crown the rest. 

Oh ! by yonder mossy seat, 
In my hours of sweet retreat. 
Might I thus my soul employ 
With sense of gratitude and joy : 
Raised as ancient prophets were. 
In heavenly vision, praise and prayer ; 
Pleasing all men, hurting none. 
Pleased and bless'd with God alone : 
Then while the gardens take my sight, 
With all the colors of delight ; 
While silver waters glide along, 
To please my ear, and court my song ; 
I'll lift my voice, and tune my string. 
And Thee, great .Source of Nature, sing. 

The sun that walks his air)- way. 
To light the world, and give the day ; 
The moon that shines with borrow'd light; 
The stars that gild the gloomy night ; 
The seas that roll unnumber'd waves ; 
The wood that spreads its shady leaves ; 
The field whose ears conceal the grain. 
The yellow treasure of the plain ; 
All of these, and all I see. 
Should be sung, and sung by me : 
They speak their Maker as they can. 
But want and ask the tongue of man. 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Go search among your idle dreams, 
Your busy or your vain extremes ; 
And find a life of equal bliss, 
Or own the next begun in this. 

Thomas Parnell. 



A Contented Mind. 

I WEIGH not fortune's frown or smile ; 

I joy not much in earthly joys; 
I seek not state, I reck not style ; 

I am not fond of fancy's toys: 
I rest so jileased with what I have 
I wish no more, no more I crave. 

I quake not at the thunder's crack ; 

I tremble not at noise of war ; 
I swound not at the news of wrack ; 

I shrink not at a blazing star ; 
I fear not loss, I hope not gain, 
I envy none, I none disdain. 

I see ambition never pleased ; 

I see some Tantals starved in store ; 
I see gold's dropsy seldom eased ; 

I see even Jlidas gape for more : 
I neither want, nor yet abound — 
Enough's a feast, content is crown'd. 

I feign not friendship where I hate ; 

I fawn not on the great (in show) ; 
I prize, I praise a mean estate — 

Neither too lofty nor too low : 
This, this is all my choice, my cheer— 
A mind content, a conscience clear. 

Joshua Sylvester. 



Sweet Content. 

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slum- 
bers? 

O sweet content ! 
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed? 
O punishment ! 
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are 
vex^d 
To add to golden numbers, golden num- 
bers ? 
O sweet content ! O sweet, sweet con- 
tent ! 
Work apace, apace, apace, apace ; 
Honest labor beai's a lovely face ; 
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny ! 



Canst drink the waters of the crispfed 
spring? 

sweet content ! 
Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in 
thine own tears ? 

punishment ! 
Then he that patiently want's burden 
bears 
No burden bears, but is a king, a king ! 
O sweet content! sweet, O sweet con- 
tent! 
"Work apace, apace, apace, apace ; 
Honest labor bears a lovely face ; 
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny ! 
Thomas Dekkee. 



Content. 

Sweet are the thoughts that savor of con- 
tent — 
The quiet mind is richer than a crown ; 

Sweet are the nights in careless slumber 
spent — 
The poor estate scorns fortune's angry 
frown : 

Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, 
such bliss. 

Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do mi.ss. 

The homely house that harbors quiet rest, 

The cottage that affords no pride or 

care. 

The mean that 'grees with country music 

best. 

The sweet consort of mirth and music's 

fare, 

Obscurfed life sets down a type of bliss : 

A mind content both crown and kingdom 

is. 

Robert Greene. 



Careless Content. 

I AM content, I do not care, 
AVag as it will the world for me; 

When fuss and fret was all my fare, 
It got no ground as I could see : 

So when away my caring went, 

I counted cost, and was content. 

With more of thanks and less of thought, 
I strive to make my matters meet ; 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



661 



To seek what ancient sages sought, 

Physio iiiui food in sour and sweet: 
To take what passes in good part, 
And keep the hiccups from the heart. 

With good and gentle-humor'd hearts 
I choose to chat where'er I come, 

Whate'er the subject be that starts ; 
But if I get among the glum, 

I hold my tongue to tell the truth, 

And keep my breath to cool my broth. 

For chance or change of peace or pain, 
For Fortune's favor or her frown. 

For lack or glut, for loss or gain, 
I never dodge nor up nor down ; 

But swing what way the ship shall swim. 

Or tack about with equal trim. 

I suit not where I shall not speed, 
Nor trace the turn of every tide; 

If simjjle sense will not succeed, 
I make no bu.stling, but abide ; 

For shining wealth or scaring woe, 

I force no friend, I fear no foe. 

Of ups and downs, of ins and outs. 

Of they're i' the wrong, and we're i' 
the right, 

I shun the rancors and the routs; 
And wishing well to every wight, 

Wh.atever turn the m.atter takes, 

I deem it all but ducks and drakes. 

With whom I fea.st I do not fawn, 

Nor if the folks should flout nic, faint; 

If wonted welcome be witlidniwn, 
I cook no kind of a complaint : 

With none disjjosed to disagree. 

But like them best who best Like me. 

Not that I rate myself the rule 

How all my betters should behave ; 

But fame shall find me no man's fool. 
Nor to a set of men a slave : 

I love a friendsliip free and frank, 

And hate to hang upon a hunk. 

Fond of a true and trusty tie, 
I never loose where'er I link ; 

Though if a business budges by, 
I talk thereon just ;ls I think ; 

J[y word, my work, my heart, my hand, 

ytill on a side together stand. 



If names or notions make a noise. 
Whatever hap the question hath, 

The point impartially I poise, 

.\nd read or write, but without wrath ; 

For should I burn, or break my brains, 

Pray, who will pay me for my pains? 

I love my neighbor as myself. 

Myself like him too, by his leave; 

Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf 
Came I to crouch, as I conceive: 

Dame Nature doubtless has design'd 

A man the monarch of his mind. 

Now taste and try this temper, sirs; 

Jlood it and brood it in your breast ; 
Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs. 

That man does right to mar his rest. 
Let me be deft, and debonair, 
I am content, I do not care. 

John Byro.m. 



Character of a Happy Life. 

How happy is he born and taught 
That serveth not another's will ; 

Whose armor is his honest thought 
And simple truth his utmost skill ! 

Whose passions not his masters are, 
^V'hose soul is still prepared for death. 

Not tied unto the world with care 
Of [jublic fame, or private breath ; 

Who envies none that chance doth raise 
Or vice ; who never understood 

How deepest wounds are given by praise ; 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good : 

Who hath his life from rumors freed, 
Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 

Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 
Nor ruin make accusers great ; 

Who God doth late and early pray 
More of His grace than gifts to lend ; 

And entertains the harmless day 
With a well-chosen book or friend ; 

— This man is freed from servile bands 
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; 

Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 
And having nothing, yet hath all. 

Sib Heney Wottos. 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



THE PULLEY. 

When God at first made Man, 
Having a glass of blessings standing by ; 

Let us (said He) pour on him all we can : 
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie. 

Contract into a span. 

So strength first made a way ; 
Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honor, 
pleasure : 
When almost all was out, God made a 
stay. 
Perceiving that alone of all His treasure, 
Rest in the bottom lay. 

For if I should (said He) 
Bestow this jewel also on My creature, 

He would adore My gifts instead of Me, 
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature : 

So both should losers be. 

Yet let him keep the rest. 
But keep them with repining restlessness : 

Let him be rich and weary, that at least. 
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness 

May toss him to My breast. 

George Herbert. 



The Kingdom of God. 

I .SAY to thee, do thou repeat 

To the first man thou mayest meet, 

In lane, highway, or open street,— 

That he, and we, and all men move 

Under a canopy of Love, 

As broad as the blue sky above: 

That doubt and trouble, fear and pain. 
And anguish, all are shadows vain ; 
That death itself shall not remain : 

That weary deserts we may tread, 
A dreary labyrinth may thread, 
Through dark ways underground be led ; 

Yet, if we will one Guide obey. 
The dreariest path, the darkest way, 
Shall issue out in heavenly day ; 

And we, on divers shores now cast, 
Shall meet, our perilous voyage past, 
All iu our Father's home at last. 



And ere thou leave him, say thou this : 
Yet one word more : They only miss 
The winning of that perfect bliss 

Who will not count it true that Love, 
Blessing, not cursing, rules above. 
And that in it we live and move. 

And one thing further make him know : 
That to believe these things are so, 
This firm faith never to forego, — 

Despite of all which seems at strife 
With blessing, and with curses rife, — 
That this is blessing, this is life. 

BiCUARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 



Virtue. 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright. 

The bridal of the earth and sky. 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; 
For thou must die. 

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, 

Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 
Thy root is ever in its grave — 

And thou must die. 

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and 
roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie. 
My music shows ye have your closes, 
And all must die. 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul. 

Like season'd timber, never gives; 
But, though the whole world turn to coal. 
Then chiefly lives. 

George Herbert. 



The Good, Great Man. 

How seldom, friend, a good great man in- 
herits 
Honor and wealth, with all his worth 
and pains ! 
It seems a story from the world of spirits 
When any man obtains that which he 
merits. 
Or any merits that which he obtains. 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



663 



For shame, my friend I renounce this idle 

strain ! 
Wliat wouldst thou have a good great man 

obtain? 
Wcaltli, title, dignity, a golden chain, 
Or heap of corses which his sword hath 

slain ? 
Goodness and greatness are not means, but 

ends. 

Hath he not always treasures, always 

friends. 
The great good man ? Three treasures, — 

love, and light. 
And calm thoughts, equable as infant's 

breath ; 
And three fast friends, more sure than day 

or night, — 
Himself, his Maker, and the angel 

Death. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



SoyyET TO Hope. 

Oh, ever skill'd to wear the form we love ! 
To bid the shapes of fear and grief de- 
part. 
Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile 
remove 
The lasting sadness of an aching heart. 
Thy voice, benign enchantress, let me 
hear; 
Say that for me some pleasures yet shall 
bloom, 
That Fancy's radiance. Friendship's pre- 
cious tear, 
Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's 
gloom. 
But come not glowing in the dazzling 
ray 
AVhich once with dear illusions charm'd 
my eye, 
Oh, strew no more, sweet flatterer, on my 
way 
The flowers I fondly thought too bright 
to die ; 
Visions less fair will soothe my pensive 

breast. 
That asks not happiness, but longs for 
rest! 

IIki.kn Makia Williams. 



The Problem. 

I LIKE a church, I like a cowl, 
I love a prophet of the soul, 
And on my heart monastic aisles 
P'all like sweet strains or pensive smiles. 
Yet not for all his faith can see 
Would I that cowlfed churchman be. 

Why should the vest on him allure, 
Which I could not on me endure? 

Not from a vain or shallow thought 
His awful Jove young Phidias brought ; 
Never from lips of cunning fell 
The thrilling Delphic oracle ; 
Out from the heart of Nature roll'd 
The burdens of the Bible old ; 
The litanies of nations came, 
Like the volcano's tongue of flame. 
Up from the burning core below, — 
The canticles of love and woe. 
The hand that rounded Peter's dome. 
And groin'd the aisles of Christian Rome, 
Wrought in a sad sincerity. 
Himself from God he could not free ; 
He builded better than he knew ; 
The conscious stone to beauty grew. 

Know'st thou what wove yon wood-bird's 
nest 
Of leaves, and feathers from her breast ? 
Or how the fish outbuilt her shell. 
Painting with morn each annual cell? 
Or how the sacred pine tree adds 
To her old leaves new myriads ? 
Sucii and so grew these holy piles, 
Wiiilst love and terror laid tlio tiles. 
Eartli proudly wears tlie Parthenon 
As the best gem upon her zone ; 
And Morning opes with haste her lids 
To gaze upon the Pyramids ; 
O'er England's abbeys bends the sky 
.\s on its friends with kindred eye; 
For, out of Thought's interior sphere 
These wonders rose to upper air. 
And Nature gladly gave them place, 
Adopted them into her race. 
And granted them an equal date 
With .\ndes and with Ararat. 

These temi)les grew as grows the grass ; 
Art might obey, but not surpass. 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



The passive Master lent his hand 

To the vast Soul that o'er him plann'd, 

And the same power that rear'd the shrine, 

Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. 

Ever the fiery Pentecost 

Girds with one flame the countless host, 

Trances the heart through chanting choirs. 

And through the priest the mind inspires. 

The word unto the prophet spoken 
Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; 
The word by seers or sibyls told, 
In groves of oak or fanes of gold, 
Still floats upon the morning wind, 
Still whispers to the willing mind. 
One accent of the Holy Ghost 
The heedless world hath never lost. 
I know what say the Fathers wise, — 
The Book itself before me lies, — 
Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, 
And he who blent both in his line. 
The younger Go/den Lips or mines, 
Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. 
His words are music in my ear, 
I see his cowled portrait dear. 
And yet, for all his faith could see, 
I would not the good bishop be. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



Abou Ben Adhem. 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe in- 
crease !) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of 

peace, 
And saw within the moonlight in his room, 
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, 
An angel, writing in a book of gold ; 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem 

bold. 
And to the presence in the room he said, 
" What writest thou ?" the vision raised 

its head, 
And with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answer'd, " The names of those who love 

the Lord." 
" And is mine one ?" said Abou. " Nay, 

not so," 
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low. 
But cheerly still ; and said, " 1 pray thee, 

then. 
Write me as one that loves his fellow- 
men." 



The angel wrote and vanish'd. The 
next night 
It came again, with a great wakening light. 
And show'd the names whom love of God 

had bless'd, 
And, lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 

Leigh Hunt. 



Ode to Duty. 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! 

O Duty ! if that name thou love 
Who art a Light to guide, a Rod 

To check the erring, and reprove ; 
Thou, who art victory and law 
When empty terrors overawe ; 
From vain temptations dost set free ; 
And calm'st the weary strife of frail hu- 
manity ! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 
Be oil them ; who, in love and truth. 

Where no misgiving is, rely 

Upon the genial sense of youth : 

Glad hearts ! without reproach or blot ; 

Who do thy work, and know it not : 

Long may the kindly impulse last ! 

But thou, if they should totter, teach 
them to stand fast ! 

Serene will be our days and bright, 
And happy will our nature be. 

When love is an unerring light, 
And joy its own security. 

And they a blissful course may hold 

Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 

Live in the spirit of this creed ; 

Yet find that other strength, according to 
their need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried, 
No sport of every random gust, 

Yet being to myself a guide, 
Too blindly have reposed my trust : 

And oft, when in my heart was heard 

Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd 

The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 

But thee I now would serve more strictly, 
if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul. 
Or strong compunction in me wrought, 

I supplicate for thy control ; 

But in the quietness of thought: 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



665 



5Ie tliis uucharter'd freedom tires ; 
I tVil tlie woiglit of chance desires: 
My hopes no more must change their name, 
I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 

Nor know we anything so fair 
As is tlie smile upon thy face : 

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds ; 

And Fragrance in thy footing treads; 

Thou dost preserve the i^tars from wrong ; 

And the most ancient Heavens, through 
thee, are fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power ! 

I call thee : I myself commend 
Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 

Oh, let ray weakness have an end ! 
Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
The confidence of reason give ; 
And in the light of truth thy Bondman 
let me live ! 

William Wokdswoktii. 



The Touchstone. 

A .MAN there came, whence none could 
tell, 

Bearing a touchstone in his hand ; 

And tested all things in the land 
By its unerring spell. 

Quick birth of transmutation smote 
The fair to foul, the foul to fair; 
Purple nor ermine did he spare. 

Nor scorn the dusty coat. 

Of heirloom jewels, prized so much, 

Were many changed to chips and 

clods. 
And even statues of the gods 

Crumbled beneath its touch. 

Then angrily the people cried, 

" The loss outweighs the profit far ; 
Our goods suflice us as they are ; 

\Ve will not have them tried." 

And since they could not so avail 
To cheek his uurelciitiiig ipiest. 
They seized him, saying, "Let him test, 

How real is our jail '." 



But, though they slew him with the 
sword, 
And in a fire his touchstone burn'd. 
Its doings could not be o'erturn'd. 

Its undoings restored. 

And when, to stop all future harm, 
They strew'd its ashes on the breeze ; 
They little gucss'd each grain of these 

Convey'd the iierfect charm. 

William Allingiiam. 



The Philosopher'.s Scales. 

A MONK, when his rites sacerdotal were 

o'er. 
In the depths of his cell with his stone- 

cover'd floor. 
Resigning to thought his chimerical brain, 
Once form'd the contrivance we now shall 

explain ; 
But whether by magic's or alchemy's 

powers 
We know not ; indeed, 'tis no business of 

ours. 

Perhaps it was only by patience and care, 

At la-st, that he brought his invention to 
bear. 

In youth 'twas projected, but years stole 
away. 

And ere 'twas complete he was wrinkled 
and gray ; 

But success is secure, unless energy fails ; 

And at length he produced the philoso- 
pher's SCALES. 

"What were they?" you ask. You shall 

presently see ; 
These scales were not made to weigh sugar 

and tea. 
Oh no; for such properties wondrous had 

they, 
That qualities, feelings, and thoughts they 

could weigh. 
Together with articles small or immense. 
From mountains or planets to atoms of 

sense. 

Naught was there so bulky but there it 

would lay, 
And naught so ethereal but there it would 

stay, 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. 



And naught so reluctant but in it must go : 
All which some examples more clearly 
will show. 

The first thing he weigh'd was the head 

of Voltaire, 
Which retain'd all the wit that had ever 

been there. 
As a weight, he threw in a torn scrap of a 

leaf, 
Containing the prayer of the penitent 

thief; 
When the slcuU rose aloft with so sudden 

a spell 
That it bounced like a ball on the roof of 

the cell. 

One time he put in Alexander the Great, 
With the garment that Dorcas had made 

for a weight ; 
And though clad in armor from sandals to 

crown, 
The hero rose up, and the garment went 

down. 

A long row of almshouses, amply endow'd 
By a well-esteem'd Pharisee, busy and 

proud, 
Next loaded one scale ; while the other 

was press'd 
By those mites the poor widow dropp'd 

into the chest : 
Up flew the endowment, not weighing an 

ounce. 
And down, down the farthing-worth came 

with a bounce. 

By further experiments (no matter how) 
He found tliat ten chariots weigh'd less 

than one plough ; 
A sword with gilt trapping rose up in the 

scale, 
Though balanced by only a ten-penny 

nail ; 
A shield and a helmet, a buckler and 

spear, 
Weigh'd less than a widow's uncrystal- 

lized tear. 

A lord and a lady went up at full sail, 
When a bee chanced to light on the oppo- 
site scale ; 



Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one 

earl, 
Ten counsellors' wigs full of powder and 

curl, 
All heap'd in one balance and swinging 

from thence, 
Weigh'd less than a few grains of candor 

and sense ; 
A first-water diamond, with brilliants 

begirt. 
Than one good potato just wash'd from 

the dirt ; 
Yet not mountains of silver and gold could 

suffice 
One pearl to outweigh, — 'twas the pearl of 

great price. 

Last of all, the whole world was bowl'd 

in at the grate, 
With the soul of a beggar to serve for a 

weight, 
When the former sprang up with so strong 

a rebuff 
That it made a vast rent and escaped at 

the roof! 
When bahmced in air, it ascended on high, 
And sailed up aloft, a balloon in the sky ; 
While the scale with the soul in't so 

mightily fell 

That itjerk'd the philosopher out of his 

cell. 

Jane Taylor. 



TffE Hermit. 

Far in a wild, unknown to public view. 
From youth to age a reverend hermit 

grew ; 
The moss his bed, the cave his humble 

cell. 
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal 

well : 
Remote from man, with God he pass'd the 

days, 
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure 

praise. 

A life so sacred, such serene repose, 
Seem'd heaven itself, till one suggestion 

rose ; 
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey. 
This sprung some doubt of Providence's 

sway : 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



667 



His hopes no more a certain prospect 
boa-st, 

And all the tenor of his soul is lost. 

So when a smooth expanse receives im- 
prest 

Calm Nature's image on its watery breast, 

Down bend the banks, the trees depending 
grow. 

And skies beneath with answering colors 
glow ; 

But if a stone the gentle scene divide, 

Swift ruffling circles curl on every side. 

And glimmering fragments of a broken 
sun, 

Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder 
run. 

To clear this doubt, to know the world by 

sight, 
To find if books, or swains, report it 

right 
(For yet by swains alone the world he 

knew, 
Whose feet came wandering o'er the 

nightly dew). 
He quits his cell ; the pilgrira-stafT he 

bore, 
And fix'd the scallop in his hat before ; 
Then with the sun a rising journey went, 
Sedate to think, and watching each event. 

The morn was wasted in the pathless 
grass. 

And long and lonesome was the wild to 
pass; 

But when the southern sun had warm'd 
the day, 

A youth came posting o'er a crossing way ; 

His raiment decent, his complexion fair. 

And soft in graceful ringlets waved his 
hair. 

Then near approaching, " Father, hail !'' 
he cried, 

" And hail, my son," the reverend sire re- 
plied ; 

Words foUow'd words, from question an- 
swer flow'd, 

And talk of various kind deceived the 
road ; 

Till each with other pleased, and loath to 
part, 

While in their age they differ, join in 
heart : 



Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound. 
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. 

Now sunk the sun ; the closing hour of 

day 
Came onward, mantled o'er with sobur 

gray ; 
Nature in silence bade the world repose : 
When near the road a stately palace 

rose : 
There by the moon through ranks of trees 

tliey pass. 
Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides 

of grass. 
It chanced the noble master of the dome 
Still made his house the wandering stran- 
ger's home : 
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of 

praise, 
Proved the vain flourish of expensive 

ease. 
The pair arrive : the liveried servants 

wait ; 
Their lord receives them at the pompous 

gate. 
The table groans with costly piles of 

food. 
And all is more than hospitably good. 
Then led to rest, the day's long toil they 

drown, 
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and lieaps of 

down. 

At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of 

day. 
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play ; 
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes 

creep. 
And shake the neighboring wood to banish 

.sleep. 
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call : 
.\n early banquet deck'd the splendid 

hall ; 
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced. 
Which the kind master forced the guests 

to taste. 
Then, plea.sed and thankful, from the porch 

they go. 
And, but the landlord, none had cause of 

woe ; 
His cup was vanish'd ; for in secret guise 
Tlie younger guest purloin'd the glittering 

prize. 



6G8 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



As one who spies a serpent in his way, 

Glistening and basking in the summer 
ray, 

Disorder'd stops to shun the danger near, 

Then walks with faintuess on, and looks 
with fear : 

So seera'd the sire ; when, far upon the 
road. 

The shining spoil his wily partner show'd. 

He stopp'd with silence, walk'd with trem- 
bling heart. 

And much he wish'd, but durst not ask to 
part : 

Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it 
hard. 

That generous actions meet a base reward. 

While thus they pass, the sun his glory 

shrouds, 
The changing skies hang out their sable 

clouds ; 
A sound in air presaged approaching rain. 
And beasts to covert scud across the plain. 
Warn'd by the signs, the wandering pair 

retreat, 
To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat. 
'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground, 
And strong, and large, and unimproved 

around ; 
Its owner's temper, timorous and severe. 
Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. 

As near the miser's heavy doors they drew. 
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; 
The nimble lightning mix'd with showers 

began, 
And o'er their heads loud-rolling thunder 

ran. 
Here long they knock, but knock or cull in 

vain. 
Driven by the wind, and batter'd by the 

rain. 
At length some pity warm'd the master's 

breast 
('Twas then, his threshold first received a 

guest). 
Slow creaking turns the door with jealous 

care, 
And half he welcomes in the shivering 

pair ; 
One frugal fagot lights the naked walls, 
And Nature's fervor through their limbs 

recalls : 



Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager 

wine 
(Each hardly granted), served them both 

to dine; 
And when the tempest first appear'd to 

cease, 
A ready warning bid them part in peace. 

With still remark the pondering hermit 
view'd 

In one so rich, a life so poor and rude ; 

And why should such (within himself he 
cried) 

Lock the lost wealth a thousand want be- 
side ? 

But what new marks of wonder soon took 
place 

In every settling feature of his face, 

When from his vest the young companion 
bore 

That cup the generous landlord own'd be- 
fore. 

And paid profusely with the precious bowl 

The stinted kindness of this churlish soul ! 

But now the clouds in airy tumult fly, 
The sun emerging opes an azure sky ; 
A fresher green the smelling leaves display, 
And, glittering as thev tremble, cheer the 

day : 
The weather courts them from the poor 

retreat, 
And the glad master bolts the wary gate. 

While hence they walk, the pilgrim's 

bosom wrought 
With all the travail of uncertain thought; 
His partner's acts without their cause 

appear, 
'Twas there a vice, and seem'd a madness 

here : 
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes. 
Lost and confounded with the various 

shows. 

Now night's dim shades again involve the 

sky; 
Again the wanderers want a place to lie, 
Again they search, and find a lodging 

nigh : 
The soil improved around, the mansion 

neat, 
And neither poorly low nor idly great : 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



669 



It seem'd to speak its master's turn of i His steps the youth pursues ; the country 
mind, lay 



Content, and not for praise, but virtue 
kind. 



Perplex'd with roads, a servant show'd 

the way: 
A river cross'd the path ; the passage o'er 
Was nice to find; the servant trod be- 
fore: 



Hither the walkers turn with weary feet, 
Then bless the mansion, and the master 

g^^^^ '■ I Long arms of oaks an open bridge sup- 

Their greeting fair bestow'd with modest 1 plied 

?"'*'^' : And deep the waves beneath the bending 

The courteous master hears, and thus re- I srlide. 

P"*"* • ' The youth, who seem'd to watch a time 

to sin, 
Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust 



"Without a vain, without a grudging 

heart. 
To Him who gives us all, I yield a part ; 
From Him you come, for Him accejjt it 

here, 
A frank and sober, more than costly 

cheer." 
He spoke, and bid the welcome table 

spread. 
Then talk'd of virtue till the time of 

bed. 
When the grave household round his hall 

repair, 
Warn'd by a bell, and close the hours with 

prayer. 

At length the world, renew'd by calm re- 
pose, 

Was strong for toil, the dappled morn 
arose : 

Before the pilgrims part, the younger 
crept 

Near the closed rradlo where an infant 
slept, 

And writhed his neck : the landlord's 
little pride, 

Oh strange return ! grew black, and gasp'd, 
and died. 

Horror of horrors ! what ! his only .son ! 

How look'd our hermit when the fact was 
done? 

Not hell, though hell's black jaws in Sudden he gazed, and wist not wliat to 
sunder part, do : 

And breatlie blue fire, could more assault i^urprise in secret chains his words sus- 
his heart. pends, 

And in a calm his settling temper ends. 

Confused, and struck with silence at the But silence here the beauteous angel 
deed, ' broke 

He flies, but trembling fails to tly with 1 (The voice of music ravish'd as he 
speed. I spoke) : 



him in ; 
Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head, 
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the 

dead. 

Wild, sparkling rage inflames the father's 

eyes. 
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly 

cries, 
" Detested wretch !" — but scarce his speech 

began, 
When the strange partner seem'd no 

longer man : 
His youthful face grew more serenely 

sweet ; 
His robe turn'd white, and flow'd ujjon 

his feet; 
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his 

hair; 
Celestial odors breathe through purpled 

air; 
And wings, whose colors glitter'd on the 

day, 
Wide at his back their gradual plumes di.s- 

play. 
The form ethereal bursts upon his sight. 
And moves in all the majesty of liglit. 

Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion 
grew, 



670 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



"Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice 

unknown, 
In sweet memorial rise before the throne : 
These charms success in our bright region 

find, 
And force an angel down, to calm thy 

mind ; 
For this commission'd, I forsook the sky, 
Nay, cease to kneel — thy fellow-servant I. 

"Then know the truth of government 

divine. 
And let these scruples be no longer thine. 

"The Maker justly claims that world He 

made. 
In this the right of Providence is laid ; 
Its sacred majesty through all depends 
On using second means to work His ends : 
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human 

eye. 
The Power exerts His attributes on high. 
Your actions uses, nor controls your will, 
And bids the doubting sous of men be 

still. 

"What strange events can strike with 
more surprise 

Than those which lately struck thy won- 
dering eyes? 

Yet taught by these, confess th' Almighty 
just. 

And where you can't unriddle, learn to 
trust ! 

" The great, vain man, who fared on 

costly food, 
AV'hose life was too luxurious to be good ; 
Who made his ivory stands with goblets 

shine, 
And forced his guests to morning draughts 

of wine, 
Has, with the cup, the graceless custom 

lost. 
And still he welcomes, but with less of 

cost. 

" The mean, suspicious wretch, whose 

bolted door 
Ne'er moved in duty to the wandering 

poor ; 
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be 

kind. 



Conscious of wanting worth, he views the 
bowl, 

And feels compassion touch his grateful 
soul. 

Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead. 

With heaping coals of fire upon its 
head ; 

In the kind warmth the metal learns to 
glow, 

And, loose from dross, the silver runs be- 
low. 

" Long had our pious friend in virtue 

trod. 
But now the child half wean'd his heart 

from God; 
Child of his age, for him he lived in 

pain. 
And measured back his steps to earth 

again. 
To what excesses had this dotage run ! 
But God, to save the father, took the son. 
To all but thee, in fits he seem'd to go 
(And 'twas my ministry to deal the 

blow). 
The poor fond parent, humbled in the 

dust. 
Now owns in tears the punishment was 

just. 

" But how had all his fortune felt a 

wrack 
Had that false servant sped in safety 

back ! 
This night his treasured heaps he meant 

to steal. 
And what a fund of charity would fail ! 

" Thus Heaven instructs thy mind : this 

trial o'er. 
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." 

On sounding pinions here the youth with- 
drew. 

The sage stood wondering as the seraph 
flew. 

Thus look'd Elisha, when, to mount on 
high, 

His master took the chariot of the skj' ; 

The fiery pomp ascending left the view ; 

The prophet gazed, and wish'd to follow 
too. 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



671 



The bending hermit here a prayer be- 
gun : 

" Lord ! iis in heiiveu, on earth Thy will be 
done!" 

Then gladly turning, sought his ancient 
place, 

And pass'd a life of piety and peace. 

Thomas Paknell. 



The SQUIRE'S PEW. 

A SLAXTIXG ray of evening light 
Shoots through the yellow pane; 

It makes the faded crimson bright, 
And gilds the fringe again ; 

Tlie window's Gothic framework falls 

In oblique shadows on the walls. 

And since those trappings first were new, 

How many a cloudless day, 
To rob the velvet of its hue, 

Has come and pass'd away! 
How many a setting sun hath made 
That curious lattice-work of shade ! 

Crumbled beneath the hillock green 

Tlie cunning hand must be 
That carved this fretted door, I ween. 

Acorn, and fleur-de-lis; 
And now the worm hath done her part 
In mimicking the chisel's art. 

In days of yore (as now we call), 
When the first James was king, 

The courtly knight from yonder hall 
His train did hither bring, 

All seated round, in order due. 

With 'broider'd suit and buckled shoe. 

On damask cushions deck'd with fringe 

All reverently they knelt; 
Prayer-books with brazen hasp and hinge. 

In ancient English spelt. 
Each liolding in a Illy hand. 
Responsive to the priest's command. 

Now, streaming down the vaulted aisle. 

The sunbeam long and lone. 
Illumes the characters a while 

Of their inscription-stone; 
.\nd there in marble, hard and cold. 
The knight with all his train behold. 



Outstretch'd together are express'd 

He and my lady fair, 
With hands uplifted on the breast, 

In attitude of prayer; 
Long-visaged, clad in armor, he — 
With ruffled arm and bodice she. 

Set forth in order as they died. 
Their numerous offspring bend, 

Devoutly kneeling side by side, 
As if they did intend 

For past omissions to atone 

By saying endless prayers in stone. 

TJiose mellow days are past and dim. 

Hut generations new. 
In regular descent from him. 

Have fill'd the stately pew. 
And in the same succession go 
To occupy the vaults below. 

And now the polish'd modern squire 

And his gay train appear, 
Wlio duly to the hall retire 

A sesison every year. 
And fill the seats with belle and beau. 
As 'twas so many years ago. 

Perchance, all thoughtless as they tread 

The hollow-sounding floor 
Of that dark house of kindred dread. 

Which shall, as heretofore. 
In turn receive to silent rest 
Another and another guest : 

The feather'd hearse and sable train. 

In all their wonted state. 
Shall wind along the village lane. 

And stand before the gate ; 
Brought many a distant country through, 
To join the final rendezvous. 

And when tlie race is swept away, 

.\11 to their dusty beds. 
Still shall the mellow evening ray 

Shine gayly o'er their he.ids. 
While other faces, fresh and new, 
Shall fill the squire's deserted pew. 

Jane Taylor. 



672 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



The Old and Young Courtier. 

An old song made by an aged old pate, 
Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had 

a great estate, 
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful 

rate, 
And an old porter to relieve the poor at 
his gate : 
Like an old courtier of the queen's. 
And the queen's old courtier. 

With an old lady, whose anger one word 
assuages, 

That every quarter paid their old servants 
their wages. 

And never knew what belong'd to coach- 
men, footmen, nor pages. 

But kept twenty old fellows with blue 
coats and badges ; 
Like an old courtier of the queen's, 
And the queen's old courtier. 

With an old study fiU'd full of learnfed old 

books. 
With an old reverend chaplain, you might 

know him by his looks ; 
With an old Inittery hatch, worn quite off 

the hooks. 
And an old kitchen that maintain'd half 

a dozen old cooks ; 
Like an old courtier of the queen's, 
And the queen's old courtier. 

With an old hall hung about with pikes, 
guns, and bows. 

With old swords, and bucklers that had 
borne many shrewd blows, 

And an old frieze coat to cover his wor- 
ship's trunk hose ; 

And a cup of old sherry to comfort his 
copper nose ; 
Like an old courtier of the queen's. 
And the queen's old courtier. 

With a good old fashion, when Christmas 
was come, 

To call in all his old neighbors with bag- 
pipe and drum. 

With good cheer enough to furnish every 
old room. 

And old liquor able to make a cat speak 
and a man dumb ; 
Like an old courtier of the queen's. 
And the queen's old courtier. 



With an old falconer, huntsman, and a 

kennel of hounds. 
That never hawk'd nor hunted but in his 

own grounds, 
Who, like a wise man, kept himself within 

his own bounds, 
And when he died gave every child a 

thousand good pounds ; 
Like an old courtier of the queen's, 
And the queen's old courtier. 

But to his eldest son his house and lands 

he assign'd, 
Charging him in his will to keep the old 

bountiful mind. 
To be good to his old tenants, and to his 

neighbors be kind ; 
But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear 

how he was inclined ; 
Like a young courtier of the king's, 
And the king's young courtier. 

Like a flourishing young gallant, newly 

come to his land. 
Who keeps a brace of painted madams at 

his command. 
And takes up a thousand pounds upon his 

father's land. 
And gets drunk in a tavern till he can 

neither go nor stand ; 
Like a young courtier of the king's, 
And the king's young courtier. 

With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, 

nice, and spare. 
Who never knew what belong'd to good 

housekeeping, or care ; 
Who buys gaudy-color'd fans to play with 

wanton air, 
And seven or eight different dressings of 

other women's hair ; 
Like a young courtier of the king's. 
And the king's young courtier. 

With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the 

old one stood, 
Hung round with new pictures that do the 

poor no good ; 
With a fine nuirble chimney, wherein Ijurns 

neitlier coal nor wood, 
And a new smooth shovel-board, whereon 

no victuals ne'er stood ; 
Like a young courtier of the king's, 
And the king's young courtier. 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



673 



With a new study stuff'd full (if pamphlets 
and plays, 

And ancwchajilain that swears faster than 
he prays, 

With a new buttery hateh tliat opens once 
in four or five days, 

And a new French coolc to devise fine kick- 
shaws and toys ; 
Like a young courtier of the king's, 
And the king's young courtier. 

With a new fashion, when Christmas is 

drawing on. 
And a new journey to London straight we 

all must be gone. 
And leave none to keep house but our new 

porter John, 
Who relieves the poor with a thump on the 
back with a stone; 
Like a young courtier of the king's, 
And the king's young courtier. 

With a new gentleman usher, whose car- 
riage is complete; 

With a new coachman, footman, and pages 
to carry up the meat ; 

With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dress- 
ing is very neat, 

Who, when her lady has dined, lets the 
servants not eat ; 
Like a young courtier of the king's. 
And the king's young courtier. 

With new titles of honor, bought with his 

father's old gold. 
For which sundry of his ancestors' old 

manors are sold ; 
And this is the course most of our new 

gallants hold. 
Which makes that good housekeeping is 
now grown so cold 
Among our young courtiers of the 

king. 
Or the king's young courtiers. 

AuTUOB Unknown. 



The End of the Play. 

The play is done, the curtain drops. 

Slow falling to the prompter's bell ; 
A moment yet the actor stops, 

And looks around to say farewell. 
4.3 



It is an irksome word and task, 

And when he's laugh'd and said his say. 
He shows, as lie removes the mask, 

A face that's anything but gay. 

One word, ere yet the evening ends, — 

Let's close it with a parting rhyme. 
And pledge a hand to all young friends. 

As fits the merry Christmas-time; 
On life's wide scene you, too, have parts. 

That Fate ere long shall bid you play ; 
Good-night ! with honest gentle hearts 

A kindly greeting go alway. 

Oood-night ! — I'd say the griefs, the joys. 

Just hinted in this mimic page, 
The triumphs and defeats of boys. 

Are but repeated in our age; 
I'd say your woes are not less keen. 

Your hopes more vain, than those of 
men, — 
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 

At forty-five play'd o'er again. 

I'd say we suffer and we strive 

Not less nor more as men than boys. 
With grizzled beards at forty-five, 

As erst at twelve in corduroys; 
And if, in time of sacred youth, 

We learn'd at home to love and pray. 
Pray Heaven that early love and truth 

May never wholly pass away. 

And in the world, as in the school, 
j I'd say how fate may change and shift, 
! The prize be sometimes with the fool, 
I The race not always to the swift ; 

The strong may yield, the good may fall, 
. The great man be a vulgar clown, 

The knave be lifted over all. 
The kind cast pitilessly down. 

Who knows the inscrutable design ? 

IJlessed be He who took and gave I 
Why should your mother, Charles, not 
mine, 

Be weeping at her darling's grave? 
We bow to Heaven that will'd it so. 

That darkly rules the fate of all, 
That sends the respite or the blow. 

That's free to give or to recall. 

This crowns his feast with wine and wit : 
Who brought him to that niirthand state? 



674 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



His betters, see, below bim sit. 
Or hunger liopeless at tlie gate. 

Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel 
To spurn the rags of Lazarus ? 

Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel. 
Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 

So each shall mourn, in life's advance, 

Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely kill'd, 
Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, 

And longing passion unfulfiU'd. 
Amen ! whatever fate be sent, 

Pray God the heart may kindly glow. 
Although the head with cares be bent. 

And whiten'd with the winter snow. 

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 

Let young and old accept their part. 
And bow before the awful Will, 

And bear it with an honest heart, 
Who misses, or who wins the prize. 

Go ; lose or conquer as you can, 
But if you fail, or if you rise. 

Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 

A gentleman, or old or young! 

(Bear kindly with my humble lays) ; 
The sacred chorus first was sung 

Upon the first of Christmas days ; 
The shepherds heard it overhead, 

The joyful angels raised it then : 
Glory to Heaven on high, it said, 

And peace on earth to gentle men I 

My song, save this, is little worth ; 

I lay the weary pen aside. 
And wish you health, and love, and mirth, 

As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. 
As fits the holy Christmas birth, 

Be this, good friends, our carol still, — 
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, 

To men of gentle will. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



The Old 3Ian's Comforts, 

AND How HE Gained Them. 

You are old, Father William, the young 
man cried, 
The few locks which are left you are gray ; 
You are hale, Father William, a hearty 
old man. 
Now tell me the reason, I pray. 



In the days of my youth, Father William 
replied, 
I remember'd that youth would fly fast. 
And abused not my health and my vigor 
at first, 
That I never might need them at last. 

You are old, Father William, the young 
man cried. 
And pleasures with youth pass away. 
And yet you lament not the days that are 
gone, 
Now tell me the reason, I pray. 

In the days of my youth, Father William 
replied, 

I remember'd that youth could not last ; 
I thought of the future, whatever I did, 

That I never might grieve for the past. 

You are old, Father William, the young 
man cried. 
And life must be hastening away ; 
You are cheerful, and love to converse 
upon death. 
Now tell me the reason, I pray. 

I am cheerful, young man. Father William 
replied ; 
Let the cause thy attention engage ; 
In the days of my youth I remember'd my 
God ! 
And He hath not forgotten my age. 

EOBEKT SOUTHEY. 



In the Down-bill of Life. 

In the down-hill of life, when I find I'm 
declining. 
May my lot no less fortunate be 
Thau a snug elbow-chair can afford for re- 
clining, 
And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea ; 
With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er 
the lawn. 
While I carol away idle sorrow. 
And blithe as the lark that each day hails 
the dawn. 
Look forward with hope for to-morrow. 

With a porch at my door, both for shelter 
and shade too. 
As the sunshine or rain may prevail; 



MORAL A^^D DIDACTIC POETRY. 



675 



And a xmM spot of ground for the use of 
the sjiiide too, 
With a barn for the use of the flail : 
A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, 
And a purse when a friend wants to 
borrow ; 
I'll envy no nabob his riches or fome, 
Nor what iionors await him to-morrow. 

From the bleak northern blast may my cot 
bo completely 
Secured by a neighboring hill ; 
And at night may repose steal upon me 
more sweetly 
By the sound of a murmuring rill : 
And while peace and plenty I find at my 
board, 
With a heart free from sickness and 
sorrow. 
With my friends may I share what to-day 
may atibrd, 
And let them spread the table to-morrow. 

And when I at last must throw off this 
frail covering 
Which I've worn for threescore years 
antl ten, 
On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to 
keep hovering. 
Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again : 
But my face in the glass I'll serenely 
survey, 
And with smiles count each wrinkle and 
furrow; 
As this okl worn-out stuff, which is thread- 
bare to-day, 
May become everlasting to-morrow. 

John Collins. 



A HUNDRED Years to Come. 

Who'li, ])ress for gold this crowded street, 

A hundred years to come? 
Who'll tread yon church with willing feet, 

A hundred years to come ? 
Pale, trembling age and fiery youth, 
.\nd childhood with his brow of truth. 
The rich and poor, on land, on sea, 
Where will tlie mighty millions be, 

A hundred years to come? 

We all witliin our graves shall sleep, 
A hundred years to come ; 



No living soul for us will weep, 

A hundred years to come. 
But other men our land will till, 
And others then our streets will fill, 
And other words will sing as gay. 
And bright the sunshine as to-day, 
A hundred years to come. 

Author Unknown. 



The Eve of election. 

From gold to gray 

Our mild sweet day 
Of Indian Summer fades too soon ; 

But tenderly 

Above the sea 
Hangs, white and calm, the Iiunter's 
moon. 

In its pale fire. 

The village spire 
Shows like the Zodiac's spectral lance ; 

The painted w.alls 

Whereon it falls 
Transfigured stand in marble trance ! 

O'er fallen leaves 

The we.st wind grieves. 
Yet comes a seed-time round again ; 

And morn shall see 

The State sown free 
With baleful tares or healthful grain. 

Along the street 

The shadows meet 
Of Destiny, whose hands conceal 

The moulds of fate 

That shape the State, 
And make or mar the common weal. 

Around I see 

The powers that be ; 
I stand by Empire's primal springs ; 

And princes meet 

In every street. 
And hear the tread of uncrown'd kings I 

Hark ! through the crowd 

The laugh runs loud. 
Beneath the sad, rebuking moon. 

God save the land, 

A careless hand 
May shake or swerve ere morrow's noon I 



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No jest is this ; 

One cast amiss 
May blast the hope of Freedom's year. 

Oh, take me where 

Are hearts of prayer, 
And foreheads bow'd in reverent fear ! 

Not lightly fall 

Beyond recall 
The written scrolls a breath can float ; 

The crowning fact. 

The kiugliest act 
Of Freedom, is the freeman's vote ! 

For pearls that gem 

A diadem 
The diver in the deep sea dies ; 

The regal right 

We boast to-night 
Is ours through costlier sacrifice : 

The blood of Vane, 

His prison pain 
Who traced the path the Pilgrim trod. 

And hers whose faith 

Drew strength from death. 
And prayed her Russell up to God ! 

Our hearts grow cold, 

We lightly hold 
A right which brave men died to gain ; 

The stake, the cord, 

The axe, the sword. 
Grim nurses at its birth of pain. 

• The shadow rend, 

And o'er us bend, 
martyrs, with your crowns and palms, — 

Breathe through these throngs 

Your battle-songs. 
Your scaffold prayers, and dungeon psalms ! 

Look from the sky. 

Like God's great eye. 
Thou solemn moon, with searching beam ; 

Till in the sight 

Of thy pure light 
Our mean self-seekings meaner seem. 

Shame from our hearts 

Unworthy arts, 
The fraud design'd, the purpose dark ; 

And smite away 

The hands we lay 
Profanely on the sacred ark. 



To party claims. 

And private aims, 
Reveal that august face of Truth, 

Whereto are given 

The age of heaven. 
The beauty of immortal youth. 

So shall our voice 

Of sovereign choice 
Swell the deep bass of duty done. 

And strike the key 

Of time to be. 
When God and man shall speak as one ! 
John Greenleaf Whittier. 



The Battle-Field. 

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 

And fiery hearts and armfed hands 
Encounter'd in the battle-cloud. 

Ah, never shall the land forget 

How gush'd the life-blood of her brave, — 
Gusli'd, warm with hope and courage yet. 

Upon the soil they fought to save. 

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still ; 

Alone the chirp of flitting bird. 
And talk of children on the hill. 

And bell of wandering kine, are heard. 

No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouth'd gun and staggering 
wain ; 
Men start not at the battle-cry, — 

Oh, be it never heard again ! 

Soon rested those who fought ; but thou 
Who minglest in the harder strife 

For truths which men receive not now. 
Thy warfare only ends with life. 

A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
Through weary day and weary year ; 

A wild and many-weapon'd throng 
Hang on thy front and flank and rear. 

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof. 
And blench not at thy chosen lot ; 

The timid good may stand aloof. 

The sage may frown, — yet faint thou not. 

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast. 
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; 



MORAL AXD DIDACTIC POETRY. 



677 



For with thy side shall dwell, at last, 
The victor)' of endurance born. 

Truth, crush'd to earth, shall rise again, — 
The eternal years of God are hers ; 

But Error, wounded, writhes in pain. 
And dies among his worshippers. 

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, 
When they wlio help'd thee flee in fear. 

Die full of hope and manly trust, 
Like those who fell in battle here. 

Another hand thy sword shall wield, 
Another hand the standard wave, 

Till from the trumpet's mouth is peal'd 
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. 

William Cl'llkn Hkv.\st. 



The Battle of Blexueht. 

It was a summer evening, — 
Old Kaspar's work was done. 

And he before his cottage-door 
Was sitting in the sun ; 

And by liim sported on the green 

His little grandchild Wilhelminc. 

She saw her brother Petorkin 
Roll something largo and round. 

Which he beside the rivulet, 
In playing there, had found ; 

He came to Jisk what he had found 

That was so large and smooth and round. 

Old Ka-spar took it from the boy. 

Who stood expectant by ; 
And tlien the old man shook his liead. 
And, with a natural sigh. — 
" 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, 
" Who fell in the great victory. 

" I find them in the garden, 

For there's many hereabout ; 
And often, when I go to plough. 

The ploughshare turns them out ; 
For many thousand men," said he, 
■■ Were slain in that great victory." 

" Now tell us what 'twas all about," 
Young Pcterkin he cries ; 
And little Willielinine looks up 
With wonder-waiting eyes, — 
" Now tell us all about the war. 
And what they fought each other for." 



! " It W!us the English," Kaspar cried, 
" Who put the French to rout ; 
But what they fought each other for 

I could not well make out ; 
But everybody said," quoth he, 
" That 'twas a famous victory. 

" My father lived at Blenheim then, 

Yon little stream hard by ; 
They burnt his dwelling to the ground. 

And he was forced to fly ; 
So with his wife and child he fled. 
Nor had he wliere to rest his head. 

" With fire and sword the countrj' round 

Was wasted far and wide ; 
And many a childing mother then. 

And new-born baby died ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 

" They say it was a shocking sight 

After the field was won, — 

For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 

" Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, 
And our good prince Eugene." 

" Why, 'twas a very wicked thing !" 
Said little Wilhelminc. 

" Nay, nay, my little girl I" quoth he, 

'' It was a famous vii-tory. 

" And everybody praised the duke 
Who this great fight did win." 

" But what good came of it at last ?" 
Quoth little Pcterkin. 

" Why, that I cannot tell," said he ; 

" But 'twas a famous victory." 

Robert .southkv. 



KoT OX THE Battlefield. 

"To fall on the battle-field fighting for my dear 
country,— tliat would not be hard." — The Xtighbors. 

Oh no, no, — let me lie 
Not on a field of battle when I die ! 

Let not the iron tread 
Of the mad war-horse crush my helmed 
head ; 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Nor let the reeking knife, 
That I have drawn against a brother's 
life, 

Be in my hand when Death 
Thunders along, and tramples me beneath 

His heavy squadron's heels. 
Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels. 

From such a dying bed, 
Though o'er it float the stripes of white and 
red, 
And the bald eagle brings 
The cluster'd stars upon his wide-spread 
wings 
To sparkle in my sight. 
Oh, never let my spirit take her flight ! 

I know that Beauty's eye 
Is all the brighter where gay pennants 

fly, 

And brazen helmets dance. 
And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance ; 

I know that bards have sung. 
And people shouted till the welkin rung. 

In honor of the brave 
Who on the battle-field have found a 
grave ; 

I know that o'er their bones 
Have grateful hands piled monumental 
stones. 

Some of these piles I've seen : 
The one at Lexington upon the green 

Where the first blood was shed 
That to my country's independence led ; 

And others on our shore. 
The " Battle Monument " at Baltimore, 

And that on Bunker's Hill. 
Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still; 

Thy "tomb," Theniistocles, 
That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas. 

And which the waters kiss 
That issue from the Gulf of Salamis. 

And thine, too, have I seen. 
Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in 
green. 

That, like a natural knoll. 
Sheep climb and nibble over as they 
stroll, 

Watch'd by some turban'd boy. 
Upon the margin of the plain of Troy. 

Such honors grace the bed, 
I know, whereon the warrior lays his head, 



And hears, as life ebbs out. 
The conquer'd flying, and the conqueror's 
shout ; 
But as his eye grows dim. 
What is a column or a mound to him ? 

M'^hat to the parting soul. 
The mellow note of bugles ? What the roll 

Of drums ? No, let me die 
Where the blue heaven bends o'er me 
lovingly. 
And the soft summer air, 
As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair, 

And from my forehead dries 
The death-damp as it gathers, and the 
skies 
Seem waiting to receive 
My soul to their clear depth ! Or let me 
leave 
The world when round my bed 
Wife, children, weeping friends are gath- 
ered. 
And the calm voice of prayer 
And lioly hymning shall my soul prepare 

To go and be at rest 
With kindred spirits, — spirits who have 
bless'd 
The human brotherhood 
By labors, cares, and counsels for their 
good. 

And in my dying hour, 
When riches, fame, and honor have no 
power 
To bear the spirit up, 
Or from my lips to turn aside the cup 

That all must drink at last, 
Oh, let me draw refreshment from the 
past! 
Then let my soul run back. 
With peace and joy, along my earthly 
track. 
And see that all the seeds 
That I have scatter'd there, in virtuous 
deeds 
Have sprung up, and have given, 
Already, fruits of which to taste is 
Heaven ! 
And though no grassy mound 
Or granite pile say 'tis heroic ground 

AV'here my remains repose, 
Still will I hope — vain hope, perhaps! — 
that those 



MORAL Ai\D DIDACTIC POETRY. 



679 



Wliom I have striven to bless, 
The wiiiulcrer reciiiiin'd, the fatherless, 

Jlay stand around my grave, 
With the poor prisoner, and the poorer 
slave, 
And breathe an humble prayer 
That they muy die like liira whose bones 
are mouldering there. 

John Fiebpont. 

VJSRSES 

SUPPOSED TO BE 'WkiTTEX BY AlEXANDEH 

Selkirk dirixo his Solitary Abode 
IN THE Island of Juan Fehnasdez. 

I AM monarch of all I survey ; 

My right there is none to dispute ; 
From the centre all round to the sea 

I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 

Solitude ! where are the charms 
That sages have seen in thy face? 

Better dwell in the midst of alarms 
Than reign in this horrible place. 

1 am out of humanity's reach ; 

I must finish my journey alone; 
Never hear the sweet music of speech — 

I start at the sound of my own. 
The beasts that roam over the plain, 

My form with indifference see ; 
They are so unacquainted with man, 

Their tameness is shocking to me. 

Society, Friendship, and Love, 

Divinely bcstow'd upon man. 
Oh had I tlie wings of a dove. 

How soon would I taste you again ! 
My sorrows I then might assuage 

In the ways of religion and truth. 
Might learn from the wisdom of age. 

And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. 

Religion ! what treasure untold 

Resides in that heavenly word I 
More preciims than silver and gold. 

Or all that this earth can afford. 
But the sound of the church-going bell 

These valleys and rocks never heard ; 
Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell, 

Or smiled when a Sabbath ai)pear'd. 

Ye winds that have made me your sport, 
Convey to this desolate shore 

Some cordial endearing report 
Of a land I shall visit no more: 



My friends, do they now and then send 
A wish or a thought after me? 

Oh tell me I yet have a friend. 
Though a friend I am never to see. 

How fleet is the glance of the mind ! 

Compared with the sjjeed of its flight, 
The tempest itself lags behind. 

And the swift-winged arrows of light. 
When I think of my own Bative land, 

In a moment I seem to be there ; 
But, alas ! recollection at hand 

Soon hurries me back to despair. 

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, 

The beast is laid down in his lair ; 
Even here is a season of rest. 

And I to my cabin repair. 
There's mercy in every jilace. 

And mercy — encouraging thought! — 
Gives even affliction a grace. 

And reconciles man to his lot. 

William CowrER. 

True Growth. 

It is not growing like a tree 
In bulk, doth make man better be ; 
Or standing long an oak, three hundred 

year. 
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere ; 
A lily of a day 
Is fairer far in May, 
Although it fall and die that night — 
It was the plant and flower of Light. 
In small proportions we just beauties see; 
And in short measures life may perfect be. 

Ben Josson. 

The Ladder of St. Augustine. 

Saint Augcstine I well hast thou said, 
Tliat of our vices we can frame 

A ladder, if we will but tread 
Beneath our feet each deed of shame ! 

All common things, each day's events, 
That with the hour begin and end. 

Our pleasures and our discontents. 
Are rounds by which we may ascend. 

The low desire, the base design, 
Tliat makes another's virtues less ; 

The revel of the ruddy wine. 
And all occasions of excess ; 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



The longing for ignoble things ; 

The strife for triumph more than truth ; 
The hardening of the heart, that brings 

Irreverence for the dreams of youth ; 

All thoughts of ill, all evil deeds. 
That have their root in thoughts of ill ; 

Whatever hinders or impedes 
The action of the nobler will ; — 

All these must first be trampled down 
Beneath our feet, if we would gain 

In the bright fields of fair renown 
The right of eminent domain. 

We have not wings, we cannot soar ; 

But we have feet to scale and climb. 
By slow degrees, by more and more, 

The cloudy summits of our time. 

The mighty pyramids of stone 

That wedge-like cleave the desert airs. 

When nearer seen, and better known, 
Are but gigantic flights of stairs. 

The distant mountains, that uprear 
Their solid bastions to the skies. 

Are cross'd by pathways, that appear 
As we to higher levels rise. 

The heights by great men rcach'd and 
kept 

Were not attain'd by sudden flight. 
But tliey, while their companions slept. 

Were toiling upward in the night. 

Standing on what too long we bore 

With shoulders bent and downcast eyes. 

We may discern — unseen before — 
A path to higher destinies. 

Nor deem the irrevocable Past 

As wholly wasted, wholly vain, 
If, rising on its wrecks, at last 
To something nobler we attain. 

Henby Wadswokth Longfellow. 



The Red River Voyage ue. 

OVT and in the river is winding 
The links of its long, red chain, 

Through belts of dusky pine-land 
And gusty leagues of plain. 



Only, at times, a smoke-wreath 
With the drifting cloud-rack joins, — 

The smoke of the hunting-lodges 
Of the wild Assiniboins ! 

Drearily blows the north wind 
From the land of ice and snow ; 

The eyes that look are weary. 
And heavy the hands that row. 

And with one foot on the water, 

And one upon the shore, 
The Angel of Shadow gives warning 

That day shall be no more. 

Is it the clang of wild-geese, 

Is it the Indian's yell. 
That lends to the voice of the north wind 

The tones of a far-off bell ? 

The voyageur smiles as he listens 
To the sound that grows apace ; 

Well he knows the vesper ringing 
Of the bells of St. Boniface, — 

The bolls of the Eoman Mission, 
That call from their turrets twain 

To the boatman on the river, 
To the hunter on the plain I 

Even so in our mortal journey 

The bitter north winds blow. 
And thus upon life's Red River 

Our hearts, as oarsmen, row. 

And when the Angel of Shadow 
Rests his feet on wave and shore. 

And our eyes grow dim with watching 
And our hearts faint at the oar, 

Happy is he who heareth 

The signal of his release 
In the bells of the Holy City, 

The chimes of eternal peace ! 

John Greenleaf WuixTiEn. 



Faithfulness. 

"See that thou copy no man save in the matter «f 
faithfulness."— William Pesn. 

Listen not when men shall tell thee, Here 

is work for thee to do ; 
There thy field of labor lieth and the good 

thou should'st pursue : 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



681 



Idle lino when all are busy, bound, yet 

longing to arise, 
Follow thou no mortal guidance, though 

it come in prophet guise, 
While the cloud is on thy spirit and the 

mist is o'er thy eyes. 

Not the stars above us shining, in Cre- 
ation's perfect plan, 

Have their places mark'd more surely than 
the living soul of man ; 

And the laws are not more changeless 
which direct their daily course. 

Than the lines of light that issue from our 
being's radiant Source, 

To restrain the soul's out-goings with an 
ever-gentle force. 

Watch and wait, and as at Bethel, where 
of old the*3rcamer lay. 

Sleep-bound on his stony pillow, God Him- 
self will set thy way : 

Wanderer without a foothold in illimitable 
space, 

AVith the first step simply taken on thy 
Heaven-appointed race. 

Thou wilt know the noiseless sliding of a 
stone into its place. 

Up, then, with the break of morning ! 

while upon thy lifted eyes. 
Clear before thee, rounds of Duty one 

above another rise ; 
On the steps let down from heaven, rugged 

though they seem and hard, 
Pilgrims from all lands will meet thee, sil- 

ver-hair'd and battle-scarr'd. 
And the young, in meekness lovely, 

shielded by an angel guard. 

With a grasp the worldling feels not, by a 

touch he cannot .see. 
Holy joy their bosoms thrilling, they will 

greet and welcome thee ; 
With their hymns of glad thanksgiving 

that thy mission is begun. 
That the Father's kingdom cometh, that 

His will on earth is done, 
Mingleth soft thy heart's "Eureka!"— 

Peace ! The Father's boon is won. 

God hath many aims to compass, many 

messages to send. 
And His instruments are fitted, each to 

some distinctive end : 



Earth is full of groaning spirits — hearts 
that wear a galling chain — 

Minds, design'd for noble uses, bondaged 
to the lust of gain — 

Souls, once beautiful in whiteness, crim- 
son'd with corruption's stain. 

Through earth's wrong, and woe, and evil, 

sometimes seeing, sometimes blind, 
Ever must the homeward pathway of the 

humble Christian wind ; 
Stooping over sin and sorrow— watching 

by the couch of pain — 
Holy promises outpouring, grateful as the 

summer rain, 
To the heart whose hope had wither'd 

never to revive again. 

Dark perplexing questions cross him — 
meet him as he onward goes ;— 

Why a God of love and mercy should per- 
mit Life's ills and woes? 

Why the good should strive and differ? 
If His love be over all. 

Why the guiltless and the guilty by the 
same dread stroke should fall ? 

Why the haughty arm of power should 
meek innocence enthrall ? 

Why with Joy is Sorrow walking, hand in 

hand and side by side. 
Sparing not the sad and lowly — breaking 

in on strength and pride ? 
Grief and Gladness touch each other — pass 

each other in the street — 
Why should trains of sabled mourners 

young and happy lovers meet, 
Chilling on their lips the whisper, " Life 

is good, and Love is sweet !" 

As the earnest soul advances, step by st«p, 

to higher ground. 
Simple Faith and steady Patience slowly 

bring the answers round : 
Then it moves serenely forward, trusting 

less to Reason's span, 
Satisfied with Faith's revealings of a broad 

Paternal plan 
Which, by mutual dependence, fraternizes 

man and man. 

Down Existence one is sailing, by fair 

breezes borne along, 
Trilling on Life's solemn voyage evermore 

a merry song ; 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



What, to him, is that wrapt thinker, 
wearing out tlie night in toil, 

Gleaning, for the thankless Future, from 
the Past, a golden spoil, 

But an idle, useless dreamer, but a cum- 
berer of the soil ? 

Say we these can never mingle ? — Soon the 
student's cheek shall pale. 

And the o'ertask'd brain shall weary, and 
the soul-lit eye shall fail. 

Whose bright face his sick room lighteth, 
with hope's language all aglow ? 

Whose kind hand the hair is smoothing 
backward from his burning brow ? 

Ah, his careless-hearted neighbor is a gen- 
tle brother now. 

There a proud man coldly gazes on a meek, 

forgiving face ! 
Once he loved her — but ambition crept 

into aftection's place ; 
From her Christian garb unspotted turns 

he now his scornful eye, 
But on his last lowly pillow when the 

great man comes to lie. 
He will long to hear the rustle of her 

white robe passing by. 

Thus are God's ways vindicated ; and at 

length we slowly gain. 
As our needs dispel our blindness, some 

faint glimpses of the chain 
Which connects the Earth with Heaven, 
Right with Wrong, and Good with 
Ill- 
Links in one harmonious movement, slow- 
ly learn we to fulfil 
Our appointed march in concert with His 
manifested will ! 

Elizabeth Lloyd Howkll. 



One by One. 

One by one the sands are flowing, 
One by one the moments fall ; 

Some are coming, some are going ; 
Do not strive to grasp them all. 

One by one thy duties wait thee. 
Let thy whole strength go to each ; 

Let no future dreams elate thee, 

Learn tliou first what these can teach. 



One by one {bright gifts from Heaven) 
Joys are sent thee here below ; 

Take them readily when given, 
Ready too to let them go. 

One by one thy griefs shall meet thee. 
Do not fear an armfed band ; 

One will fade as others greet thee ; 
Shadows passing through the land. 

Do not look at life's long sorrow ; 

See how small each moment's pain ; 
God will help thee for to-morrow. 

So each day begin again. 

Every hour that fleets so slowly 

Has its task to do or bear ; 
Luminous the crown, and holy, 

When each gem is set with care. 

Do not linger with regretting, 
Or for passing hours despond ; 

Nor, the daily toil forgetting. 
Look too eagerly beyond. 

Hours are golden links, God's token 
Reaching heaven ; but one by one 

Take them, lest the chain be broken 
Ere the pilgrimage be done. 

Adelaide Anne Procter. 



Cardiphonia. 

If the hard heart must be smitten ere the 

springs of life can flow, 
As the waters lock'd in Horeb gush'd be- 
neath the prophet's blow ; 
If the veil before the temple where our 

idols are enshrined, 
Must be rent in twain to teach us we are 

weak and frail and blind ; 
If the whirlwind and the fire must the 

still small voice precede, 
Wakening in our souls the echo. Earth is 

but a failing reed ; 
If the waves which overwhelm us may not 

in their wrath be stay'd. 
Grant us still to feel, O Father ! " It is I— 

be not afraid." 

If beside our household altars we grow 

weary of our trust. 
If the wing of Faith is broken, and her 

pinions trail in dust; 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



683 



If we faint beneath our burdens, as we I 

vainly question why 
All our springs of consolation and our 

wells of hope are dry ; 
If our cup from Marah's fountain be re- 

plenish'd o'er and o'er, 
Till the dregs are drops of bitter Earth has 

not a solace for ; 
Though our strength be born of suffering — 

though our hearts be sore disniay'd. 
Oh sustain us with Thy presence — " It is I 

— be not afraid." 



If our pleasant pictures, fading, leave a 

backirround of despair. 
Let a ray of li|.'ht from Heaven beam upon 

the darkness there. 
As in some old time-worn painting which 

the dust has gather'd o'er, 
Light discloses to the gazer beauty all un- 
known before ; 
So the bright rays i)ierfing downward thro' 

the mist which round us lies, 
May illume Life's darken'd canvas, and 

reveal before our eyes 
Glimpses sweet of pleasant waters, where 

our footsteps shall be stay'd. 
As we hearken to the whisper — " It is I — 

be not afraid." 

It may be the spirit strengthens, and the 

soul grows jiure and white, 
When the clouds of sorrow darken, and all 

starless is the night; 
That witliin their gloom is gather'd gentle 

and refreshing rain, 
Every little germ of patience quickening 

into life again ! 
But we fain would come before Thee, ere 

the evil days draw nigh. 
Ere the sun and moon are darken'd, or the 

clouds are in our sky ; 
While life's silver cord is binding us to 

gladness and to mirth, 
And its golden bowl is filling from the 

choicest founts of earth. 

While the fragrance and the beauty of our 

morning round us lies, 
We would of the heart's libation pour to 

Thee a sacrifice; 



Trustful that the Hand which scatters 
blessings every morning new, 

Would refill the urn of ottering, as a flow- 
eret with the dew : 

Pure and sweet the exhalations from a 
grateful heart to Heaven ; 

Unto Thee then be the incense of our Car- 
diphonia given. 

Ere the noontide sun shall wither, or the 
gathering twilight hour 

Closes the outpouring chalice of the 
morn's expanded flower. 

Hannah Lloyd Neale. 



BBIBGES. 
I. 
I HAVE a bridge within my heart. 

Known as the " Bridge of Sighs :" 
It stretches from life's sunny part 
To where life's darkness lies. 

And when upon this bridge I stand. 

To watch life's tide below. 
Sad thoughts come through the shadowy 
land. 

And darken all its flow. 

Then as it winds its way along 

To sorrow's bitter sea, 
Oh mournful is the spirit-song 

That floats upward to me, — 

A song which breathes of blessings dead. 
Of friends and friendships flown : 

Of pleasures gone — their distant tread 
Now to an echo grown. 

And hearing thus, beleaguering fears 

Soon shut the present out. 
While bliss but in the pa.st appears. 

And in the future, doubt. 

Oh often then will deeper grow 
The night which round me lies: 

I wish that life had run its flow, 
Or never found its rise ! 



I have a bridge within my heart, 
Known as the " Bridge of Faith :" 

It spans, by a mysterious art, 
The streams of life and death. 



684 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


And when upon this bridge I stand, 


The stormy clouds on high 


To watch the tide below, 


Veil the same sunny sky. 


Sweet thoughts come from a sunny land, 


That soon (for spring is nigh) 


And brighten all its flow. 


Shall wake the summer into golden mirth. 


Then, as it winds its way along, 

Toward a distant sea. 
Oh pleasant is the spirit-song 

That upward floats to me, — 


Fair hope is dead, and light 

Is quench'd in night. 
What sound can break the silence of de- 
spair? 


A song of blessings never sere, 


O doubting heart ! 


Of love "beyond compare," 


Thy sky is overcast, 


Of pleasures flowed from troublings here, 


Yet stars shall rise at last. 


To rise serenely there. 


Brighter for darkness past, 


And hearing thus, a peace divine 


And angels' silver voices stir the air. 

Adelaide Anne Proctek. 


Soon shuts each sorrow out ; 




And all is hopeful and benign. 




Where all was fear and doubt. 


The Neglected Call. 


Oh often then will brighter grow 


When the fields were white with harvest, 


The light which round me lies : 


and the laborers were few. 


I see, from life's beclouded flow, 


Heard I thus a voice within me, " Here is 


A crystal stream arise. 


work for thee to do ; 


Author Unknown. 


Come thou up and help the reapers, I will 


•<>« 


show thee now the way. 




Come and help them bear the burden, and 


A Doubting Heart. 


the toiling of the day." 


Where are the swallows fled ? 


"For a more convenient season," thu; I 


Frozen and dead, 


answered, " will I wait," 


Perchance upon some bleak and stormy 
shore. 


And the voice reproving murmur'd, " Has- 
ten, ere it be too late." 


doubting heart I 
Far over purple seas. 
They wait, in sunny ease, 
The balmy southern breeze. 
To bring them to their northern homes 
once more. 


Yet I heeded not the utterance, listening 

to lo ! here — lo ! there — 
I lost sight of all the reapers in whose 

work I would not share ; 
Follow'd after strange devices — bow'd my 

heart to gods of stone. 


Why must the flowers die ? 


Till like Ephraim join'd to idols, God well- 


Prison'd they lie 


nigh left me alone ; 


In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or 


But the angel of His patience follow'd on 


rain. 


my erring track. 


doubting heart ! 


Setting here and there a landmark, where- 


They only sleep below 


withal to guide me back. 


The soft white ermine snow. 




While winter winds shall blow. 


Onward yet I went, and onward, till there 


To breathe and smile upon you soon 


met me on the way 


again. 


A poor prodigal returning, who, like me. 




had gone astray. 


The sun has hid its rays 


And his faith was strong and earnest that 


These many days : 


a father's house would be 


Will dreary hours never leave the earth ? 


Safest shelter from temptation for such 


doubting heart ! 


sinful ones as he. 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



685 



" Read the lesson," said the angel, " take 

tlie warning and repent;" 
But the wily Tcinptor queried, " Ere thy 

substance be unspent? 

"Hast thou need to toil and labor? art 

thou fitted for the work ? 
Many a hidden stone to bruise thee in the 

harvest-field doth lurk ; 
There arc others call'd beside thee, and 

perchance tiie voice may be 
But thy own delusive fancy, which thou 

hearest calling thee — 
There is time enough before thee, all thy 

footsteps to retrace." 
Then I yielded to the Tempter, and the 

angel veil'd her face. 

Pleasure beckon'd in the distance, and her 
siren song was sweet, 

"Through a thornless path of flowers 
gently I will guide thy feet. 

Youth is as a rapid river, gliding noiseless- 
ly away. 

Earth is but a pleasant garden ; cull its 
roses whilst thou may; 

Press the juice from piirple clusters, fill 
life's chalice with the wine. 

Taste the fairest fruits which tempt thee, 
all its richest fruits are thine." 

Ah ! the path was smooth and easy, but 
a snare was set therein, 

And the feet were oft entangled in the 
fearful mesh of sin. 

And the canker-worm was hidden in the 
rose-leaf folded up. 

And the sparkling wine of pleasure was a 
fatal Circean cup; 

All its fruits were Dead 8ea apples, tempt- 
ing only to the sight. 

Fair yet fill'd with dust and ashe.s — beau- 
tiful, but touch'd with blight. 

" my Father," cried I inly, " Thou hast 

striven — I have will'd ; 
Now the mission of the angel of Thy 

patience is fulfill'd ; 
I have tasted earthly jdeasures, yet my 

soul is craving food ; 
Let the summons Thou ha.st given to Thy 

harvest be rencw'd ; 



I am ready now to labor — wilt thou call me 

once again ? 
I will join thy willing reapers as they 

garner up the grain." 

But the still small voice within me, earnest 

in its truth and deep, 
Answer'd my awaken'd conscience, " As 

thou sowest thou shalt reap ; 
God is just, and retribution follows each 

neglected call ; 
Thou hadst thy ai)pointed duty taught thee 

by the Lord of all; 
Thou wert chosen, but another fill'd the 

place assigned thee. 
Henceforth in my field of labor thou 

mayst but a gleaner be. 

" But a work is still before thee — see thou 

linger not again ; 
Separate the chaff thou gleanest, beat it 

from among the grain ; 
Follow after these my reapers, let thine 

eyes be on the field, 
Gather up the precious handfuls their 

abundant wheat-sheaves yield ; 
Go not hence to glean, but tarry from the 

morning until night ; 
Be thou faithful, thou mayst yet find favor 

in thy Master's sight." 

Han.vah Lloyd Nkalk. 



The Lot of Thousands. 

When hope lies dead within the heart, 
Rv secret sorrow close coneeal'd, 

We shrink lest looks or words impart 
What must not be reveal'd. 

'Tis hard to smile when one would weep; 

To speak when one would silent be; 
To wake when one should wish to sleep. 

And wake to agony. 

Yet such the lot by thousands cast • 
Who wander in this world of care, 

And bend beneath the bitter blast, 
To .save them from despair. 

But Nature waits her guests to greet. 

Where disappointment cannot come; 

And Time guides with unerring feet 

The weary wanderers home. 

.\N.NE Hunter. 



686 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPMDIA OF POETRY. 



Sonnet to Time. 

Time, who kuowest a lenient hand to 

lay 
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly 

thence 
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) 
The faint pang stealest unperceived 

away; 
On tliee I rest my only hope at last, 

And think when thou hast dried the 

bitter tear 
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held 

dear, 

1 may look back on every sorrow past. 
And meet life's peaceful evening with a 

smile. 
As some lone bird, at day's departing 

hour, 
Sings in the sunbeam of the transient 

shower. 
Forgetful, though its . wings are wet the 

while. 
Yet ah! how much must that poor heart 

endure, 
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, 

a cure ! 

William Lisle Bowles. 



The Chameleon. 

Oft has it been my lot to mark 
A proud, conceited, talking spark. 
With eyes that hardly served at most 
To guard their master 'gainst a post, 
Yet round the world the blade has been 
To see whatever could be seen. 
Returning from his finish'd tour 
Grown ten times perter than before ; 
Whatever word you chance to drop, 
The travell'd fool your mouth will stop ; 
"Sir, if my judgment you'll allow, 
I've seen — and sure I ought to know," 
So begs you'd pay a due submission, 
And acquiesce in his decision. 

Two travellers of such a cast. 
As o'er Arabia's wilds they pass'd. 
And on their way, in friendly chat, 
Now talk'd of this, and then of that. 
Discoursed a while, 'mongst other matter. 
Of the chameleon's forin and nature. 



" A stranger animal," cries one, 
"Sure never lived beneath the sun. 
A lizard's body, lean and long, 
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, 
Its foot with triple claw disjoiu'd. 
And what a length of tail behind ! 
How slow its pace, and then its hue, — 
Who ever saw so fine a blue?" 

" Hold, there !" the other quick replies ; 
" 'Tis green, — I saw it with these eyes. 
As late with open mouth it lay. 
And warm'd it in the sunny ray; 
Stretch'd at its ease the beast I view'd, 
And saw it eat the air for food." 
" I've seen it, sir, as well as you, 
And must again affirm it blue ; 
At leisure I the beast survey'd, 
Extended in the cooling shade." 
" 'Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye." 
" Green !" cries the other in a fury, — 
" Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes?" 
" 'Twere no great loss," the friend replies, 
" For if they always serve you thus, 
You'll find them of but little use." 

So high at last the contest rose, 

From words they almost came to blows. 

When luckily came by a third, — 

To him the question they referr'd, 

And begg'd he'd tell 'em, if he knew, 

Wliether the thing was green or blue. 

"Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your 

pother ! 
The creature's neither one nor t'other. 
I caught the animal last night. 
And view'd it o'er by candlelight ; 
I mark'd it well — 'twas black as jet ; 
You stare, — but, sirs, I've got it yet, 
And can produce it." " Pray, sir, do : 
I'll lay my life the thing is blue." 
" And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen 
The reptile, you'll pronounce him green." 

" Well then, at once to ease the doubt," 
Replies the man, " I'll turn him out, 
And when before your eyes I've set him, 
If you don't find him black, I'll eat him." 
He said, then full before their sight 
Produced the beast, and lo ! — 'twas white. 

Both stared ; the man look'd wondrous 

wise — 
" Jly children," the chameleon cries 



MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY. 



687 



(Then first the creature found a tongue), 
" You all are right, and all are wrong; 
When next you talk of what you view, 
Think others see as well as you ; 
Nor wonder, if you find that none 
Prefers your eyesight to liis own." 

James Merrick. 



/ La y IX SORRO IV, DEEP Dis- 
tressed. 

1 i..\Y in sorrow, deep distress'd ; 

My grief a proud man heard ; 
His looks were eold, he gave me gold, 

But not a kindly word. 
My sorrow pass'd, — I paid him back 

The gold he gave to me ; 
Then stood erect and spoke my thanks, 

And bless'd his Charity. 

I lay in want, in grief and pain : 

A poor man pass'd my way ; 
He hound my head, lie gave me bread. 

He watch'd me night and day. 
How shall I jiay him back again 

For all he did to me ? 
Oh, gold is great, but greater far 

Is heavenly Sympathy ! 

Cu abi.es Mack ay. 



Stanzas. 

When lovely woman stoops to folly. 
And finds too late that men betray, 

What charm can soothe her melancholy, 
What art can wa.sh her guilt away ? 

The only art her guilt to cover, 
To hide her shame from every eye, 

To give repentance to her lover 
And wring his bosom, is — to die. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



NraiiT. 

XloHT is the time for rest ; 

How sweet, when labors close, 
To gather round an aching breast 

The curtain of repose. 
Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head 
Down on our own delightful bed ! 

Night is the time for dreams : 
The gay romance of life, 



When truth that is, and truth that seems, 

Mi.K in fanta.stic strife ; 
Ah I visions less beguiling far 
Than waking dreams by daylight are ! 

Night is the time for toil : 

To plough the classic field. 
Intent to find the buried spoil 

Its wealthy furrows yield ; 
Till all is ours that sages taught. 
That poets sang, and heroes wrought. 

Night is the time to weep : 

To wet with unseen tears 
Those graves of Jlemory, where sleep 

The joys of other years ; 
Hopes that were angels at their birth. 
But died when young, like things of earth. 

Night is the time to watch : 

O'er ocean's dark expanse, 
To hail the Pleiades, or catch 

The full moon's earliest glance, 
That brings into the homesick mind 
All we have loved and left behind. 

Night is the time for care : 

Brooding on hours misspent, 
To see the spectre of Despair 

Come to our lonely tent ; 
Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host, 
Summou'd to die by Ciesar's ghost. 

Night is the time to think : 

When, from the eye, the soul 
Takes flight ; and on the utmost brink 

Of yonder starry pole 
Discerns beyond the abyss of night 
The dawn of uncreated light. 

Night is the time to pray : 

Our Saviour oft withdrew 
To desert mountains far away ; 

So will His followers do, 
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, 
And commune there alone with God. 

Night is the time for Death : 

When all around is peace, 
Calmly to yield the weary breath, 

From sin and suffering cease. 
Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign 
To parting friends ; — such death be mine. 

JAME9 MONTOOMERY. 



688 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



FAITH. 

Better trust all and be deceived, 

And weep that trust and that deceiving, 

Than doubt one heart that if believed 
Had ble-ss'd one's life with true believ- 
ing. 

Oh, in this mocking world too fast 

The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth; 

Better be cheated to the last 
Than lose the blessed hope of truth. 

Fe.inces Anne Kemble. 



Good Counseil of Chaucer. 

Flee fro the pres, and duelle with soth- 
fastnesse ; 
Suffice the thy good though hit be smale ; 
For horde hath hate, and clynibyng tikel- 
nesse, 
Pres hath envye, and wele is blent over alle. 
Savoure no more then the behove shalle; 
Rede wel thy self that other folke canst rede, 
And trouthe the shal delyver, hit ys no 
drede. 

Peyne the not eche croked to redresse 
In trust of hire that turneth as a balle, 

Grete rest stant in lytil besynesse ; 
Bewar also to spume ayeine an nalle, 
Stryve not as doth a croke with a walle ; 

Daunt thy selfe that dauntest othcres dede. 

And trouthe the shal delyver, hit is no 
drede. 

That the ys sent receyve in buxomnesse, 

The wrasteling of this workl askcth a falle ; 
Her is no home, her is but wyldyrnesse. 
Forth pilgrime! forth best out of thy 

stable ! 
Loke up on bye, and thonke God of alle ; 
Weyve thy lust, and let thy goste the lede. 
And trouthe shal thee delyver, hit is no 
drede. 

Geoffrey Chaucer. 



Sic Vita. 

Like to the falling of a star, 
Or as the flights of eagles are, 
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue. 
Or silver drops of morning dew, 
Or like a wind that chafes the flood, 
Or bubbles which on water stood — 
E'en such is man, whose borrow'd light 
Is straight called in, and paid to-night. 
The wind blows out, the bubble dies, 
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies. 
The dew dries up, the star is shot, 
The flight is past — and man forgot ! 

Henry King. 

Lines. 

Written by One in the Tower, beino 
Young And condemned to Die. 

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares, 
My fea.st of joy is but a dish of pain. 

My crop of corn is but a field of tares. 
And all my goodes is but vain liope of 
gain. 

The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun ; 

And now I live, and now my life is done ! 



My 



past, and yet it hath not 



spring 
sprung. 
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are 
green ; 
My youth is past, and yet I am but young, 
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen. 
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun ; 
And now I live, and now my life ia done ! 

I sought for death, and found it in the 
wombe, 
I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade, 
I trade the ground, and knew it was my 
tombe. 
And now I die, and now I am but made. 
The glass is full, and yet my glass is run ; 
And now I live, and now my life is done ! 

CUIDIOCK Tychborn. 



PART xir. 



Poems of 



Labor and Social Ouestioxs. 



'^^-^^^^ 



Poems of Labor and Social Questions. 



Labor. 

Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet 

us, 
Rest from all petty vexations that meet 

us, 
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat 

us, 
Rest from world-sirens that lure us to 

ill. 
Work, — and pure slumbers shall wait on 

thy pillow ; 
Work, — thou shalt ride over Care's coming 

billow ; 
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weep- 
ing willow ! 
Work with a stout heart and resolute 

will! 

Labor is health ! — Lo ! the husbandman 

reaping. 
How through his veins goes the life-cur- 
rent leaping! 
How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride 

sweeping. 
Free as a sunbeam the swift sickle 

guides ! 
Labor is wealth, — in the sea the pearl 

groweth ; 
Rich tlie queen's robe from the frail cocoon 

floweth ; 
From the fine acorn the strong forest blow- 

eth; 
Temple and statue the marble block 

hides. 

Droop nut, though shame, sin, and anguish 

are round thee; 
Bravely Hing off the cold chain that hath 

bound thee I 
Look to yon pure Heaven smiling beyond 

thee: 



Rest not content in thy darkness,— a 
clod I 
Work for some good, be it ever so slowly ; 
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly : 
Labor! — all labor is noble and holy ; 
Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy 
God. 

Pause not to dream of the future before us; 
Pause not to weep the wild cares that 

come o'er us ; 
Hark how Creation's deep, musical chorus, 

Unintermitting, goes up into Heaven I 
Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing; 
Never the little seed stops in its growing; 
Slore and more richly the rose-heart keeps 
glowing, 

Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. 

" Labor is worship !" the robin is singing ; 

"Labor is worship!" the wild bee is ring- 
ing; 

Listen! that eloquent whisper, upspring- 
ing. 
Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's 
great heart. 

From the dark cloud flows the life-giving 
shower ; 

From the rough sod blows the soft-breath- 
ing flower; 

From the small insect, the rich coral 
bower ; 
Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his 
part. 

Labor is life ! — 'Tis the still water fail- 

eth; 
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; 
Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust 
a.ssaileth : 
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of 
noon. 

6S1 



692 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Labor is glory ! — the flying cloud lightens ; 
Only the waving wing changes and bright- 
ens; 
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens : 
Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep 
them in tune ! 

Frances Sargent Osgood. 



The Useful Plough. 

A COUNTRY life is sweet ! 
In moderate cold and heat, 

To walk in the air, how pleasant and fair! 
In every field of wheat, 

The fairest of flowers, adorning the 
bowers, 
And every meadow's brow ; 

So that I say, no courtier may 

Compare with them who clothe in gray, 
And follow the useful plough. 

They rise with the morning lark, 
And labor till almost dark ; 
Then folding their sheep, they hasten to 
sleep ; 
While every pleasant park 

Next morning is ringing with birds that 
are singing 
On each green, tender bough. 
With what content and merriment 
Their days are spent, whose minds are 
bent 
To follow the useful plough ! 

Author Unknown. 

Tjte Ploughman. 

Cleae the brown path to meet his coul- 
ter's gleam ! 

Lo ! on he comes, behind his smoking 
team. 

With toil's bright dewdrops on his sun- 
burnt brow. 

The lord of earth, the hero of the plough ! 

First in the field before the reddening sun, 
Last in the shadows when the day is done. 
Line after line, along the bursting sod, 
Marks the broad acres where his feet have 

trod ; 
Still where he treads the stubborn clods 

divide. 
The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and 

wide ; 



Matted and dense the tangled turf up- 
heaves. 

Mellow and dark the ridgy cornfield 
cleaves ; 

Up the steep hillside, where the laboring 
train 

Slants the long track that scores the level 
plain, 

Through the moist valley, clogg'd with 
oozing clay. 

The patient convoy breaks its destined 
way ; 

At every turn the loosening chains re- 
sound, 

The swinging ploughshare circles glisten- 
ing round. 

Till the wide field one billowy waste ap- 
pears. 

And wearied hands unbind the panting 
steers. 

These are the hands whose sturdy labor 

brings 
The peasant's food, the golden pomp of 

kings ; 
This is the page whose letters shall be seen 
Changed by the sun to words of living 

green ; 
This is the scholar whose immortal pen 
Spells the first lesson hunger taught to 

men ; 
These are the lines that heaven-commanded 

Toil 
Shows on his deed, — the charter of the 

soil I 

O gracious Mother, whose benignant breast 
Wakes us to life, and lulls us all to rest. 
How thy sweet features, kind to every 

clime. 
Mock with their smile the wrinkled frout 

of Time ! 
We stain thy flowers,— they blossom o'er 

the dead ; 
We rend thy bosom, and it gives us bread ; 
O'er the red field that trampling strife has 

torn 
Waves the green plumage of thy tassell'd 

corn ; 
Our maddening conflicts scar thy fairest 

plain, 
Still thy soft answer is the growing grain. 



POEMS OF LABOR AND SOCIAL QUESTIONS. 



693 



Yet, O our Mother, while uncounted 
charms 

Steal round our hearts in thine embracing 
arms, 

Let not our virtues in thy love decay, 

And tliy fond sweetness waste our strength 
away. 

Xo I by these hills whose banners now dis- 
play 'd 

In blazing cohorts Autumn has array'd ; 

By yon twin summits, on wliose splintery 
crests 

The tossing hemlocks hold the eagles' 
nests ; 

By these fair plains the mountain circle 
screens, 

And feeds with streamlets from its dark 
ravines, — 

True to their home, these faithful arms 
shall toil 

To crown with peace their own untainted 
soil ; 

And, true to God, to freedom, to mankind, 

If her chain'd ban-dogs Faction shall un- 
bind. 

These stately forms, that, bending even 
now, 

Bow'd their strong manhood to the hum- 
ble plough, 

Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land, 

Tlie same stern inm in the same right hand, 

Till o'er their hills the shouts of triumph 
run ; 

The sword has rescued what the plough- 
share won ! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



The Village Blacksmith. 

L'xDER a spreading chestnut tree 

The village smithy stands; 
The smith, a mighty man is he. 

With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long; 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat ; 

He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 



Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge. 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door ; 
They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar. 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff' from a thresliing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling — rejoicing — sorrowi ng — 

Onward through life he goes : 
Each morning sees some task begin, 

Each evening sees it close ; 
Something attempted — something done, 

Has earn'd a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught ! 

Thus at the flaming forge of Life 
Our fortunes must be wrought, 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought. 

HE.NBY WaDSWORTH LoSOFELLOW. 



The Forging of the Anchor. 

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ! 

'tis at a white heat now — 
The bellows oeiused, the flames decreased, 

though, on the forge's brow. 
The little flames still fitfully |ilay through 

the sable mound. 
And fitfully you still may sec the grim 

smiths ranking round, 



694 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


All clad in leathern panoply, their broad 


And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save 


hands only bare, 


when ye pitch sky-high ; 


Some rest upon their sledges here, some 


Then moves his head, as though he said, 


work the windlass there. 


" P'ear nothing, here am 1 1" 


The windlass strains the tackle-chains, — 




the black mould heaves below, 


Swing in your strokes in order; let foot 


And red and deep, a hundred veins burst 


and hand keep time ; 


out at every throe. 


Your blows make music sweeter far than 


It rises, roars, rends all outright, — Vul- 


any steeple's chime. 


can, what a glow ! 


But while ye swing your sledges, sing, and 


'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright, — ■ 


let the burthen be, 


the high sun shines not so I 


The anchor is the anvil king, and royal 


The high sun sees not, on the earth, such 


craftsmen we ! 


fiery fearful show. 


Strike in, strike in ! — the sparks begin to 


The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, 


dull their rustling red ; 


the ruddy lurid row 


Our hammers ring with sharper din — our 


Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band. 


work will soon be sped ; 


like men before the foe, 


Our anchor soon must change his bed of 


As, quivering through his fleece of flame. 


fiery rich array 


the sailing monster slow 


For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an 


Sinks on the anvil ; all about, the faces 


oozy couch of clay ; 


fiery grow : 


Our anchor soon must change the lay of 


"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap 


merry craftsmen here 


out !" bang, bang ! the sledges go ; 


For the yeo-heave-o and the heave away. 


Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing 


and the sighing seamen's cheer — 


high and low. 


When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, 


A hailing fount of fire is struck at every 


far from love and home ; 


squashing blow ; 


And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail 


The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the 


o'er the ocean foam. 


rattling cinders strow 




The ground around ; at every bound the 




sweltering fountains flow ; 


In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens 


And, thick and loud, the swinking crowd 


down at last ; 


at every stroke pant " Ho !" 


A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er 




from cat was cast. 


Leap out, leap out, my masters ! leap out. 


trusted and trustworthy guard ! if thou 


and lay on load ; 


hadst life like me. 


Let's forge a goodly anchor — a bower thick 


What pleasures would thy toils reward be- 


and broad, 


neath the deep green sea 1 


For a lieart of oak is hanging on every 


deep sea-diver, who might then behold 


blow, I bode, 


such sights as thou? — 


And I see the good ship riding, all in a 


The hoary monster's palaces ! — Methinks 


perilous road. 


what joy 'twere now 


The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll 


To go i)lumb-plunging down, amid the as- 


of ocean pour'd 


sembly of tlie whales. 


From stem to stern, sea after sea ; the 


And feel the churn'd sea round me boil 


mainmast by the board ; 


beneath their scourging tails ! 


The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the 


Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the 


boats stove at the chains ; 


fierce sea-unicorn, 


But courage still, brave mariners, the 


And send him foil'd and bellowing back, 


bower yet remains I 


for all his ivory horn ; 



POEMS OF LABOR AND SOCIAL QUESTIONS. 



695 



To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony 

blade forlorn ; 
And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to 

laugh his jaws to scorn ; 
To leap down on the krakcn's back, where 

'mid Norwegian isles 
He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden 

shallow'd miles — 
Till, snorting like an under-sea volcano, 

off he rolls ; 
Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far 

astonish'd shoals 
Of his back-browsing ocean-calves ; or, 

haply, in a cove 
Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to 

some Undine's love, 
To find the long-hair'd mermaidens ; or, 

hard by icy lands. 
To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon ceru- 
lean sands. 



O broad-ann'd fisher of the deep ! whose 

sports can equal thine? 
The dolphin weighs a thousand tons that 

tugs thy cable line ; 
And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy 

glory day by day, 
Through sable sea and breaker white the 

giant game tO play. 
But, shamer of our little sports ! forgive 

the name I gave : 
A fisher's joy is to destroy — thine office is 

to save. 
O lodger in the sea-king's halls ! couldst 

thou but understand 
Whose be the white bones by thy side — 

or who that dripping band, 
Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that 

round about thee bend, 
With sounds like breakers in a dream 

blessing their ancient friend — 
Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide 

with larger steps round thee, 
Thine iron side would swell with pride — 

thou'dst leap within the sea ! 



Give honor to their memories who left the 

plea-sant strand 
To shed their blood so freely for the love 
of fatherland — 



Who left their chance of quiet age and 
grassy churchyard grave 

So freely, for a restless bed amid the toss- 
ing wave ! 

Oh, though our anchor may not be all I 
have fondly sung. 

Honor him for their memory whose bones 
he goes among 1 

SA51t'EL FeBGUSON. 



A Life otf the Ocean M'ave. 

A LIFE on the ocean wave, 

A home on the rolling deep ; 
Where the scatter'd waters rave. 

And the winds their revels keep 1 
Like an eagle caged I pine 

On this dull, unchanging shore : 
Oh give me the flashing brine. 

The spray and the tempest's roar ! 

Once more on the deck I stand. 

Of my own swift-gliding craft : 
Set sail ! farewell to the land ; 

The gale follows fair abaft. 
We shoot through the sparkling foam, 

Like an ocean-bird set free, — 
Like the ocean-bird, our home 

We'll find far out on the sea. 

The land is no longer in view, 

The clouds have begun to frown ; 
But with a stout vessel and crew. 

We'll say, Let the storm come down ! 
And the song of our hearts shall be. 

While the winds and the waters rave, 
A home on the rolling sea ! 

A life on the ocean wave ! 

Epes Sargent. 



A Wet Sheet axd a Fiowixg 
Sea. 

A WET sheet and a flowing sea — 

A wind that follows fast. 
And fills the white and ru.stling sail, 

And bends the gallant ma.st — 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 

While, like the eagle free, 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 

Old England on the lee. 



696 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Oh for a soft and gentle wind ! 

I heard a fair one cry ; 
But give to me the snoring breeze, 

And white waves heaving high — 
And white waves heaving high, my boys, 

The good sliip tight and free ; 
Tlie world of waters is our home, 

And merry men are we. 

Tliere's tempest in yon horned moon. 

And lightning in yon cloud ; 
And hark the music, mariners ! 

The wind is piping loud — 
The wind is piping loud, my boys. 

The lightning flashing free ; 
While the hollow oak our palace is. 

Our heritage the sea. 

Allan Cunningham. 



TffE FisHERiiAurs Song. 

Away — away o'er the feathery crest 

Of the beautiful blue are we : 
For our toil-lot lies on its boiling breast, 
And our wealth's in the glorious sea ; 
And we've hymn'd in the grasp of the 
fiercest night, 
To the God of the sons of toil, 
As we cleft the wave by its own white 
light, 
And away with its scaly spoil. 

Then oh for the long and the strong 

oar-sweep 

We have given, and will again ; 

For when children's weal lies in the 

deep. 

Oh ! their fathers must be men. 

And we'll think, as the blast grows loud 
and long, 
That we hear our offspring's cries — 
And we'll think, as the surge grows tall 
and strong, 
Of the tears in their mothers' eyes : 
And we'll reel through the clutch of the 
shivering green. 
For the warm, warm clasp at home — 
For the' soothing smile of each heart's own 
queen, 
And her arms like the flying foam. 



Then oh for the long and strong oar- 
sweep 
We have given, and will again : 
For when children's weal lies iu the 
deep, 
Oh ! their fathers rrmat be men. 

Do we yearn for the land when toss'd on 
this? 
Let it ring to the proud one's tread : 
Far worse than the waters and winds may 
hiss 
Where the poor man gleans his bread. 
If the adder-tongue of the upstart knave 

Can bleed what it may not bend, 
'Twere better to battle the wildest wave 
That the spirit of storms could send. 
Than be singing farewell to the bold 
oar-sweep 
We have given, and will again ; 
If our souls should bow to the 
savage deep, 
Oh ! they'll never to savage men. 

And if Death, at times, through a foamy 
cloud. 
On the brown-brow'd boatman glares. 
He can pay him his glance with a soul as 
proud 
As the form of a mortal bears ; 
And oh 'twere glorious, sure, to die. 

In our toils for some on shore. 
With a hopeful eye fix'd calm on the sky, 
And a hand on the broken oar. 

Then oh, for a long, strong, steady 
sweep ; 
Hold to it — hurrah — dash on : 
If our babes must fast till we rob 
the deep, 
'Tis time that we had begun. 

Author Unknown. 



The MARINER'S DREAM. 

In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy 
lay; 
His hammock swung loose at the sport 
of the wind ; 
But watch-worn and weary, his care flew 
away. 
And visions of happiness danced o'er 
his mind. 



POEMS OF LABOR AND SOCIAL QUESTIONS. 



697 



He dream'd of his home, of his dear native [ He springs from his hammock — he flies to 



bowers, 
And pleasures that waited on life's merry 

morn ; 
While Memory stood sideways half cover'd 

witli tlowers, 
And restored every rose, but secreted its 

thorn. 

Then Fani'v her magical pinions spread 
wide. 
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy 
rise ; 
Now far, far behind him the green waters 
glide, 
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his 
eves. 



The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the 
thatch. 



the deck ; 

Amazement confronts him with images 
dire; 
Wild winds and mad waves drive the ves- 
sel a wreck ; 

The masts fly in splinters ; the shrouds 
are on fire ! 

Like mountains the billows tremendously 
swell ; 
In vain the lost wretch calls on Jlercy 
to save ; 
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his 
knell ; 
And the death-angel flaps his broad wing 
o'er the wave I 



sailor boy ! woe to thy dream of de- 
light ! 

'^"*^_*''! :!"'.'!"°''' !!°^ ""^^^^ '"'■""' ^" ' In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work 

of bliss. 
Where now is the picture that Fancy 
touch'd bright — 
Thy parents' fond pressure and love's 
honey'd kiss ? 

O sailor boy ! sailor boy ! never again 
Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes 
repay ; 
Unbless'd and unhonor'd, down deep in 
the main. 
Full many a fathom, thy frame shall de- 
cay. 

Xo tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance 
for thee, 
Or redeem form or frame from the mer- 
ciless surge ; 
But the white foam of waves shall thy 
winding-sheet be. 
And winds, in the midnight of winter, 
thy dirge ! 

On beds of green sea-flowers thy limbs 
shall be laid ; 
Around thy white bones the red coral 
shall grow ; 



nest in the wall 
All trembling with transport, he raises the 
latch. 
And the voices of loved ones reply to 
his call. 

A father bends o'er him with looks of de- 
light ; 
His cheek is impearl'd with a mother's 
warm tear ; 
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss 
unite 
With the lips of the maid whom his 
bosom holds dear. 

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his 
breast ; 
Joy quickens his pulses — his hardships 
seem o'er ; 
And a murmur of happiness steals through 
his rest — 
Kind Fate, thou hast blest me — I ask for 
no more. 

Ah ! what is that flame which now bursts 
on his eye? 
Ah ! what is that sound which now 
'larunis his ear ? 



'Tis the lightning's red glare, painting hell Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber 



on the skv ! 



be made ; 



'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan i And every part suit to thy mansion be- 



ef the sphere ! 



low. 



698 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Days, months, years, and ages shall circle 
away, 
And still the vast waters above thee 
shall roll ; — 
Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye: — 
sailor boy ! sailor boy ! peace to thy 
soul! 

William Dimond. 



Poor Jack. 

Go patter to lubbers and swabs, do ye see, 

'Bout danger, and fear, and the like ; 
A tight water-boat and good sea-room give 
me, 
And it ent to a little I'll strike : 
Though the tempest top-gallant masts 
smack smooth should smite, 
And shiver each splinter of wood, 
Clear the wreck, stow the yards, and bouse 
everything tight, 
And under reef'd foresail we'll scud : 
Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so 
soft 
To be taken for trifles aback ; 
For they say there's a Providence sits up 
aloft, 
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack. 

I heard our good chaplain palaver one 
day 
About souls, heaven, mercy, and such ; 
And, my timbers I what lingo he'd coil 
and belay, 
Why, 'twas just all as one as High 
Dutch : 
For he said how a sparrow can't founder, 
d'ye see. 
Without orders that come down below ; 
And a many fine things that proved clear- 
ly to me 
That Providence takes us in tow : 
For, says he, do you mind me, let storms 
e'er so oft 
Take the topsails of sailors aback. 
There's a sweet little cherub that sits up 
aloft. 
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack. 

I said to our Poll — for, d'ye see, she would 
cry, 
When last we weigh'd anchor for sea — 



What argufies sniv'lling and piping your 
eye ? 
Why, what a damn'd fool you must be! 
Can't you see th,e world's wide, and there's 
room for us all. 
Both for seamen and lubbers ashore ? 
And if to old Davy I should go, friend Poll, 

You never will bear of me more : 
What then? all's a hazard : come, don't be 
so soft. 
Perhaps I may laughing come back. 
For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling 
aloft. 
To keep watch for the life of poor .Jack. 

D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch 

All as one as a piece of the ship, 
And with her brave the world without 
oft'ering to flinch, 
From the moment the anchor's a-trip. 
As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, 
and ends. 
Naught's a trouble from duty that 
springs, 
For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's 
my friend's. 
And as for my life, 'tis the king's : 
Even when my time comes, ne'er believe 
me so soft 
As for grief to be taken abacl^. 
For the same little cherub that sits up aloft 
Will look out a good berth for poor Jack. 
Charles Dibdin. 



Hannah Binding Shoes. 

Poor lone Hannah, 
Sitting at the window, binding shoes ! 

Faded, wrinkled, 
Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse ! 
Bright-eyed beauty once was she. 
When the bloom was on the tree : 
Spring and winter 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 

Not a neighbor 
Passing nod or answer will refuse 

To her whisper, 
" Is there from the fishers any news?" 
Oh, her heart's adrift with one 
On an endless voyage gone ! 
Night and morning 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 







? z 



POEMS OF LABOR AND SOCIAL QUESTTOXS. 



099 



Fair young Hannah, 
Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly woos ; 

Hale and clever, 
For a willing heart and hand he sues. 
May-day skies are all aglow, 
And the waves are laughing so ! 
For her wedding 
Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. 

May is passing : 
Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos. 

Hannah shudders. 
For the mild south-wester mischief brews. 
Round the rocks of Marblehead, 
Outward bound, a schooner sped: 
Silent, lonesome, 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 

'Tis November. 
Now no tears her wasted cheek bedew.s. 

From Newfoundland 
Not a sail returning will she lose, 
Whispering hoarsely, " Fisherm.an, 
Have you, have you heard of Ben?" 
Old with watching, 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 

Twenty winters 
Bleach and tear the ragged shore she 
views. 

Twenty seasons ; — 
Never one h.as brought her any news. 
Still her dim eyes silently 
Cha.se the white sail o'er the sea: 
Hopeless, faithful, 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 

Lucy Larcom. 



The Three Fishers. 

Three fishers went sailing away to the 
west — 
Away to the west as the sun went 
down ; 
Each thought on the woman who loved 
him the best. 
And the children stood watching them 
out of the town ; 
For men must work, and women must 

weep ; 
And there's little to earn, and many to 
keep. 
Though the harbor bar be moaning. 



Three wives sat up in the lighthouse 
tower. 
And they trimm'd the lamps as the sun 
went down ; 
They look'd at the squ.ill, and they look'd 
at the shower. 
And the night-rack came rolling up, 
ragged and brown ; 
But men must work, and women must 

weep. 
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
And the harl)or bar be moaning. 

Three corpses layout on the shining sands 
In the morning gleam as tlie tide went 
down. 
And the women arc weeping and wring- 
ing their hands 
For those who will never come home to 
the town ; 
For men must work, and women must 

weep — 
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to 
sleep — 
And good-bye to the bar and its moan- 
ing. 

Charles Kiiioslby. 



"THEY'RE Dear Fish to Me." 

The farmer's wife sat at the door, 

A plci-sant sight to see ; 
And blithesome were the wee, wee bairns 

That play'd around her knee. 

When, bending 'neath her heavy creel, 

A poor fish- wife came by. 
And, turning from the toilsome road, 

Unto the door drew nigh. 

She laid her burden on the green. 

And sprca<t it.s scaly store. 
With trembling hands and pleading words 

She told them o'er and o'er. 

But lightly laugh 'd the young guidwifc, 
" We're no sae scarce o' cheer ; 

Tak up your creel, and gang your ways, — 
I'll buy nae fish sae dear." 

Bending beneath her load again, 

.V weary sight to see; 
Right sorely sigh'd the poor fish-wife, 

" Thev're dear fish to me! 



700 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



" Our boat was oot ae fearfu' night, 
And when the storm blew o'er, 

My husband, and my three brave sons, 
Lay corpses on the shore. 

" I've been a wife for thirty years, 

A childless widow three; 
I maun buy them now to sell again, — 

They're dear fish to me !" 

The farmer's wife turn'd to the door, — 

What was't upon her cheek? 
What was there rising in her breast. 

That then she scarce could speak ? 

She thought upon her aiu guid man, 

Her lightsome laddies three ; 
The woman's words had pierced her 
heart, — 

" They're dear fish to me !" 

" Come back," she cried, with quivering 
voice 

And pity's gathering tear ; 
"Come in, come in, my poor woman, 

Ye're kindly welcome here. 

" I kentna o' your aching heart, 

Your weary lot to dree ; 
I'll ne'er forget your sad, sad words : 

' They're dear fish to me !' " 

Ay, let the happy-hearted learn 

To pause ere they deny 
The meed of honest toil, and think 

How much their gold may buy, — 

How much of manhood's wasted strength, 

What woman's misery, — 
What breaking hearts might swell the cry : 

" They're dear fish to me !" 

AUTHOE UnKMOWN. 



The Pearl- Wearer. 

Within the midnight of her hair. 
Half hidden in its deepest deeps, 
A single peerless, priceless pearl. 
All filmy-eyed, for ever sleeps. 
Without the diamond's sparkling eyes, 
The ruby's blushes, — there it lies ! 
Modest as the tender Dawn 
When her purple veil's withdrawn, — 
The flower of gems, — a lily, cold and pale ! 
Yet, what doth all avail? 



All its beauty, all its grace. 

All the honors of its place ? 

He who pluck'd it from its bed 
In the far blue Indian Ocean, 
Lieth, without life or motion. 

In his earthly dwelling, — dead ! 

And his children, one by one, 

When they look upon the sun. 

Curse the toil by which he drew 

The treasure from its bed of blue. 

Gentle bride, no longer wear 
In thy night-black, odorous hair 
Such a spoil ! It is not fit 
That a tender soul should sit 
Under such accursed gem. 
What needst thou a diadem ? — 
Thou, within whose Eastern eyes 
Thought, a starry genius, lies? — 
Thou, whom Beauty has array'd, — 
Thou, whom Love and Truth have made 
Beautiful ? — in whom we trace 
Woman's softness, angel's grace, — 
All we hope for, all that streams 
Upon us in our haunted dreams I 

sweet Lady I cast aside. 

With a gentle, noble pride. 

All to sin or pain allied. 

Let the wild-eyed conqueror wear 

The bloody laurel in his hair ; 

Let the black and snaky vine 

Round the drinker's temples twine ; 

Let the slave-begotten gold 

Weigh on bosoms hard and cold ; 

But be thou for ever known 

By thy natural light alone ! 

Bryan Waller Pbocteb. 
(Barry Cornwall.) 

Soldier, Rest. 

Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking 1 
Dream of battled fields no more. 

Days of danger, nights of waking. 
In our isle's enchanted hall 

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, 
Fairy streams of music fall. 

Every sense in slumber dewing. 
Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 
Dream of fighting fields no more ; 
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking. 
Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 



POEMS OF LABOR AND SOCIAL QUE'iTIONS. 



701 



No rude sound shall reach thine ear, 

Armor's clang or war-steed champing, 
Trump nor pibroch summon here 

Mustering clan or squadron tramping. 
Yet the hirk's shrill file may come, 

At the daylireak from the fallow, 
And the bittern sound his drum, 

Booming from the sedgy shallow. 
Ruder sounds shall none be near, 
Guards nor warders challenge here, 
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing. 
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. 

Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done. 

While our slumb'rous spells assail ye. 
Dream not with the rising sun. 

Bugles here shall sound reveill6. 
Sleep ! the deer is in his den ; 

Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying ; 
Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen 

How thy gallant steed lay dying. 
Huntsman, rest ! thy cha.se is done. 
Think not of the rising sun. 
For at dawning to assail ye. 
Here no bugles sound reveill6. 

SiE Walter Scott. 



The Soldiers Dream. 

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud 
had lower'd. 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in 
the sky. 
And thousands had sunk on the ground 
overpower'd, 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to 
die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of 
straw. 
By tlie wolf-scaring fagot that guarded 
the slain, 
Atthedcadof thenightasweetvisionlsaw. 
And tlirice ere the morning I dream'd it 
again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful 
array. 
Far, far 1 lin<l roam'd on a desolate track: 
'Twas Autumn, and sunshine arose on the 
way 
To the home of my fathers, that wel- 
comed me back. 



I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 
In life's morning march, when my bosom 
was young; 
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating 
aloft. 
And knew the sweet strain that the corn- 
reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly 
I swore 
From my home and my weeping friends 
never to part ; 
My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times 
o'er, 
Aud my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness 
of heart. 

"Stay, stay with us ; rest, — thou art weary 

and worn !" 

And fain was their war-broken soldier 

to stay, 

But sorrow return'd with the dawning of 

morn, 

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted 

away. 

Thomas Campbell. 

BINGEN Oy THE RHIXE. 

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in 

Algiers, 
Tliere was lack of woman's nursing, there 

was deartli of woman's tears, 
But a comrade stood beside him, while his 

life-blood ebb'd away, 
And bent, with pitying glances, to hear 

what he might say. 
The dying soldier falter'd as he took that 

comrade's hand, 
And he said, " I never more shall see my 

own, my native land ; 
Take a message and a token to some dis- 
tant friends of mine. 
For I was born at Bingen — at Bingcn on 

the Rhine. 

" Tell my brothers and companions, when 
they meet and crowd around 

To hear my mournful story in the pleasant 
vineyard ground. 

That we fought the battle bravely, and 
when the day wa.s done 

Full many a corpse lay glia.stly pale be- 
neath the setting sun. 



702 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



And 'midst the dead and dying were some 
grown old in wars, 

The death-wound on their gallant breasts, 
the last of many scars ; 

But some were young, and suddenly beheld 
life's morn decline, 

And one had come from Bingen, fair Bin- 
gen on the Ehine. 

" Tell my mother that her other sons shall 

comfort her old age. 
And I was aye a truant bird, that thought 

his home a cage. 
For my father was a soldier, and even as a 

child 
My heart leap'd forth to hear him tell of 

struggles fierce and wild ; 
And when he died, and left us to divide 

his scanty hoard, 
I let them take whate'er they would, but 

kept my father's sword. 
And with boyish love I hung it where the 

bright light used to shine 
On the cottage-wall at Bingen — calm Bin- 
gen on the lihine. 

" Tell my sister not to weep for me, and 

sob with drooping head. 
When the troops are marching home again 

with glad and gallant tread. 
But to look upon them proudly, with a 

calm and steadfast eye. 
For her brother was a soldier too, and not 

afraid to die. 
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her 

in my name 
To listen to him kindly, without regret or 

shame, 
And to hang the old sword in its place 

(my father's sword and mine), 
For the honor of old Bingen — dear Bin- 
gen on the Rhine. 

" There's another — not a sister : in the 

happy days gone by. 
You'd have known her by the merriment 

that sparkled in her eye ; 
Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for 

idle scorning, 
O friend, I fear the lightest heart makes 

sometimes heaviest mourning ; 



Tell her the last night of my life (for ere 

the moon be risen 
My body will be out of pain — my soul be 

out of prison), 
I dream'd I stood with her, and saw the 

yellow sunlight shine 
On the vineclad hills of Bingen — fair 

Bingen on the Rhine. 

" I saw the blue Rhine sweep along — I 

heard, or seemed to hear, 
The German songs we used to sing, in 

chorus sweet and clear, 
And down the pleasant river, and up the 

slanting hill. 
The echoing chorus sounded through the 

evening calm and still ; 
And her glad blue eyes were on me as we 

pass'd with friendly talk 
Down many a path beloved of yore, and 

well-remember'd walk, 
And her little hand lay lightly, confid- 
ingly in mine ; 
But we'll meet no more at Bingen — loved 

Bingen on the Rhine." 

His voice grew faint and hoarser — his 
grasp was childish weak — ■ 

His eyes put on a dying look — he sigh'd 
and ceased to speak ; 

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark 
of life had fled — 

The soldier of the Legion in a foreign 
land was dead I 

And the soft moon rose up slowly, and 
calmly she look'd down 

On the red sand of the battle-field, with 
bloody corpses strown ; 

Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her 
pale light seem'd to shine, 

As it shone on distant Bingen — fair Bin- 
gen on the Rhine. 

Caroline Norton. 



Tom Dunstan; or, The poli- 
tician. 

Now poor Tom Dunstan's cold, 

Our shop is duller ; 
Scarce a story is told. 
And our chat has lost the old 

Red republican color I 



POEMS OF LABOR ASI) SOCIAL QUESTIONS. 



703 



Though he was sickly and thin, 

'Twas a sight to see his face, — 
While, sick of the country's sin, 
With bang of the fist, and chin 

Thrust out, he argued the easel 
He prophesied men should be free, 
And the money-bags be bled ; — 
"She's coming, she's coming," said he; 
" Courage, boys ! wait and see ! 
Freedom's ahead !" 

All day we sat in the heat. 

Like spiders spinning, 
Stitching full fine and fleet, 
While old Moses on his seat 

Sat greasily grinning; 
And here Tom said his say. 

And prophesied Tyranny's death; 
And the tallow burnt all day. 
And we stitch'd and stitch'd away 

In the thick smoke of our breath. 
Weary, weary were we, 

Our hearts as hea\-y as lead, — 
But " Patience I she's coming !" said he ; 
" Courage, boys ! wait and see ! 

Freedom's ahead !" 

And at night, when we took here 

The rest allow'd to us, 
The paper came with the beer, 
And Tom read, sharp and clear. 

The news out loud to us. 
And then, in his witty way. 

He threw the jests about, — 
The cutting things he'd say 
Of the wealthy and the gay ! 

How he turn'd them inside out I 
And it made our breath more free 

To hearken to what he said : 
"She's coming, she's coming!" said he; 
" Courage, boys ! wait and see ! 

Freedom's ahead !" 

But grim Jack Hart, with a sneer, 

Would mutter, " Master, 
If Freedom means to appear, 
I think she might step here 

A little faster!" 
Then 'twa-s fine to see Tom flame, 

And argue and prove and preach, 
Till Jack was silent for shame. 
Or a fit of coughing came 

O' sudden to spoil Tom's speech. 



Ah ! Tom had the eyes to see 

When Tyranny should be sped ; — 

"She's coming, she's coming!" said he; 

" Courage, boys ! wait and see ! 
Freedom's ahead !" 

But Tom was little and weak ; 

The hard hours shook him ; 
Hollower grew his cheek. 
And when he begun to speak 

Tlie coughing took him. 
Erelong the cheery sound 

Of his chat among us ceased. 
And we made a purse all round, 

Tiiat he might not starve, at least. 
His pain was sorry to sec. 

Yet there, on his poor, sick bed, 
"She's coming, in spite of me ! 
Courage and wait!" cried he, 

" Freedom's ahead !" 

A little before he died, 

To see his passion! 
" Bring mo a pa|)er!" he cried, 
And then to study it tried 

In his old sharp fashion ; 
And, with eyeballs glittering. 

His look on me he bent. 
And said that savage thing 

Of the lords o' tlie Parliament. 
Then, dying, smiling on me, 

" What matter if one be dead ? 
She's coming, at last!" said he; 
" Courage, boys ! wait and see ! 

Freedom's ahead I" 

Ay, now Tom Dunstan's cold, 

The shop feels duller ; 
Scarce a tale is told, 
And our talk has lost the old 

Red republican color. 
But we see a figure gray. 

And we liear a voici' of death. 
And the tallow burns all day. 
And we stitch and stitcli away 

In the thick smoke of our breath ; 
Ay, while in the dark sit we, 

Tom seems to call from the dead — 
"She's coming, she's coming !" says he; 
" Courage, boys ! wait and see! 

Freedom's ahead !" 



704 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



How long, Lord, how long 

Must Thy handmaid linger? 
She who shall right the wrong, 
Make the poor sufferer strong? 

Sweet morrow, bring her ! 
Hasten her over the sea, 

O Lord, ere hope be fled, — 
Bring her to men and to me ! 
slave, pray still on thy knee, 

" Freedom's ahead !" 

KoBEBT Buchanan. 



The Dead politician. 

Fifth Ward. 

" ' Who's dead ?' Ye want to know 
Whose is this funeral show — 

This A 1 corteg' ? 
Well, it was Jim Adair, 
And the remains 's hair 

Sported a short edge I 

" When a man dies like Jim, 
There's no expense of him 

We boys are sparing. 
In life he hated fuss. 
But — as he's left to us — 

Them plumes he's wearing. 

" All the boys here, you see, 
Chock full each carriage ! 
Only one woman. She, 
Cousin by marriage. 

" Who was this Jim Adair ? 
Who ? Well, you've got me there ! 
Reckon one of them 'air 

Fogy 'old res'dents.' 
Who? Why, that corpse you see 
Ridin' so peacefully, 
Head o' this jamboree — 

'Lected three Pres'dents I 

" Who was he ? Ask the boys 
Who made the biggest noise, 

Rynders or Jimmy ? 
Who, when his hat he'd fling, 
Knew how the ' Ayes ' would ring. 

Oh no ! not Jimmy ! 

" Who was he ? Ask the Ward 
Who hed the rules aboard. 
All parliament'ry ? 



Who ran the delegate 
That ran the Empire State, 
And — just as sure as fate — 

Ran the whole 'kentry? 

"Who was he? S'pose you try 
That chap as wipes his eye 

In that hack's corner; 
Ask him, the only man 
That agin Jimmy ran, — 

Now his chief mourner ! 

"Well, that's the la-st o' Jim. 
Yes, we was proud o' him." 

Francis Bket Harte. 



Honest Poverty. 

Is there for honest poverty 

That hangs his head, and a' that ? 
The coward slave, we pass him by ; 

We dare be poor for a' that ! 
For a' that and a' that. 

Our toils obscure, and a' that ; 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp — 

The man's the gowd for a' that ! 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin gray, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their 
wine — 

A man's a man for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor. 

Is king o' men for a' that! 

You see yon birkie ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that — 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that ; 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A king can make a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might — 

Guid faith, he mauna fa' that 1 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their dignities, and a' that ; 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 



POEMS OF LABOR AND SOCIAL QUESTIONS. 



705 



Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a' that, 
That sense and worth, o'er a' tlie earth. 

May bear the gree.and a' tliat. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's coming yet, for a' tliat — 
That man to man, the warld o'er. 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 

Robert Bubks. 



The Heritage. 

The rich man's son inherits lands. 

And piles of brick, and stone, and gold; 

And he inherits soft white hands. 
And tender flesh, that fears the cold, 
Nor dares to wear a garment old ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man's son inherits care.s : 

The bank may break, the factory burn, 

A breath may burst his bubble shares, 
And soft white hands could hardly earn 
A living that would serve his turn ; 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man's son inherits wants. 
His stomach craves for dainty fare ; 

With sated heart he hears the pants 
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare. 
And wearies in his easy-chair ; 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son inherit? 

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit ; 

King of two hands, he does his part 

In every useful toil and art ; 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
A king might wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son inherit? 
Wishes o'erjoy'd with humble things, 

A rank adjudged with toil-won merit. 
Content that from employment springs, 
A heart that in his labor sings ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son inherit '.' 
A patience learn'd of being poor, 
45 



Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, 
A fellow-feeling that is sure 
To make the outciist bless his door ; 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
A king might wish to hold in fee. 

O rich man's son I there is a toil 
That with all others level stands: 

Large charity doth never soil, 

But only whiten, soft white hands, — 
This is the best crop from tliy lands ; 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

Worth being rich to hold in fee. 

O poor man's son ! scorn not tiiy state; 
There is worse weariness than thine — 

In merely being rich and great : 
Toil only gives tlie soul to shine. 
And makes rest fragrant and benign, — 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

Worth being poor to hold in fee. 

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod. 
Are equal in the earth at last : 

Both, children of the same dear God, 
Prove title to your heirship vast 
By record of a well-fiU'd past ; 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

Well worth a life to hold in fee. 

Jahes Russbll Lowell. 



Differences. 
I. 

The king can drink the best of wine — 

So can I ; 
And has enough wlien he would dine — 

So have I ; 
And cannot order rain or shine — : 

Nor can I. 
Then where's the difference — let me see — 
Betwixt my lord the king and me? 



Do trusty friends surround his throne 

N'igiil and day? 
Or make his interest their own? 

No, not they. 
Mine love me for myself alone — 

Bless'd be they ! 
And that's the dill'erence which I see 
Betwixt my lord the king and me. 



706 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



III. 

Do knaves around me lie in wait 

To deceive ? 
Or fawn and flatter when they hate, 

And would grieve? 
Or cruel pomps oppress my state 

By my leave? 
No, Heaven be thank'd ! And here you 

see 
More difference 'twixt the king and me. 

IV. 

He has his fools, with jests and quips, 

When he'd play ; 
He has his armies and his ships — 

Great arc they ; 
But not a child to kiss his lips; 

Well-a-day ! 
And that's a difference sad to see 
Betwixt my lord the king and me. 



I wear the cap and he the crown — 

What of that? 
I sleep on straw and he on down — • 

What of that? 
And he's the king and I'm the clown — 

What of that? 
If happy I, and wretched he. 
Perhaps the king would change with me. 
Charles Mackay. 



We are Brethren a'. 

A HAPPY bit hame this auld world would 
be 

If men, when they're here, could make 
shift to agree. 

An' ilk said to his neighbor, in cottage an' 
. ha', 

" Come, gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- 
ren a'." 

I ken na why ane wi' anither should 

fight. 
When to 'gree would make ae body cosie 

an' right. 
When man meets wi' man, 'tis the beat 

way ava, 
To say, " Gi'e me your hand, — we are 

brethren a'." 



My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may be 

fine. 
And I maun drink water, while you may 

drink wine ; 
But we baith ha'e a leal heart, unspotted 

to shaw : 
Sae gi'e me your hand, — we are brethren a'. 

The knave ye would scorn, the uufaithfu' 
deride ; 

Ye would stand like a rock, wi' the truth 
on your side ; 

Sae would I, an' naught else would I value 
a straw : 

Then gi'e me your "hand, — we are breth- 
ren a'. 

Ye would scorn to do fausely by woman or 
man ; 

I baud by the right aye, as weel as I can ; 

We are ane in our joys, our affections, 
an' a' : 

Come, gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- 
ren a'. 

Y''our mother has lo'ed you as mithers can 
lo'e ; 

An' mine has done for me what mithers 
can do ; 

We are ane high an' laigh, an' we shouldna 
be twa : 

Sae gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- 
ren a'. 

We love the same simmer day, sunny and 
fair; 

Hame ! oh, how we love it, an' a' that are 
there ! 

Frae the pure air of heaven the same life 
we draw : 

Come, gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- 
ren a'. 

Frail shakin' auld age will soou come o'er 
us baith. 

An' creeping alang at his back will be 
death ; 

Syne into the same mither-yird we will 
fa': 

Come, gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- 
ren a'. 

Robert Nicoll. 



POEMS OF LABOR AND SOCIAL QUESTIONS. 



;o7 



Without and Within. 

My coachman, in the moonlight there, 
Looks through the side-liglit of the door ; 

I hear him witli his brethren swear, 
As I could do, — but only more. 

Flattening his nose against the pane, 
He envies me my brilliant lot, 

Breathes on his aching fists in vain. 
And dooms me to a place more hot. 

He sees me in to supper go, 

A silken wonder by my side. 
Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row 

Of flounces, for the door too wide. 

He thinks how happy is my arm 
'Neath its white-gloved and jewell'd 
load ; 

And wishes me some dreadful harm, 
Hearing the merry corks explode. 

Meanwhile I inly curse the bore 
Of hunting still the same old coon, 

And en\'y him, outside the door, 
In golden quiets of the moon. 

The winter wind is not so cold 

As the bright smile he sees me win. 

Nor the host's oldest wine so old 
As our poor gabble sour and thin. 

I envy him the ungj-ved prance 

By which his freezing feet he warms. 

And drag my lady's chains and dance 
Tlie galley-slave of dreary forms. 

Oh, could he have my share of din, 
And I his quiet ! — past a doubt 

'Twould still be one man bored within. 
And just another bored without. 

James Rus.sell Lowell. 



E.icii AND All. 

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloak'd 

clown 
Of thee from the hill-top looking down; 
The heifer that lows in the upland farm. 
Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm ; 
The sexton tolling his bell at noon, 
Deems not that great Napoleon 



Stops his horse, and lists witii delight. 
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine 

height ; 
Nor knowest thou what argument 
Tliy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. 
All are needed by each one; 
Nothing is fair or good alone. 
I thought the s])arrow's note from heaven. 

Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; 
I brought him home, in his nest, at even ; 

He sings the song, but it cheers not now, 
For I did not bring home the river and 

sky ;— 
He sang to my car, — they sang to my eye. 

The delicate shells lay on the shore; 
The bubbles of the latest wave 
Fresh pearls to their enamel gave ; 
And the bellowing of the savage .sea 
Greeted their safe escape to me. 
I wiped away the weeds and foam, 
I fetched my sea-born treasures home; 
But the poor, unsightly, noisome things 

Had left their beauty on the shore. 

With the sun and the sand and tiie wild 
uproar. 
The lover wateh'd his graceful maid, 
As 'mid tlie virgin train she stray'd, 
Nor knew her beauty's best attire 
Was woven still by the snow-white choir. 
At la-st .she came to his hermitage, 
Like the bird from the woodlands to the 

cage;— 
The gay cnchantnieiit wiis undone, 
A gentle wife, but fairy none. 
Then I said, " I covet truth ; 

Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; 
I leave it behind with the games of 
youth." 

As I spoke, beneath my feet 
The ground-pine curl'd its pretty wreath. 

Running over the club-moss burrs; 
I inhaled the violet's breath ; 

Around me stood the oaks and firs ; 
Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground; 
Over me soar'd the eternal sky, 
Full of light and of deity; 
Again I .saw, again I heard. 
The rolling river, the morning bird; — 
Beauty through my senses stole ; 
I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 

Kai.imi Waldo Kmi:khun. 



708 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Nothing to Wear. 

An Episode op City Life. 

Miss Flora M'Flimsey, of Madison 
Square, 
Has made three sajjarate journeys ■ to 
Paris, 
And her father assures me, each time she 
was there, 
That she and her friend Mrs. Harris 
(Not the lady whose name is so famous in 

history, 
But plain Mrs. H., without romance or 

mystery) 
Spent six consecutive weeks without stop- 
pin 



In one continuous round of shopping ; 

Shopping alone, and shopping together, I ""' 

At all hours of the day, and in all sorts' of ^"*^ ^°"" ^^^""^'^ ^^'^ '**''''^'^ themselves mani 



From ten - thousand - francs robes to 
twenty-sous frills ; 
In all quarters of Paris, and to every 

store, 
While M'Flimsey in vain storm'd, scolded, 
and swore', 
They footed the streets, and he footed 
the bills. 

The last trip, their goods shipp'd by the 
steamer Arago 

Form'd, M'Flimsey declares, the bulk of 
her cargo, 

Not to mention a quantity kept from the 
rest, 

Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest, 

Which did not appear on the ship's mani- 
fest, 



weather 
For all manner of things that a woman 

can put 
On the crown of her head or the sole of 

her foot, 
Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round 

her waist, 
Or that can be .sew'd on, or pinn'd on, or 

laced. 
Or tied on with a string, or stitch'd on 

with a bow, 
In front or behind, above or below : 
For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and 

shawls ; 
Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and 

balls ; 
Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in; 
Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk 

in ; 
Dresses in which to do nothing at all ; 
Dresses for winter, spring, .summer, 'and 

fall; 
All of them diff-erent in color and pattern, 
Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and 

satin, 
Brocade, and broadcloth, and other ma- 
terial. 
Quite as expensive and much more ethe- 
real ; 
In short, for all things that could ever be 

thought of, 
Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be 
bought of. 



fested 

Such particular interest that they in- 
vested 
Their own proper persons in layers and 

rows 
Of muslins, embroideries, work'd under- 
clothes, 
Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such 

trifles as those ; 
Then, wrapp'd in great shawls, like Cir- 
cassian beauties, 
Gave good-bye to the ship, and go-hy to the 

duties. 
Her relations at home all marvell'd, no 

doubt. 
Miss Flora had grown so enormously stout 
For an actual belle and a possible bride ; 
But the miracle ceased when she turn'd 
inside out, 
And the truth came to light, and the 
dry-goods beside. 
Which, in spite of collector and custom- 
house sentry, 
Had entered the port without any entry. 

And yet, though scarce three months have 

pass'd since the day 
This merchandise went, on twelve carts, 

up Broadway, 
This same Miss M'Flimsey, of Madison 

Square, 
The last time we met, was in utter despair. 
Because she had nothing whatever to 

wear ! 



POEMS OF LABOR AND SOCIAL QUESTIONS. 



70y 



Nothing to wear ! Now, as this is a 
true ditty, 
I do not assert — this, you know, is be- 
tween us — 
That she's in a state of absohite nudity, 
Like Powers' Greek Slave or the Jledici 
Venus ; 
But I do mean to say, I have heard lier 
declare, 
When, at the same moment, she had on 

a dress 
Which cost five hundred dollars, and 

not a cent less, 
And jewelry worth ten times more, I 
should guess. 
That she had not a thing in the wide world 
to wear ! 

I should mention just here, that out of 
Miss Flora's 

Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers, 

I had just been selected as he who should 
throw all 

The rest in the shade, by the gracious 
bestowal 

On myself, after twenty or thirty rejec- 
tions. 

Of those fossil remains which she call'd 
her " affections," 

And that rather decay'd, but well-known 
work of art. 

Which Miss Flora persisted in styling 
" her heart." 

So we were engaged. Our troth had been 
plighted, 
Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by foun- 
tain or grove. 

But in a front parlor, most brilliantly 
lighted, 
Beneath the gas-fixtures we whisper'd 
our love. 

Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs, 

Without any tears in Misss Flora's blue 
eyes. 

Or blushes, or transports, or such silly 
actions, 

It was one of the quietest business trans- 
actions. 

With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, 
if any. 

And a very large diamond imported by 
Tiffany. 



On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss, 
She exehiini'd, as a sort of parenthesis. 
And by way of putting me quite at my 

ease, 
"You know, I'm to jiolka as much as I 

please. 
And flirt when I like — now stop, don't 

you speak — 
And you must not come hero more than 

twice in the week, 
Or talk to me citlier at i)arty or ball. 
But always be ready to come when I call ; 
So don't prose to me about duty and stuli" 
If we don't break this off, there will be 

time enough 
For that sort of thing ; but the bargain 

must be 
That, as long as I choose, I am perfectly 

free, 
For this is a sort of engagement, you see. 
Which is binding on you, but not binding 

on me." 

Well, having thus woo'd Miss M'Flimsey, 

and gain'd her, 
AVith the silks, crinolines, and hoops that 

contain'd her, 
I had, as I thought, a contingent re- 
mainder 
At least in the property, and the best right 
To appear as its escort by day and by 

night; 
And it being the week of the Stuekups' 

grand ball — 
Tiieir cards liad been out a fortnight or 

so. 
And set all the Avenue on the tip-toe — 
I considered it only my duty to call, 

And see if Miss Flora intended to go. 
I found her — as ladies are apt to be found. 
When the time intervening between the 

first sound 
Of tlie bell and the visitor's entry is shorter 
Than usual— I found— I won't say, I caught 

— her 
Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly 

meaning 
To see if perhaps it didn't need cleaninir. 
She turn'd as I cnter'd— " Why, ILirry, 

you sinner, 
I thought that you went to the Flashers' 

to dinner!" 



710 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



"So I did," I replied, "but the dinner is 

swallow'd, 
And digested, I trust, for 'tis now nine 

and more, 
So being relieved from that duty, I fol- 

low'd 
Inclination, which led me, you see, to 

your door. 
And now will your ladyship so condescend 
As just to inform me if you intend 
Your beauty, and graces, and presence to 

lend,' 
(All which, when I own, I hope no one 

will borrow) 
To the Stuckups', whose party, you know, 

is to-morrow ?'' 

The fair Flora look'd up with a pitiful air, 
And answer'd quite promptly, " Why 

Harry, mon cher, 
I should like above all things to go with 

you there ; 
But really and truly — I've nothing to 

wear." 

" Nothing to wear ! Go just as you are ; 
Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be 

by far, 
I engage, the most bright and particular 

star 
On the Stuckup horizon "—I stopp'd, 

for her eye. 
Notwithstanding this delicate onset of 

flattery, 
Open'd on me at once a most terrible 

battery 
Of scorn and amazement. She made no 

reply, 
But gave a slight turn to the end of her 

nose 
(That pure Grecian feature), as much as 

to .say, 
" How absurd that any sane man should 

sujipose 
That a lady would go to a ball in the 

clothes, 
No matter how fine, that she wears 

every day !" 

So I ventured again — " Wear your crimson 

brocade " 
(Second turn up of nose) — " That's too 

dark by a shade." 



" Your blue silk "— " That's too heavy." 

" Your pink "— " That's too light." 
" Wear tulle over satin " — " I can't endure 

white." 
"Your rose-color'd, then, the best of the 

batch "— 
" I haven't a thread of point lace to 

match." 
" Your brown moire antique " — " Yes, and 

look like a Quaker." 
" The pearl-color'd "— " I would, but that 

plaguey dressmaker 
Has had it a week." — "Then that exquisite 

lilac. 
In which you would melt the heart of a 

Shylock." 
(Here the nose took again the same eleva- 
tion) 
" I wouldn't wear that for the whole of 

creation." 
"Why not? It's my fancy, there's 

nothing could strike it 
As more comme ilfaut — " " Yes, but, dear 

me, that lean 
Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like 

it, 

And I won't appear dress'd like a chit of 
sixteen." 

" Then that splendid purple, that sweet 
mazarine ; 

That superb point d'aguilk, that imperial 
green. 

That zephyr-like tarletan, that rich gren- 
adine " — 

" Not one of all which is fit to be seen," 

Said the lady, becoming excited and flush'd. 

" Then wear," I exclaim'd, in a tone which 
quite crush'd 
Opposition, " that gorgeous toilette which 
you sported 

In Paris last spring, at the grand pre- 
sentation, 

When you quite turn'd the head of the 
head of the nation ; 
And by all the grand court were so very 
much courted." 

The end of the nose was portentously 
tipp'd up. 
And both the bright eyes shot forth in- 
dignation, 
As she burst upon me with the flerce 
exclanuition. 



POEMS OF LABOR AND SOCIAL QURSTIONS.^ 



in 



And my last faint, despairing attempt at 
an obs- 
And that and the most of my dresses are i Ervation was lost in u tempest of sobs. 



" I have worn it three times at the least 
calculation, 



ripp'd up !" 
Here / ripp'd out something, perhaps 

rather rash, 
Quite innocent, though ; but, to use an 

expression 
More striking than classic, it " settled my 

hash," 
And proved very soon the last act of 

our session. 
" Fiddlesticks, is it, sir ? I wonder the 

ceiling 
Doesn't fall down and crush you — oh, you 

men have no feeling, 
You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creature 



Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my 

hat, too. 
Improvised on the crown of the latter a 

tattoo. 
In lieu of expressing the feelings which lay 
Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth 

would say ; 
Then, without going tlirougli the form of 

a bow. 
Found myself in the entry — I hardly knew 

how — 
On doorstep and sidewalk, past lamp-post 

and scjuare, 



,,,, ^ ' , ' ., 1 At home and up stairs, in my own easv- 

\\ lio set yourselves up a.s patterns and , . ' i j 

' chair; 



preachers. 

Your silly pretence — why, what a mere 
guess it is ! 



Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into 
blaze, 



T5 , . 1 , e ' And said to mvself, as I lit my cigar 

Pray, what do you know ol a woman s , • ' .re 



necessities? 
I have told you and shown you I've noth- i 

ing to wear. 
And it's perfectly plain you not only don't 

care, 
But you do not believe me" (here the nose 

went still higher) : 
" I suppose if you dared you would call 

me a liar. 
Our engagement is ended, sir — yes, on the 

si>ot; 
You're a brute, and a monster, and — I 

don't know what." 
I mildly suggested the words —Hottentot, 
Picki)ocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and 

thief, 
As gentle expletives which might give 

relief ; 
But this only proved as spark to the 

powder. 
And the storm I had raised came faster 

and louder, 
It blew, and it rain'd, thunder'd, light- Whose unfortunate victims are filling the 

en'd, and hail'd 1 air 

Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till Ian- With the pitiful wail of " Nothing to 

guage quite fail'd ! wear." 

To express the abusive, and then it.s ar- Researches in some of the "Upper Ten" 

rears I districts 

Were brought up all at once by a torrent Reveal the most painful and startling 



Supposing a niau had the wealtli of the 

czar 
Of the Russias to boot, for the rest of 

his days, 
On the whole, do you think he would have 

much to spare 
If he married a woman with nothing to 

wear ? 

Since that night, taking pains that it sliould 
not be bruited 

Abroad in society, I've instituted 

A course of inquiry, extensive and 
thorough. 

On this vital subject, and find, to my 
horror. 

That the fair Flora's case is by no means 
surprising. 
But that there exists tlie greatest dis- 
tress 

In our female community, solely arising 
From this unsupplied destitution of 
dress. 



of tears, 



statistics. 



712 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Of which let me mention only a few : 


For she touchingly says that this sort of 


I a one single house, on the Fifth Avenue, 


grief 


Three young ladies were found, all below 


Cannot find in Religion the slightest re- 


twenty-two, 


lief. 


Who have been three whole weeks without 


And Philosophy has not a maxim to spare 


anything new 


For the victims of such overwhelming de- 


In the way of flounced silks, and thus left 


spair. 


in the lurch 


But the saddest by far of all these sad 


Are unable to go to ball, concert, or 


features 


church. 


Is the cruelty practised upon the poor 


In another large mansion near the same 


creatures 


place 


By husbands and fathers, real Bluebeards 


Was found a deplorable, heart-rending 


and Timons, 


case 


Who resist the most touching appeals 


Of entire destitution of Brussels point 


made for diamonds 


lace. 


By their wives and their daughters, and 


In a neighboring block there was found, in 


leave them for days 


three calls, 


Unsupplied with new jewelry, fans, or 


Total want, long continued, of camel's-hair 


bouquets. 


shawls ; 


Even laugh at their miseries whenever 


And a suffering family, whose case ex- 


they have a chance, 


hibits 


And deride their demands as useless ex- 


The most pressing need of real ermine 


travagance ; 


tippets; 


One case of a bride was brought to my 


One deserving young lady almost unable 


view. 


To survive for the want of a new Eussian 


Too sad for belief, but, alas ! 'twas too 


sable ; 


true, 


Another confined to the house, when it's 


Whose husband refused, as savage as 


■windier 


Charon, 


Than usual, because her shawl isn't India. 


To permit her to take more than ten 


Still another, whose tortures have been 


trunks to Sharon. 


most terrific 


The consequence was, that when she got 


Ever since the sad loss of the steamer 


there. 


Pacific, 


At the end of three weeks she had nothing 


In which were engulf 'd, not friend or re- 


to wear ; 


lation 


And when she proposed to finish the 


(For whose fate she perhaps might have 


season 


found consolation. 


At Newport, the monster refused out 


Or borne it, at least, with serene resigna- 


and out. 


tion), 


For his infamous conduct alleging no 


But the choicest assortment of French 


reason. 


sleeves and collars 


Except that the waters were good for 


Ever sent out from Paris, worth thousands 


his gout; 


of dollars. 


Such treatment as this was too shocking. 


And all as to stylo most recherche and 


of course, 


rare. 


And proceedings are now going on for 


The want of which leaves her with nothing 


divorce. 


to wear. 




And renders her life so drear and dyspep- 


But why harrow the feelings by lifting the 


tic 


curtain 


That she's quite a recluse, and almost a 


From these scenes of woe? Enough, it is 


skeptic, 


certain, 



POEJIS OF LABOR AND SOCIAL QUESTIONS. 



713 



Has been here disclosed to stir up the 
pity 

Of every benevolent heart in the city, 

And spur up Humanity into a canter 

To rush and relieve these sad cases in- 
stanter. 

Won't somebody, moved by this touching 
description. 

Come forward to-morrow and head a sub- 
scription? 

Won't some kind philanthropist, seeing 
that aid is 

So needed at once by these indigent ladies, 

Take charge of the matter? or won't Peter 
Cooper 

The corner-stone lay of some splendid 

super- 
Structure, like that which to-day links his 
name 

In the Union unending of honor and fame; 

And found a new charity just for the care 

Of these unhappy women with nothing to 
wear, 

Which, in view of the cash which would 
daily be claim'd, 

The Laying-out Hospital well might be 
named ? 

Won't Stewart, or some of our dry-goods 
importers. 

Take a contract for clothing our wives and 
our daughters? 

Or, to furnish the cash to supply these dis- 
tresses. 

And life's pathway strew with shawls, col- 
lars, and dresses. 

Ere the want of tliem makes it much 
rougher and thornier. 

Won't some one discover a new Cali- 
fornia? 

O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny 

day 
Please trundle your hoops just out of 

Broadway, 
From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion 

and pride. 
And the temples of Trade which tower on 

each side, 
To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune 

and Guilt 
Their children have gather'd, their city 

have built: * 



Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts 

of prey, 
Have hunted their victims to gloom and 

despair ; 
Raise the ricli, dainty dress, and the fine 

broider'd skirt, 
Pick your delicate way through the damp- 
ness and dirt. 
Grope tlirough the dark dens, climb the 

rickety stair 
To the garret, where wretches, the young 

and tlie old. 
Half starved and half naked, lie croueli'd 

from the cold. 
See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten 

feet. 
All bleeding and bruised by the stones of 

the street ; 
Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the 

deep groans that swell 
From the poor dying creature who 

writhes on the floor. 
Hear the curses that sound like the echoes 

of Hell, 
As you sicken and shudder and fly from 

the door ; 
Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if 

you dare — 
Spoil'd children of Fashion — you've no- 
thing to wear! 

And oh, if perchance there should be a 

sphere. 
Where all is made right which so puzzles 

us here. 
Where the glare, and the glitter, and tin- 
sel of Time 
Fade and die in the light of that region 

sublime. 
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and 

of sense, 
Unscreen'd by its trappings, and shows, 

and pretence. 
Must be clothed for the life and the service 

above, 
With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and 

love ; 
O daughters of Earth ! foolish virgins, 

beware ! 
Lest in tliat upper realm you have nothing 

to wear ! 

WlLl-l.VU AI.I.KS BUTI.KK. 



714 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



The Complainth of the Poor. 

" And wherefore do the poor complain ?" 

The rich man ask'd of me : 
" Come, walk abroad with me," I said, 

" And I will answer thee." 

'Twas evening, and the frozen streets 

Were cheerless to behold ; 
And we were wrapp'd and coated well. 

And yet we were a-cold. 

We met an old, bareheaded man, 
His locks w-ere thin and white; 

I ask'd him what he did abroad 
In that cold winter's night. 

The cold was keen, indeed, he said — 

But at home no fire had he ; 
And therefore he had come abroad 

To ask for charity. 

We met a young barefooted child. 
And she begg'd loud and bold; 

I asked her what she did abroad 
When the wind it blew so cold. 

She said her father was at home, 

And he lay sick abed ; 
And therefore was it she was sent 

Abroad to beg for bread. 

We saw a woman sitting down 

Upon a .stone to rest ; 
She had a baby at her back, 

And another at her breast. 

I ask'd her why she loiter'd there. 
When the night-wind was so chill ; 

She turn'd her head, and bade the child 
That scream'd behind, be still — 

Then told us that her husband served, 

A soldier, far away ; 
And therefore to her parish she 

Was begging back her way. 

We met a girl, her dress was loose 

And sunken was her eye. 
Who with a wanton's hollow voice 

Address'd the passers-by ; 

I ask'd her what there was in guilt 

That could her heart allure 
To shame, disease, and late remorse ; 

She auswer'd she was poor. 



I turn'd me to the rich man then, 

For silently stood he ; 
" You ask'd me why the poor complain ; 

And these have answer'd thee!" 

Robert Southey. 



The Ladts Dream. 

The lady lay in her bed, 

Her couch so warm and soft, 
But her sleep was restless and broken 
.still ; 
For, turning (^ten and oft 
From side to side, she mutter'd and 
moan'd, 
And toss'd her arms aloft. 

At last she started up, 

^nd gazed on the vacant air 
With a look of awe, as if she saw 

Some dreadful phantom there — 
And then in the i)illow she buried her face 

From visions ill to bear. 

The very curtain shook, 

Her terror was so extreme. 
And the light that fell on the broider'd 
quilt 
Kept a tremulous gleam ; 
And her voice was hollow, and shook as 
she cried, 
" Oh me I that awful dream ! 

" That weary, weary walk 

In the churchyard's dismal ground! 
And those horrible things, with shady 
wings. 

That came and flitted round, — 
Death, death, and nothing but death. 

In every sight and sound! 

"And oh ! those maidens young 
Who wrought in that dreary room. 

With figures drooping and spectres thin. 
And cheeks without a bloom ; — • 

And the voice that cried, ' For the pomp 
of pride 
We haste to an early tomb ! 

" ' For the pomp and pleasures of pride 
We toil like the African slaves. 

And only to earn a home at last 
Where yonder cypress waves ;' — 

And then it pointed — I never saw 
A ground so full of graves! 



POEMS OF LABOR AND SOCIAL QUESTIONS. 715 


"And still the coffins came, 


" I dress'd as the noble dress. 


With their sorrowful trains and slow ; 


In cloth of silver and gold. 


Coffin after coffin still, 


With silk, and satin, and costly furs. 


A sad and sickening show; 


In many an ample fold ; 


From grief exempt, I never had dreamt 


But I never remeiiiber'd the naked limbs, 


Of such a world of Woe ! 


That froze with winter's cold. 


" Of the hearts that daily break, 


"The wounds I might have heal'd! 


Of the tears that hourly fall. 


The human sorrow and smart! 


Of the many, many troubles of life, 


And yet it never was in my soul 


That grieve this earthly ball — 


To play so ill a part : 


Disease and Hunger, Pain and Want, 


But evil is wrought by want of Thought, 


But now I dream of them all ! 


As well as want of Heart !" 


" For the blind and the cripple were there. 


She clasp'd her fervent hands. 


And the babe that pined for bread. 


And the tears began to stream; 


And the houseless man, and tlie widow poor, 


Large, and bitter, and fast they fell, 


Who begg'd — to bury the dead ! 


llemorse was so extreme; 


The naked, alas! that I might have clad,' 


And yet, oh yet, that many a Darae 


The famish'd I might have fed ! 


Would di-eam the Lady's Dream ! 




Thomas Hood. 


" The sorrow I might have soothed, 




And the unregarded tears ; 




For many a thronging shape was there, 


Gaffer Gray. 


From long- forgotten years, 


Ho ! why dost thou shiver and sliake. 


Ay, even the poor rejected Moor, 


Garter (iray ? 


Who raised my childish fears ! 


And why does thy nose look so blue ? 


" Each pleading look, that long ago 


" 'Tis the weather that's cold. 


I scann'd with a heedless eye; 


'Tis I'm grown very old. 


Each face was gazing as plainly there. 
As when I pass'd it by; 


And my doublet is not very new, 
Well-a-day !" 


Woe, woe for me if the past should be 


Then line thy worn doublet with ale. 


Thus present when I die ! 


Gaffer Gray ; 




And warm thy old heart witli a glass. 
" Nav, but credit I've none, 


" No need of sulphurous lake. 


No need of fiery coal, 
But only that crowd of humankind 


And my money's all gone ; 


1'hen say how may that come to pass ? 
Well-a-day!" 


Who wanted pity and dole — 


In everlasting retrospect — 


Will wring my sinful soul ! 


Hie away to the house on the brow. 




Gaffer Gray, 


" Alas! I have walk'd through life 


And knock at the jolly priest's door. 


Too heedless where I trod ; 


" The priest often preaches 


Nay, helping to trample my fellow-worm. 


Against worldly riches. 


And fill the burial sod — 


But ne'er gives a mite to the poor, 


Forgetting that even the sparrow falls 


Well-a-day !" 


Not unmark'd of God ! 






The lawyer lives under the hill, 


" I drank the richest draughts, 


Gatfer Gray ; 


And ate whatever is good — 


Warmly fenced both in back and in front. 


Fisli, and flesh, and fowl, and fruit. 


" lie will fasten his locks. 


Supplied my hungry mood; 


And will threaten the stocks 


But I never remembor'd the wretched ones 


Should he evermore find me in want. 


That starve for want of food ! 


Well-a-day !" 



716 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



The squire has fat beeves and brown ale, 
Gaffer Gray ; 
And the season will welcome you there. 
" His fat beeves and his beer, 
And his merry new year. 
Are all for the flush and the fair, 
Well-a-day !" 

My keg is but low, I confess. 

Gaffer Gray ; 

What then ? AVhile it lasts, man, we'll 

live. 

" The poor man alone. 

When he hears the poor moan. 

Of his morsel a morsel will give, 

Well-a-day !" 

Thomas Holcroft. 



The Song of the Shirt. 

With fingers weary and worn. 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 

She sang the " Song of the Shirt !" 

" Work ! work ! work ! 

While the cock is crowing aloof! 
And work — work — work. 

Till the stars shine through the roof! 
It's oh ! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save. 

If this is Christian work ! 

" Work — work — work! 

Till the brain begins to swim ; 
Work — work — work ! 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
Seam, and gusset, and band. 

Band, and gusset, and seam. 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 

And sew them on in a dream ! 

" men, with sisters dear ! 

men, with mothers and wives ! 
It is not linen you're wearing out, 

But human creatures' lives ! 
Stitch— stitch— stitch. 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 



Sewing at once with a double thread, 
A shroud as well as a shirt ! 

" But why do I talk of Death, 

That Phantom of grisly bone ? 
I hardl)' fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own — 
It seems so like my own. 

Because of the fast I keep : 
God ! that bread should be so dear, 

And flesh and blood so cheap ! 

" Work— work— work ! 

My labor never flags ; 
And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread, and rags. 
A shatter'd roof — and this naked floor — 

A table — a broken chair — 
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there! 

" Work — work — work ! 

From weary chime to chime, 
Work — work — work — 

As prisoners work for crime ! 
Band, and gusset, and seam, 

Seam, and gusset, and band. 
Till the heart is sick, and the brain be- 
numb'd. 

As well as the weary hand. 

" Work — work — work 

In the dull December light. 
And work — work — work 

When the weather is warm and bright — 
While underneath the eaves. 

The brooding swallows cling. 
As if to show me their sunny backs 

And twit me with the spring. 

" Oh but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — 
With the sky above my head. 

And the grass beneath my feet; 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel. 
Before I knew the woes of want, 

And the walk that costs a meal ! 

" Oh ! but for one short hour ! 

A respite however brief! 
No blessed leisure for love or hope, 

But only time for grief! 



POEMS OF LABOR AND SOCIAL QUESTIONS. 



ri7 



A little weeping would ease my heart, 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread I" 

With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat in unwomanly rags. 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch! stitch! stiteh ! 

In poverty, luinjrer, and dirt. 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, — 
Would that its tone could reach the 
rich ! — 

She sang this " Song of the Shirt." 

Thomas Hood. 

TffE BEGGAR'S PETITION. 

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man. 
Whose trembling limbs have borne him 
to your door, 
W^hose days are dwindled to the shortest 
span ; 
Oh ! give relief, and Heaven will bless 
your store. 

These tatter'd clothes my poverty be- 
speak. 
These hoary locks proclaim my length- 
en 'd years. 
And many a furrow in my grief- worn 
cheek 
Has been the channel to a flood of 
tears. 

Yon house, erected on the rising ground. 
With tempting a.spect,drew me from my 
road ; 

For plenty there a residence has found, 
And grandeur a magnificent abode. 

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor I 
Here, as I craved a morsel of their 
bread, 
A pamper'd menial drove me from the 
door. 
To seek a shelter in an humbler shed. 

Oh ! take me to your hospitable dome; 

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is 
the cold ! 
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb. 

For I am poor, and miserably old. 



Should I reveal the sources of my grief, 
If soft humanity e'er touch'd your 
breast. 
Your hands would not withhold the kind 
relief, 
And tears of pity would not be repress'd. 

Heaven sends misfortunes ; why should we 
repine ? 
'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state 
you see ; 
And your condition may be soon like 
mine. 
The child of sorrow and of misery. 

A little farm was my paternal lot ; 
Then, like the lark, I sprightly hail'd 
the morn ; 
But, ah ! oppression forced me from my cot. 
My cattle died, and blighted was my 
corn. 

My daughter, once the comfort of my age. 
Lured by a villain from her native liome, 

Is cast abandon'd on the workrs wide 
stage, 
And doom'd in scanty jiovcrty to roam. 

My tender wife, sweet soother of my care, 
Struck with sad anguish at the stern 
decree, 
Fell, lingering fell, a victim to despair, 
And left the world to wretchedness and 
me. 

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man. 

Whose trembling limbs have borne him 
to your door, 
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest 
span ; 
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless 
yotir store. 

TUOMAS M03S. 



The Vagabonds. 

We are two travellers, Roger and I. 
Roger's my dog. — Come here, you 



scamp 



Jump for the gentleman, — mind your eye ! 
Over the table, — look out for the 
lamp! — 



718 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



The rogue is growing a little old ; 

Five years we've tramp'd through wind 
and weather, 
And slept out doors when nights were 
cold, 

And ate and drank — and starved — to- 
gether. 

We've learn'd what comfort is, I tell 
you! 
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 
A fire to thaw our thumbs {poor fellow ! 
The paw he holds up there has been 
frozen), 
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle 

(This out-door business is bad for 
strings), 
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the 
griddle, 
And Roger and I set up for kings ! 

No, thank you, sir, — I never drink; 

Roger and I are exceedingly moral, — 
Aren't we, Roger? — see him wink! — 

Well, something hot, then, we won't 
quarrel. 
He's thirsty, too — see him nod his head? 

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk ! — 
He understands every word that's said, — 

And he knows good milk from water and 
chalk. 

The truth is, sir, now I reflect, 

I've been so sadly given to grog, 
I wonder I've not lost the respect 

(Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog. 
But he sticks by, through thick and thin; 

And this old coat, with its empty pock- 
ets, 
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, 

He'll follow while he has eyes in his 
sockets. 

There isn't another creature living 

Would do it, and prove, through every 
disaster. 
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving 

To such a miserable thankless master ! 
No, sir ! — see him wag his tail and grin ! 

By George ! it makes my old eyes 
water ! 
That is, there's something in this gin 

That chokes a fellow. But no matter ! 



We'll have some music, if you are will- 
ing, 
And Roger (hem ! what a plague a cough 
is, sir!) 
Shall march a little. — Start, you villain ! 
Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your 
ofiicer ! 
Put uj) that paw ! Dress I Take your 

rifle! 
(Some dogs have arms, you see !) Now 

hold 
Your cap while the gentlemen give a 
trifle 
To aid a poor old patriot soldier. 

March ! Halt ! Now show how the rebel 
shakes 
When he stands up to hear his sen- 
tence. 
Now tell how many drams it takes 

To honor a jolly new acquaintance. 
Five yelps, that's five ! he's mighty know- 
ing! 
The night's before us, fill the glasses! 
Quick, sir! I'm ill, — my brain is going; 
Some brandy, — thank you ; there, — it 
passes ! 

Why not reform ? That's easily said ; 
But I've gone through such wretched 
treatment, 
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, 
And scarce remembering what meat 
meant, 
That my poor stomach's past reform ; 
And there are times when, mad with 
thinking, 
I'd sell out Heaven for something warm 
To proji a horrible inward sinking. 

Is there a way to forget to think ? 

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, 
A dear girl's love, — but I took to 
drink ; — 
The same old story; you know how it 
ends. 
If you could have seen these classic fea- 
tures, — 
You needn't laugh, sir; they were not 
then 
Such a burning libel on God's creatures ; 
I was one of your handsome men 1 



POEMS OF LABOR AND SOCIAL QUESTIONS. 



710 



If you had seen her, so fair and young, 

Whose head was happy on this breast ! 
If you could have heard the songs I sung 

When the wine went round, you wouldn't 
have guess'd 
That ever I, sir, should be straying 

From door to door with fiddle and 
dog, 
Ragged and penniless, and playing 

To you to-night for a glass of grog. 

She's married since, a parson's wife ; 

'Twas better for her that we should part; 
Better the soberest, prosiest life 
Than a blasted home and a broken 
heart. 
I have seen her? Once: I was weak and 
spent 
On the dusty road ; a carriage stopp'd ; 
But little she dream'd, as on she went, 
Who kiss'd the coin that her fingers 
dropp'd ! 

You've set me talking, sir ; I'm sorry ; 

It makes me wild to think of the 
change ! 
What do you care for a beggar's story ? 

Is it amusing? you find it strange? 
I had a mother so proud of me ! 

'Twas well she died before. Do you 
know 
If the happy spirits in Heaven can see 

The ruin and wretchedness here below? 

Another glass, and strong, to deaden 

This pain ; then Roger and I will start. 
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden. 

Aching thing, in place of a heart? 
He is sad sometimes, and would weep if 
he could, 

No doubt, remembering things that 
were — 
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, 

And himself a sober, respectable cur. 

I'm better now ; that glass was warming, — 

You rascal ! limber your lazy feet ! 
We must be fiddling and performing 
For supper and bed, or starve in the 
street. — 
Not a very gay life to lead, you think? 
But soon we shall go where lodgings are 
free, 



And the sleepers need neither victuals nor 
drink; — 
The sooner the better for Roger and me. 

J. T. TltOWBRIDfiE. 

Tbe Bridge of Sighs. 

"Drowned I drowned 1" — Hamlet, 

One more Unfortunate, 

Weary of lireath. 
Rashly importunate, 

Gone to her death ! 

Take her up tenderly, 

Lift her with care, — 
Fashion'd so slenderly, 

Young, and so fair ! 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements ; 

Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing ; 

Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing. — 

Touch her not scornfully ; 
Think of her mournfully, 

Gently and Imnianly ; 
Not of the stains of her. 
All that remains of her 

Now is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny 

Ra'ih and undutifnl : 
Past all dishonor, 
Death has left on her 

Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers, 

One of Eve's family — 
Wipe those poor lips of hers, 

Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses 

Escaped from the comb, 

Her fair auburn tresses ; 

Whilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home? 

Who was her father? 

Wiio was her mother? 
Had she a sister? 

Had she a brother ? 



720 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Or was there a dearer one 


Decently, — kindly, — 


Still, and a nearer one 


Smooth and compose them ; 


Yet, than all other? 


And her eyes, close them, 




Staring so blindly ! 


Alas ! for the rarity 




Of Christian charity 


Dreadfully staring 


Under the sun ! 


Through muddy impurity, 


Oh ! it was pitiful ! 


As when with the daring 


Near a whole city full, 


Last look of despairing 


Home she had none. 


Fix'd on futurity. 




Perishing gloomily, 


Sisterly, brotherly, 


Spurr'd by contumely. 


Fatherly, motherly, 


Cold inhumanity, 


Feelings had changed : 


Burning insanity. 


Love, by harsh evidence, 


Into her rest. — 


Thrown from its eminence ; 


Cross her hands humbly, 


Even God's providence 


As if praying dumbly. 


Seeming estranged. 


Over her breast I 


Where the lamps quiver 


Owning her weakness, 


So far in the river. 


Her evil behavior, 


With many a light 


And leaving, with meekness, 


From window and casement. 


Her sins to her Saviour ! 


From garret to basement, 


Thomas Hood. 


She stood with amazement. 


KX 


Houseless by night. 


Beautiful Snow. 


The bleak wind of March 


Oh ! the snow, the beautiful snow, 


Made her tremble and shiver ; 


Filling the sky and the earth below ; 


But not the dark arch, 


Over the house-tops, over the street. 


Or the black flowing river ; 


Over the heads of the people you meet ; 


Mad from life's history. 


Dancing, 


Glad to death's mystery 


Flirting, 


Swift to be hurl'd — 


Skimming along. 


Anywhere, anywhere 


Beautiful snow ! it can do nothing wrong. 


Out of the world ! 


Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek ; 




Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak. 


In she plunged boldly, 


Beautiful snow, from the heavens above, 


No matter how coldly 


Pure as an angel and fickle as love ! 


The rough river ran, — 




Over the brink of it. 


Oh ! the snow, the beautiful snow ! 


Picture it — think of it, 


How the flakes gather and laugh as they 


Dissolute man ! 


go! 


Lave in it, drink of it. 


Whirling about in its maddening fun, 


Then, if you can ! 


It plays in its glee with every one. 




Chasing, 


Take her up tenderly, 


Laughing, 


Lift her with care ; 


Hurrying by. 


Fashiou'd so slenderly, 


It lights up the face and it sparkles the 


Young, and so fair ! 


eye; 




And even the dogs, with a bark and a 


Ere her limbs frigidly 


bound. 


Stiffen too rigidly. 


Snap at the crystals that eddy around. 



P0E3IS OF LABOR AND SOCIAL QUESTIONS. 



r2i 



The town is alive, and its heart in a glow 
To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. 

How the wild crowd goes swaying along, 
Hailing each other with humor and song! 
How the gay sledges like meteors flash 

by— " 
Bright for a moment, then lost to th&eye, 
Ringing, 
Swinging, 
Dashing they go 
Over the crest of the beautiful snow : 
Snow so pure when it falls from the sky, 
To be trampled in mud by the crowd rush- 
ing by : 
To be trampled and track'd by the thou- 
sands of feet. 
Till it blends with the filth iu the horrible 
street. 

Once I was pure as the snow — but I fell : 
Fell, like the snow-flakes, from heaven — 

to hell : 
Fell, to be tramp'd as the filth of the 

street : 
Fell, to be scoff''d, to be spit on, and beat. 
Pleading, 
Cursing, 

Dreading to die. 
Selling my soul to whoever would buy. 
Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread. 
Hating the living and fearing the dead. 
Merciful God I have I fallen so low ? 
And yet I was once like this beautiful 

snow I 

Once I was fair as the beautiful snow, 
With an eye like its crystals, a heart like 

its glow ; 
Once I was loved for my innocent grace — 
Flatter'd and sought for the charm of my 
face. 
Father, 
Mother, 
Sisters all, 
God, and myself, I have lost by my fall. 
Tlie veriest wretch that goes shivering by 
Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too 

nigh; 
For all that is on or about me, I know 
There is nothing that's pure but the beau- 
tiful snow. 
46 



How strange it should be that this beauti- 
ful snow 

Should fall on a sinner willi nowhere to 
go! 

How strange it would be, when the night 
conies again, 

If the snow and the ice struck my despe- 
rate brain ! 
Fainting, 
Freezing, 
Dying alone ! 

Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my 
moan 

To be heard in the crash of the crazy town, 

Gone mad in their joy at the snow's com- 
ing down ; 

To lie and to die in my terrible woo, 

With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful 
snow 1 

James W. Watson. 



TffE PAUPER'S Death-Bed. 

Tkead softly, — bow the head, — 
In reverent silence bow, — 

No passing bell doth toll. 

Yet an immortal soul 
Is passing now. 

Stranger! however great. 
With lowly reverence bow ; 

There's one in that poor shed — 

One by that paltry bed — 
Greater than thou. 

Beneath that beggar's roof, 

Lo ! Death doth keep his state. 

Enter, no crowds attend; 

Enter, no guards defend 
Thk j)alace-gate. 

That pavement, damp and cold, 

No smiling courtiers tread ; 
One silent woman stands, 
Lifting with meagre hands 
A dying head. 

No mingling voices sound, — 

An infant wail alone; 
A sob suppress'd, — again 
Tliat short deep gasp, and then— 

The parting groan. 



T"??! 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



change ! wondrous change ! 

Burst are the prison-bars, — 
This moment there so low, 
So agonized, and now 

Beyond the stars. 

change ! stupendous change ! 

There lies the soulless clod; 
The sun eternal breaks. 
The new immortal wakes, — 

Wakes with his God. 

Caroline Bowles Sohthey. 



The PAUPER'S Drive. 

There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly 

round trot, — 
To the churchyard a pauper is going, I 

wot ; 
The road it is rough, and the hearse has 

no springs ; 
And hark to the dirge which the mad 

driver sings : 
Rattle his bones over the stones ! 
He's only a pauper whom nobody 

owns ! 

Oh, where are the mourners ? Alas ! there 

are none ; 
He has left not a gap in the world, now 

he's gone, — 
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or 

man; 
To the grave with his carcass as fast as you 

can : 
Rattle his bones over the stones ! 
He's only a pauper whom nobody 

owns ! 

What a jolting, and creaking, and splash- 
ing, and din ! 

The whip, how it cracks ! and the wheels, 
how they spin I 



How the dirt, right and left, o'er the 

hedges is hurl'd ! — 
The pauper at length makes a noise iu the 
world ! 
Rattle his bones over the stones ! 
He's only a pauper whom nobody 
owns ! 

Poor pauper defunct ! he has made some 

approach 
To gentility, now that he's stretch'd in a 

coach ! 
He's taking a drive in his carriage at 

last; 
But it will not be long, if he goes on so 

fast : 
Rattle his bones over the stones ! 
He's only a pauper whom nobody 

owns ! 

You bumpkins ! who stare at your brother 
convey'd. 

Behold what respect to a cloddy is 
paid ! 

And be joyful to think, when by death 
you're laid low. 

You've a chance to the grave like a gem- 
man to go ! 
Rattle his bones over the stones I 
He's only a pauper whom nobody 
owns ! 

But a truce to this strain ; for my soul it 

is sad, 
To think that a heart in humanity clad 
Should make, like the brutes, such a deso- 
late end. 
And depart from the light without leaving 
a friend ! 
Bear soft his bones over the stones ! 
Though a pauper, he's one whom his 
Maker yet owns ! 

Thomas Noel. 



PART xiir. 



Poems of Sentiment. 




Poems of Sentiment. 



On the Prospect of Plastisg 
Arts and learning in America. 

The JIuse, disgusted at an age and clime 
Barren of everj' glorious theme, 

In distant lauds now waits a better time, 
Producing subjects worthy fame. 

In happy climes, where from the genial 
sun 

And virgin earth such scenes ensue, 
The force of Art by Nature seems outdone, 

And fancied beauties by the true ; 

In happy climes, the seat of innocence. 
Where Nature guides and Virtue rules. 

Where men shall not impose for truth and 
sense 
The pedantry of courts and schools ; 

There shall be sung another golden age. 
The rise of empire and of arte. 

The good and great inspiring epic rage. 
The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay ; 

Such as she bred when fresh and young, 
When heavenly flame did animate her 
clay, 

By future poets shall be sung. 

Westward the course of empire takes ita 
way ; 
The four first acts already past, 
A fifth shall close the drama with the day; 
Time's noblest offsiiring is the last. 

George Berkeley. 



A Musical Instrument. 

What was he doing, the great god Pan, 

Down in the reeds by the river ? 
Spreading ruin and scattering ban, 



Splashing and paddling with hoofe of a 

goat, 
And breaking the golden lilies afloat 
With tlie dragon-fly on the river ? 

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, 

From tlie deep, cool bed of the river. 
The limj)id water turbidly ran, 
And the broken lilies a-dying lay, 
And the dragon-fly had fled away. 
Ere he brought it out of the river. 

High on the shore sate the great god Pan, 
While turbidly flow'd the river. 

And hack'd and hew'd as a great god can 

With his hard, bleak steel at the patient 
reed, 

Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed 
To prove it fresh from the river. 

He cut it short, did the great god Pan 
(How tall it stood in the river !) 

Then drew the pith like the heart of a 
man. 

Steadily from the outside ring. 

Then notch'd the poor dry empty thing 
In holes as he sate by the river. 

" This is the way," laugh'd the great god 
Pan 
(Laugh'd while he sate by the river), 
" The only way since gods began 
To make sweet music, they could succeed." 
Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the 
reed. 
He blew in power by the river. 

Sweet, sweet, sweet, Pan, 
I Piercing sweet by the river ! 
I Blinding sweet, O great god Pan ! 
I The sun on the hill forgot to die, 

And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly 
Came back to dream on the river. 

725 



726 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, 

To laugh, as he sits by the river, 
Making a poet out of a man. 
The true gods sigh for the cost and the 

pain, — 
For the reed that grows nevermore again 
As a reed with the reeds of the river. 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



alexander's feast; ob, the 
Power of Music. 

Ail Ode in Honor of St. Cecilia's Day. 
I. 
'TwAS at the royal feast for Persia won 
By Philij)'s warlike son : 
Aloft, in awful state, 
The godlike hero sate 
On his imperial throne: 
His valiant peers were placed around, 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles 

bound 
(So should desert in arms be crown'd) : 
The lovely Thais, by his side, 
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride. 
In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
Happy, hapjjy, happy jjair ! 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave. 
None but the brave deserves the 
fair. 

CHORUS. 

Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave deserves the 
fair. 

II. 
Timotheus, placed on high 
Amid the tuneful quire, 
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre; 
The trembling notes ascend the sky. 

And heavenly joys inspire. 
The song began from Jove, 
Who left his blissful seats above 
(Such is the power of mighty Love). 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god ; 
Sublime on radiant spires he rode. 
When he to fair Olympia press'd. 
And while he sought her snowy 
breast : 



Then, round her slender waist he curl'd, 
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sover- 
eign of the world. 
The listening crowd admire the lofty 

sound — 
A present deity ! they shout around ; 
A present deity! the vaulted roofs re- 
bound. 
With ravish'd ears 
The monarch hears, 
Assumes the god, 
Aflects to nod, 
And seems to shake the spheres. 

CHORUS. 

With ravish'd ears 
The monarch hears, 

Assumes the god, 

Aflects to nod. 
And seems to shake the spheres. 



The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet 
musician sung — 
Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young ; 
The jolly god in triumph comes: 
Sound the trumpets ; beat the drums 1 
Flush'd with a purple grace. 
He shows his honest face ; 
Now give the hautboys breath — he comes, 
he comes ! 
Bacchus, ever fair and young, 

Drinking joys did first ordain; 
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure; 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; 
Rich the treasure, 
Sweet the pleasure ; 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

CHORUS. 

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure ; 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; 

Rich the treasure. 

Sweet the pleasure ; 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

IV. 

Soothed with the sound, the king grew 

vain ; 
Fought all his battles o'er again ; 
And thrice he routed all his foes, and 

thrice he slew the slain. 



POEMS OF SEyTIMEXT. 



The master saw the madness rise — 
His glowing clieeks, his ardent eyes ; 
And, while he Heaven and earth defied, 
Changed his hand and cheek'd his pride. 

Ho fhose a mournful muse, 

Sift ])ity to infuse : 
He sung Darius great and good, 

By too severe a fate 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen — 
Fallen from his high estate. 

And welt'ring in his blood; 
Deserted, at his utmost need. 
By those his former bounty fed ; 
On the bare earth exposed he lies. 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 
With downcast looks the joyless victor 

sate 
Revolving in his alter'd soul 

The various turns of chance be- 
low ; 
And, now and then, a sigh he stole ; 

And tears began to flow. 

CHORUS. 

Revolving in his alter'd soul 
The various turns of chance be- 
low ; 

And, now and then, a sigh he stole; 
And tears began to flow. 



The mighty master smiled to see 
That love was in the next degree: 
'Twas but a kindred sound to move. 
For pity melts the mind to love. 
Softly sweet, in Lydian mexsures. 
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble; 
Honor but an empty bubble — 

Never ending, still beginning — 
Fighting still, and still destroying; 

If tho world be worth thy winning, 
Think, oh think it worth enjoying! 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee — 
Take the good the gods provide thee. 
The many rend the sky with loud ap- 
plause ; 
So Love was crown'd, but Jfusic won the 
cause. 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain. 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care. 



And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, 
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again. 
At length, with love and wine at once op- 

press'd, 
The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her 
breast. 

CHORUS. 

The prince, unable to conceal his pain. 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care. 
And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, 
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again. 
At length, with love and wine at once op- 

press'd, 
The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her 
breast. 

VI. 

Now strike the golden lyre again — 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ! 

Break his bands of sleep asunder. 
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of 
thunder. 
Hark, hark! the horrid sound 
Has raised up his head ! 
As awaked from the dead. 
And amazed, he stares around. 
Revenge! revenge! Timotheus cries ; 
See the Furies arise ! 
See the snakes that they roar. 
How they hiss in their hair, 
And the sparkles that fliish from their 
eyes! 

Behold a ghastly band. 
Each a torch in his hand ! 
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle 
were slain, 

And unburied remain, 
Inglorious, on the plain ! 
Give the vengeance due 
To the gallant crew. 
Behold how they toss their torches on high, 

How they point to the Persian .ibodcs, 
.Vnd glittering temples of tlioir hostile 

gods I 
The princes applaud witli a furious joy. 
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal 
to destroy ; 
Thais led tlie way 
To light him to his prey. 
And, like another Helen, fired another 
Troy. 



728 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


CHORUS. 


And could not heave her head, 


And the king seized a flambeau with zeal 


The tuneful voice was heard from high, 


to destroy ; 
Thais led the way 


Arise, ye more than dead ! 


Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry 


To light him to his prey, 


In order to their stations leap, 


And, like another Helen, fired another 


And Music's power obey. 


Troy. 


From harmony, from heavenly harmony. 


■^ * ",T 


This universal frame began : 


VII. 


From harmony to harmony 


Thus, long ago — 


Through all the compass of the notes it 


Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow. 


ran, 


While organs yet were mute — 


The diapason closing full in Man. 


Timotheus, to his breathing flute 




And sounding lyre, 




Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft 


II. 


desire. 


What passion cannot Music raise and 


At last divine Cecilia came. 


quell? 


Inventress of the vocal frame; 


When Jubal struck the chorded shell 


The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred 


His listening brethren stood around. 


store, 


And, wondering, on their faces fell 


Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 


To worship that celestial sound. 


And added length to solemn sounds. 


Less than a god they thought there could 


With Nature's mother-wit, and arts un- 


not dwell 


known before. 


Within the hollow of that shell 


Let old Timotheus yield the prize. 


That spoke so sweetly and so well. 


Or both divide the crown ; 


What passion cannot Music raise and 


He raised a mortal to the skies — 


quell ? 


She drew an angel down. 






III. 


GEAND CHORUS. 


The trumpet's loud clangor 


At last divine Cecilia came. 


E.xcites us to arms, . 


Inventress of the vocal frame ; 


With shrill notes of anger 


The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred 


And mortal alarms. 


store, 


The double double double beat 


Enlarged the former narrow bounds. 


Of the thundering drum 


And added length to solemn sounds, 


Cries, " Hark ! the foes come ; 


With Nature's mother-wit, and arts un- 


Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat !" 


known before. 




Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 


IV. 


Or both divide the crown ; 




He raised a mortal to the skies — 


The soft complaining flute 


She drew an angel down. 


In dying notes discovers 


Jom; Dryden. 


The woes of hopeless lovers, 




Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling 




lute. 


A Song for St. Cecilia's Day. 


V. 


I. 


Sharp violins proclaim 


From harmony, from heavenly harmony. 


Their jealous pangs and desperation. 


This universal frame began. 


Fury, frantic indignation, 


When Nature underneath a heap 


Depth of pains, and height of passion 


Of jarring atoms lay. 


For the fair, disdainful dame. 



POEMS OF SEXTIMEXT. 729 


n. 


Till by degrees, remote and small, 


But oh ! what art can teach, 


The strains decay. 


What human voice can reach, 


And melt away 


The sacred organ's praise ? 


In a dying, dying fall. 


Notes inspirinar holy love, 




Notes that \vin<r their heavenly ways 


II. 


To mend the choirs above. 


By Music, minds an equal temper know. 




Nor swell too high, nor sink too low. 


VII. 


If in the breast tumultuous joys arise. 


Orpheus could lead the savage race, 


Music her soft, assuasive voice applies ; 


And trees uprooted left their place 


Or, when the soul is press'd with cares. 


Sequacious of the lyre : 


Exalts her in enliv'ning airs: 


But bright Cecilia raised the wonder 


Warriors she fires with animated sounds ; 


higher : 


Pours balm into the bleeding lover's 


When to her organ vocal breath was given 


wounds : 


An angel heard, and straight appear'd — 


Jlclancholy lifts her head. 


Mistaking Earth for Heaven ! 


Jlorphcus rouses from his bed, 




Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes. 


GR.\XD CHORUS. 


List'ning Envy drojis her snakes, 


As from the power of sacred lays 


Intestine war no more our Passions wage, 


The spheres began to move, 


And giddy Factions hear away their rage. 


And sung the great Creator's praise 




To all the blest above ; 


HI. 


So when the last and dreadful hour 


But when our country's cause provokes to 


This crumbling pageant shall devour. 


arms. 


The trumpet shall be heard on high, 


How martial music ev'ry bosom warms ! 


The dead shall live, the living die. 


So when the first bold vessel dared the 


And Music shall untune the sky. 


seas, 


John Drydes. 


High on the stern the Thracian raised his 




strain. 


Ode ox St. Cecilia's Day. 


While Argo saw her kindred trees 




Descend from Pel ion to the main. 


I. 


Transported demigods stood round. 


Descent), ye Nine ! descend and sing ; 


And men grew heroes at the sound. 


The breathing instruments inspire; 


Inflamed with glory's charms : 


Wake into voice each silent string, 


Each chief liis sevenfold shield display'd, 


And sweep the sounding lyre ! 


And half unsheathed the shining blade: 


In a sadly-pleasing strain 


And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound. 


Let the warbling lute complain : 


To arms I to arms ! to arms ! 


Let the loud trumpet sound. 




Till the roofs all around 


IV. 


Tlie shrill echoes rebound : 


But when through all th' infernal bounds, 


While in more lengthen'd notes and slow 


Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds, 


The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow. 


Love, strong as Death, the poet led 


Hark I the numbers soft and clear 


To the pale nations of the dead, 


Gently steal upon the ear ; 


What sounds were heard. 


Now louder, and yet louder rise, 


What scenes appear'd 


And fill with spreading sounds the skies; 


O'er all the dreary coasts ! 


E.xulting in triumph now swell tlie bold 


Dreadful gleams. 


notes. 


Dismal screams. 


In broken air, trembling, the wild music 


Fires that glow. 


floats: 


i Shrieks of woe, 



730 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Sullen moans, 
Hollow groans, 
And cries of tortured ghosts ! 
But hark I he strikes the golden lyre ; 
And see ! the tortured ghosts respire, 
See, shady forms advance ! 
Thy stone, Sisyphus, stands still, 
Ixion rests upon his wheel. 
And the pale spectres dance ! 
The Furies sink upon their iron beds. 
And snakes uncurPd hang list'ning round 
their heads. 

V. 
By the streams that ever flow, 
By the fragrant winds that blow 

O'er th' Elysian flow'rs ; 
By those happy souls who dwell 
In yellow meads of asphodel, 

Or amaranthine bow'rs ; 
By the heroes' armfed shades, 
Glitt'ring through the gloomy glades, 
By the youths that died for love, 
Wand'ring in the myrtle grove ; 
Kestore, restore Eurydice to life: 
Oh take the husband, or return the wife I 
He sung, and Hell consented 
To hear the poet's prayer : 
Stern Proserpine relented. 

And gave him back the fair. 
Thus song could prevail 
O'er Death and o'er Hell, 
A conquest how hard, and how glorious! 
Though Fate had fast bound her 
With Styx nine times round her, 
Yet Music and Love were victorious. 

VI. 

But soon, too soon, the lover turns his 

eyes : 
Again she falls — again she dies — she dies ! 
How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move? 
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love. 
Now under hanging mountains, 
Beside the falls of fountains, 
Or where Hebrus wanders, 
Rolling in meanders. 
All alone, 
Unheard, unknown. 
He makes his moan ; 
And calls her ghost. 
For ever, ever, ever lost ! 



Now with Furies surrounded, 
Despairing, confounded. 
He trembles, he glows. 
Amidst Rhodope's snows: 
See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he 

flies; 
Hark ! Hsemus resounds with the Bac- 
chanals' cries — Ah see, he dies ! 
Yet ev'n in death Eurydice he sung, 
Eurydice still trembled on his tongue, 
Eurydice the woods, 
Eurydice the floods, 
Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains 
rung. 

VII. 
Music the fiercest grief can charm. 
And fate's severest rage disarm ; 
Music can soften pain to ease, 
And make despair and madness please ; 
Our joys below it can improve, 
And antedate the bliss above. 
This the divine Cecilia found, 
And to her Maker's praise confined the 

sound. 
When the full organ joins the tuneful 
quire, 
Th' immortal pow'rs incline their ear; 
Borne on the swelling notes our souls as- 
pire. 
While solemn airs improve the sacred 
fire ; 
And angels lean from Heav'n to hear. 
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell, 

To bright Cecilia greater pow'r is giv'n ; 
His numbers raised a shade from Hell, 
Hers lift the soul to Heav'n. 

Alexamdek Pope. 

The Progress of Poesy. 

A PiNDAEic Ode. 

Awake, jEolian lyre, awake. 
And give to rapture all thy trembling 

strings. 
From Helicon's harmonious springs 
A thousand rills their mazy progress 

take; 
The laughing flowers that round them 

blow 
Drink life and fragrance as they flow. 
Now the rich stream of Music winds along. 
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong. 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 



rm 



Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden 

reign ; 
Now rolling down the steep amain 
Headlong, impetuous, see it pour: 
The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow 

to the roar. 

O Sovereign of the willing soul, 

Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing 
airs. 

Enchanting shell ! the sullen Cares 
And frantic Passions hear thy soft con- 
trol. 

On Thraeia's hills the Lord of War 

Ha-s curb'd the fury of his car 

And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy com- 
mand. 

Perching on the sceptred hand 

Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd 
king 

With ruffled plumes and flagging wing; 

Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie 

The terror of his beak, and lightnings of 
his eye. 

Thee the voice, the dance, obey 

Temper'd to thy warbled lay. 
O'er Idalia's velvet-green 
The rosy-crowned Loves are seen 

On Cj'therea's day, 
With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures, 
Frisking- light in frolic measures; 
Xow pursuing, now retreating. 

Now in circling troops they meet, 
To brisk notes in cadence beating 

Glance their many-twinkling feet. 
Slow melting strains their Queen's ap- 
proach declare : 

Where'er she turns the Graces homage 
pay. 
With arms sublime that float upon the air 

In gliding state she wins her easy way : 
O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom 

move 
The bloom of young Desire and purple 
light of Love. 

Man's feeble race what ills await I 
Labor, and Penury, the racks of Pain, 
Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train. 

And Death, sad refuge from the storms 
of Fate ! 



The fond complaint, my song, disprove, 

And justify the laws of Jove. 

Say, has ho given in vain the heavenly 

Muse?' 
Night, and all her sickly dews, 
Her spectres wan, and birds of boding 

cry 
He gives to range the dreary sky. 
Till down the eastern cliffs afar 
Hyperion'.s march they spy, and glittering 

shafts of war. 



In climes beyond the solar road 
Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built moun- 
tains roam. 
The Muse has broke the twilight gloom 
To cheer the shivering native's dull 
aliode. 
And oft, beneath the od'rous shade 
Of Chili's boundless forests laid, 
She deigns to hear the savage youth re- 
peat 
In loose numbers wildly sweet 
Their feather-cinctured chiefs and dusky 

loves. 
Her track, where'er the goddess roves. 
Glory pursue, and gen'rous Shame, 
Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's 
holy flame. 

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep. 

Isles, that crown th' ^Egean deep. 
Fields, that cool Ilissus laves. 
Or where Slseander's amber waves 

In lingering lab'rinths creep. 
How do your tuneful echoes languish. 
Mute, but to the voice of anguish ! 
Where each old poetic mountain 

In.spiration breathed around; 
Every sh.ade and hallow'd fountain 

Murmur'd deep a solemn sound ; 
Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour, 

Left their Parn.i-ssus for the Latian 
plains. 
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant 
Power, 

And coward Vice, that revels in her 
chains. 
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost. 
They sought, O Albion! next, thy sea-en- 
circled coast. 



732 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Far from the sun and summer gale, 
In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, 
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd. 

To him the mighty mother did unveil 
Her awful face : the dauntless child 
Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. 
This pencil take (she saidj, whose colors 

clear 
Richly paint the vernal year ; 
Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal 

boy! 
This can unlock the gates of Joy ; 
Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, 
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic 

Tears. 

Nor second he, that rode sublime 

Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, 

The secrets of th' abyss to spy. 
He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place 
and Time, 

The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze 

Where angels tremble while they gaze; 

He saw, but, blasted with excess of light. 

Closed his eyes in endless night. 

Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous 
car 

Wide o'er the fields of glory bear 

Two coursers of ethereal race, 

With necks in thunder clothed, and long- 
resounding pace. 

Hark ! his hands the lyre explore ! 

Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er, 
Scatters from her pictured urn 
Thoughts that breathe, and words that 
burn. 

But ah ! 'tis heard no more — 
O Lyre divine ! what daring Spirit 
Wakes thee now ? Tho' he inherit 
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, 

That the Theban eagle bear. 
Sailing with supreme dominion 

Thro' the azure deep of air ; 
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run 

Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray 
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun ; 

Yet shall he mount, and keep his dis- 
tant way 
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, 
Beneath the Good how far, but far above 
the Great. 

Thomas Gray. 



The Passions. 

An Ode foe Music. 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Throng'd around her magic cell, 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
Possest beyond the Muse's painting ; 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined ; 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired. 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatch'd her instruments of sound, 
And, as they oft had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art. 
Each, for Sladness ruled the hour. 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, 
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid. 

And back recoil'd, he knew not why, 
E'en at the sound himself had made. 

Next Anger rush'd ; his eyes on fire. 
In lightnings own'd his secret stings : 

In one rude clash he struck the lyre 
And swept with hurried hand the 
strings. 

With woeful measures wan Despair — 
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled ; 

A solemn, .strange, and mingled air ; 
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'tw'as wild. 

Rut thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair. 
What was thy delighted measure ? 
Still it whisper'd promised pleasure. 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance 
hail ! 
Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 
And from the rocks, the woods, the 
vale 
She call'd on Echo still through all the 
song ; 
And, where her sweetest theme she 

chose, 
A soft responsive voice was heard at 
every close ; 
And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved 
her golden hair. 



POEMS OF SENTIMEXT. 733 


And longer had she suug :— but with a 


Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket 


t'lUWll 


rung, 


Revenge impatient rose : 


The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad 


He threw his blood-staiu'd sword in thun- 


known. 


der down ; 


The oak-crown"d Sisters and their 


And with a withering look 


chaste-eyed Queen, 


The war-denouncing trumpet took, 


Satyrs and Sylvan Boys were seen 


And blew a blast so loud and dread, 


Peeping from forth their alleys green : 


Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of 


Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ; 


woe ! 


And Sport leap'd up, and seized his 


And ever and anon he beat 


beecheu spear. 


The doubling drum with furious heat ; 




And, though sometimes, each dreary pause 


Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : 


between. 


He, with viny crown advancing. 


Dejected Pity at his side 


First to the lively pipe his hand ad- 


Her soul-subduing voice applied, 


drest ; 


Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien. 


But soon he saw the l)risk aw-akening viol 


While each slrain'd ball of sight scem'd 


Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved 


bursting from his head. 


the best : 




They would have thought who heard the 


Thy numbers. Jealousy, to naught were 
fix'd : 


strain 
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native 


Sad proof of thy distressful state ! 


maids 
Amidst tlie festal-sounding shades 


Of diftering themes the veering song was 


To some unwearied minstrel dancing ; 


mix'd; 


While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the 


And now it courted Love, now raving 
call'd on Hate. 


strings. 
Love framed with Mirth a gay, fantastic 




round : 


With eyes upraised, as one inspired. 


Loose were her tresses seen, her zone 


Pale Melancholy sat retired ; 


unbound ; 


And from her wild sequester'd seat. 


And he, amidst his frolic jilay. 


In notes by distance made more sweet. 


As if he would the charming air repay. 


Pour'd through the mellow horn her pen- 


Shook thousand odors from his dewy 


sive soul : 


wings. 


And dashing soft from rocks around 




Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ; 


() Music ! spliere-descended maid. 


Through glades and glooms the mingled 


Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid ! 


measure stole, 


Why, goddess, why, to us denied, 


Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond 


Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? 


delay, 


As in that loved .Athenian bower 


Round an holy calm diffusing, 


You learn'd an all-eonimanding j)ower, 


Love of peace, and lonely musing. 


Thy mimic soul, nymph endear'd ! 


In hollow murmurs died away. 


Can well recall what then it heard. 




Where is thy native simple heart, 




Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art? 


But oh ! how alter'd was its sprightlier 


Arise, as in that elder time. 


tone 


Warm, enorgie. chaste, sublime ! 


When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthi- 


Thy wonders, in that god-like age. 


est hue, 


Fill thy recording Sister's page ; — 


Her bow acro.ss her shoulder flung, 


'Tis said, and I believe the tale, 


Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, 


Thy humblest reed could more prevail, 



734 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Had more of strength, diviner rage, 


When you live again on earth. 


Than all which charms this laggard age, 


Like an unseen star of birth 


E'en all at once together found 


Ariel guides you o'er the sea 


Cecilia's mingled world of sound : — 


Of life from your nativity. 


Oh bid our vain endeavors cease : 


Many changes have been run 


Kevive the just designs of Greece : 


Since Ferdinand and you begun 


Return in all thy simple state ! 


Your course of love, and Ariel still 


Confirm the tales her sons relate ! 


Has track'd your steps and served your 


William Collins. 


will. 




Now in humbler, happier lot. 




This is all remember'd not ; 


Music. 


And now, alas ! the poor sprite is 




Imprison'd for some fault of his 


Oh, lull me, lull me, charming air! 


In a body like a grave — 


My senses rock with wonder sweet ! 


From you he only dares to crave 


Like snow on wool thy fallings are ; 


For his service and his sorrow 


Soft, like a spirit's, are thy feet. 


A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. 


Grief who need fear 




That hath an ear ? 


The artist who this idol wrought 


Down let him lie, 


To echo all harmonious thought, 


And slumbering die, 


Fell'd a tree, while on the steep 


And change his soul for harmony. 


The woods were in their winter sleep, 


William Strode. 


Rock'd in that repose divine 




On the wind-swept Apennine ; 




And dreaming, some of autumn past, 


With a Guitar, to Jane. 


And some of spring approaching fast, 




And some of April buds and showers, 


Ariel to Miranda : — Take 


And some of songs in July bowers. 


This slave of Music, for the sake 


And all of love ; and so this tree — 


Of him who is the slave of thee ; 


Oh, that such our death may be ! — 


And teach it all the harmony 


Died in sleep, and felt no pain. 


In which thou canst, and only thou, 


To live in happier form again ; 


Make the delighted spirit glow. 


From which, beneath Heaven's fairest 


Till joy denies itself again, 


star, 


And, too intense, is turn'd to pain. 


The artist wrought this loved guitar ; 


For by permission and command 


And taught it justly to reply. 


Of thine own prince Ferdinand, 


To all who question skilfully. 


Poor Ariel sends this silent token 


In language gentle as thine own ; 


Of more than ever can be spoken ; 


Whispering in enamor'd tone 


Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who 


Sweet oracles of woods and dells. 


From life to life must still pursue 


And summer winds in sylvan cells. 


Your happiness, for thus alone 


For it had learn'd all harmonies 


Can Ariel ever find his own. 


Of the plains and of the skies, 


From Frospero's enchanted cell, 


Of the forests and the mountains, 


As the mighty verses tell, 


And the many-voicfed fountains; 


To the throne of Naples he 


The clearest echoes of the hills, 


Lit you o'er the trackless sea. 


The softest notes of falling rills. 


Flitting on, your prow before, 


The melodies of birds and bees, 


Like a living meteor. 


The murmuring of summer seas. 


When you die, the silent Moon 


And pattering rain, and breathing dew, 


In her interlunar swoon 


And airs of evening ; and it knew 


Is not sadder in her cell 


That seldom-heard mysterious sound 


Than deserted Ariel; 


Which, driven on its diurnal round, 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 



735 



As it floats through boundless day 
Our world enkindles on its way. 
All tliis it knows, but will not tell 
To those who cannot question well 
The spirit that inhabitjj it. 
It Uilks according to the wit 
Of its companions; and no more 
Is heard than has been felt before 
By those wlio tempt it to betray 
These secrets of an elder day. 
But, sweetly as its answers will 
Flatter hands of perfect skill, 
It keeps its highest, holiest tone 
For our beloved Jane alone. 

Percy Byssue Shelley. 



L^ALLEGRO. 

Hexce, loathed Melancholy, 

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born ! 

In Stygian cave forlorn, 
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and 
sights unholy, 

Find out some uncouth cell. 
Where brooding Darkness spreads his 

jealous wings. 
And the night raven sings; 
There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd 

rocks, 
As ragged as thy locks. 

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 
But come thou Goddess fair and free. 
In heav'n y-clep'd Eujihrosyne, 
And by men, heart-easing Mirth, 
Whom lovely Venus at a birth 
With two sister (traces more, 
To ivy -crowned Bacchus bore ; 
Or whether (as some sager siug) 
The frolic wind that breathes the spring, 
Zephyr with Aurora playing. 
As he met her once a-maying; 
Tliore on beds of violets blue, 
And fresh-blown roses wa.sh'd in dew, 
Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair. 
So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 

Haste thee. Xynipli. ami bring with thee 
Jest, and youthful Jollity, 
Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, 
Nods, and Becks, and wreatht^d Smiles, 
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. 
And love to live in dimple sleek ; 



Sport that wrinkled Care derides, 
And Laughter holding both his aides. 
Come, and trip it as you go, 
On the light fantastic toe; 
And in thy right hand lead with thee 
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty; 
And, if I give thee honor due. 
Mirth, admit me of the crew. 
To live with her, and live with thee, 
In unreprov^d i)lcasures free ; 
To hear the lark bi'gin his flight. 
And singing startle the dull night, 
From his watch-tow'r in the skies. 
Till the dappled dawn doth ri.se ; 
Then to come in spite of sorrow, 
And at my window bid good-morrow. 
Through the sweet-brier, or the vine. 
Or the twisted eglantine: 
While the cock with lively din 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 
And to the stack, or the barn-door. 
Stoutly struts his dames before : 
Oft list'ning how the liounds and horn 
Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn. 
From the side of some hoar hill. 
Through the high wood echoing shrill: 
Some time walking, not unseen, 
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 
Bight against the eastern gate, 
Wliere the great sun begins his state. 
Robed in flames, and amber light. 
The clouds in thousand liveries dight; 
While the ploughman near at hand 
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land. 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 
And the mower wliets his scythe. 
And every sheplierd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 
Straight mine eye hath caught new plea- 
sures 
Whilst the landscape round it mea- 
sures ; 
Russet lawns, and fallows gray, 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray. 
Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The lab'ring clouds do often rest; 
Meadows trim with daisies pied. 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. 
Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosom'd high in tufted trees. 
Where perhaps some beauty lies, 
The cynosure of neighb'ring eyes. 



736 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Hard by, a cottage chimuey smokes, 

From betwixt two aged oaks, 

Where Corydon and Thyrsis met 

Are at their savory dinner set 

Of herbs, and other country messes. 

Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; 

And then in haste her bow'r she leaves, 

With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; 

Or, if the earlier season lead. 

To the tann'd haycock in the mead, 

Sometimes with secure delight 

The upland hamlets will invite, 

When the merry bells ring round. 

And the jocund rebecks sound 

To many a youth, and many a maid. 

Dancing in the chequer'd shade ; 

And young and old come forth to play 

On a sunshine holiday. 

Till the live-long daylight foil ; 

Then to the spicy nut-brown ale. 

With stories told of many a feat. 

How fairy Mab the junkets eat ; 

She was pinch'd, and puU'd she said, 

And he by friars' lanthorn led 

Tells how the drudging Cloblin sweat, 

To earn his cream-bowl duly set. 

When in one night, ere glimpse of 

morn , 
His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the 

corn. 
That ten day-lab'rers could not end ; 
Then lies him down the lubber iiend. 
And stretcli'd out all the chimney's length. 
Basks at the fire his hairy strength. 
And crop-full out of doors he flings. 
Ere the first cock his matin rings. 
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep. 
By whispering winds soon luU'd asleep. 
Tower'd cities please us then. 
And the busy hum of men, 
Where throngs of knights and barons bold 
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, 
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
Rain influence, and judge the prize 
Of wit, or arms, while both contend 
To win her grace, whom all commend. 
There let Hymen oft appear 
In saft'ron robe, with taper clear. 
And pomp, and feast, and revelry, 
With mask, and antique pageantry. 
Such sights as youthful poets dream 
On summer eves by haunted stream. 



Then to the well-trod stage anon, 

If Jonson's learnfed sock be on, 

Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, 

Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever against eating cares. 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs. 
Married to immortal verse ; 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce, 
In notes, with many a winding bout 
Of linkfed sweetness long drawn out. 
With wanton heed and giddy cunning. 
The melting voice through mazes run- 
ning. 
Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony; 
That Orpheus' self may heave his head 
From golden slumber on a bed 
Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear 
Such strains as would have won the ear 
Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
His half-regain'd Eurydice. 

These delights if thou canst give, 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 

John Milton. 



Sonnet to Mis Lute. 

My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst 
grow 
With thy green mother in some shady 

grove. 
When immelodious winds but made thee 
move, 
And birds their ramage did on thee be- 
stow. 
Since that dear voice which did thy 
sounds approve, 
Which wont in such harmonious strains 

to flow. 
Is reft from earth to tune the spheres 
above, 
What art thou but a harbinger of woe? 
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no 
more. 
But orphan wailings to the fainting ear ; 
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws 
forth a tear ; 
For which be silent as in woods before : 
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign. 
Like widow'd turtle still her loss com- 
plain. 

William Drummond. 



POEMS OF SENTIMEXT. 



7.37 



A Canadian Boat-Song. 

Et remigem carUus hortatnr. 

QUIXTILIAN. 

Faintly as tulls the evening chime, 
Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep 

time. 
Soon as the woods on shore look dim, 
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. 
]!i>w, brothers, row ! the stream runs fost. 
The rapids are near, and the daylight's 

J)ilSt I 

Why should wc yet our sail unfurl ? — • 
There is not a breatli the blue wave to curl. 
But wlien the wind blows oil' the shore 
Oh ! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. 
Blow, breezes, blow ! the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight's 
past ! 

Utawa's tide ! tliis trembling moon 
Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 
Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers — 
Oh I grant us cool heavens and favoring 

airs ! 
Blow, breezes, blow ! the stream runs fast. 
The rapids are near, and the daylight's 

past! 

Thomas Muure. 



IL PENSEROSO. 

HeXCE, vain deluding joys, 

Tlie brood of folly witliout father bred, 

How little you bestead. 
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! 

Dwell in some idle brain, 
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes pos- 

ses.s, 
As thick and numberless 
As the gay motes that people the sun- 
beams, 
Or likest hovering dreams, 

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 
Rut hail, thou goddess sage and holy, 
Hail, divinest Melancholy, 
Whose saintly visage is too bright 
To hit the sense of human sight, 
And therefore to our weaker view 
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue ; 
Black, but such as in esteem 
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, 

47 



Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove 
To set her beauty's praise above 
Tlie Sea-Nymphs, and their pow'rs of- 
fended : 
Yet thou art higher far descended ; 
Thee briglit-hair'd Vesta, long of yore, 
To solitary Saturn bore ; 
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign 
Such mixture was not held a stain). 
Oft in glimmering bow'rs and glades 
He met her, and in secret shades 
Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 
While yet there was no fear of Jove. 
Come, pensive nun, devout and pure. 
Sober, steadfast, and demure, 
All in a robe of darkest grain, 
Flowing with majestic train. 
Ami sable stole of Cyprus lawn 
Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
Come, but keep thy wonted state, 
With even step, and musing gait. 
And looks commercing with the skies. 
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 
There held in holy passion still, 
Forget thyself to marble, till 
With a sad leaden downward cast 
Thou fix them on the earth as fa.st : 
And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, 
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet. 
And hears the muses in a ring 
Aye round about .Jove's altar sing : 
And add to these retired Leisure, 
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ; 
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring. 
Him that yon soars on golden wing, 
Guiding the fiery-whcelfed throne. 
The cherub Contemplation ; 
And the mute Silence hist along, 
'Less Philomel will deign a song, 
In her sweetest, .saddest plight. 
Smoothing the rugged brow of night, 
While Cynthia checks her dragon-yoke. 
Gently o'er th' accustom'd oak ; 
Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of 

folly, 
Most musical, most melancholy! 
Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among 
I woo, to hear thy even-song ; 
And missing thee, I walk unseen 
i On the dry smooth-shaven green, 

To beholil the wandering moon, 
I 
I Riding near her highest noon, 



"38 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Like one that had been led astray 
Through the heav'n's wide pathless way ; 
And oft, as if her head she bow'd, 
Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
Oft on a plat of rising ground, 
I hear the far-off curfew sound, 
Over some wide-water'd shore, 
Swinging slow with sullen roar ; 
Or if the air will not permit. 
Some still removed place will fit, 
Where glowing embers through the room 
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 
Far from all resort of mirth, 
Save the cricket on the hearth. 
Or the bellman's drowsy charm. 
To bless the doors from nightly harm 
Or let my lamp at midnight hour 
Be seen in some high lonely tow'r. 
Where I may oft outwatch the Bear, 
With thrice-grcat Hermes, or unsphere 
The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
What worlds, or what vast regions, hold 
The immortal mind, that hath forsook 
Her mansion in this fleshly nook : 
And of those demons that are found 
In fire, air, flood, or under ground. 
Whose power hath a true consent 
With planet, or with element. 
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
In sceptred pall come sweeping by, 
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, 
Or the tale of Troy divine, 
Or what (though rare) of later age 
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. 
But, O sad virgin, that thy power 
Might raise Musseus from his bower, 
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
Such notes as, warbled to the string, 
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, 
And made Hell grant what love did seek. 
Or call up him that left half told 
The story of Cambuscan bold, 
Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
And who had Canace to wife, 
That own'd the virtuous ring and glass, 
And of the wondrous liorse of brass, 
On which the Tartar king did ride ; 
And if aught else great bards beside 
In sage and solemn tunes have sung, 
Of turneys and of trophies hung. 
Of forests, and enchantments drear, 
Where more is meant than meets the ear. 



Thus Night oft see me in thy pale career. 

Till civil-suited Morn appear. 

Nor trick'd and frounced as .she was wont 

With the Attic boy to hunt. 

But kerchief 'd in a comely cloud. 

While rocking winds are piping loud, 

Or usher'd with a shower still 

When the gust hath blown his fill, 

Ending on the rustling leaves, 

With minute drops from off the eaves. 

And when the sun begins to fling 

His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring 

To arched walks of twilight groves. 

And shadows brown that Sylvan lovea 

Of pine, or monumental oak. 

Where the rude axe with heavfed stroke 

Was never heard the nymphs to daunt. 

Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt. 

There in close covert by some brook. 

Where no profaner eye may look. 

Hide me from day's garish eye. 

While the bee with honey'd thigh, 

That at her flow'ry work doth sing, 

And the waters murmuring 

With such consort as they keep. 

Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep ; 

And let some strange, mysterious dream 

Wave at his wings in aery stream 

Of lively portraiture display'd, 

Softly on my eyelids laid. 

And as I wake sweet music breathe 

Above, about, or underneath. 

Sent by some spirit to mortals good. 

Or th' unseen genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 

To walk the studious cloisters pale,, 

And love the high-embowfed roof. 

With antique pillars massy proof. 

And storied windows richly dight, 

Casting a dim religious right : 

There let the jiealing organ blow, 

To the full-voiced quire below. 

In service high, and anthems clear, 

As may with sweetness, through mine ear, 

Dissolve me into ecstasies. 

And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 

And may at last my weary age 

Find out the peaceful hermitage. 

The hairy gown and mossy cell, 

Where I may sit and rightly spell 

Of every star that heav'n doth show, 

And every herb that sips the dew ; 



POEMS OF SEXTIMEXT. 



739 



Till old experience do attain 
To soinetliing like prophetic strain. 
These pleswures, Melancholy, give, 
And I with thee will choose to live. 
John Milton. 



Mr MINDE TO ME A KINGDOM IS. 

My minde to me a kingdom is ; 

Such perfect joy therein I finde 
As farre exceeds all earthly blisse 

That Gf(d or Nature hath assignde ; 
Though much I want, that most would 

have, 
Yet still my minde forbids to crave. 

Content I live ; this is my stay — 
I seek no more than may suffice. 

I presse to beare no haughtie sway ; 
Look, what I lack my minde supplies. 

Loe, thus I triumph like a king, 

Content with that my minde doth bring. 

I see how plentic surfets oft. 
And hastie clymbers soonest fall ; 

I see that such as sit aloft 
Jlishap dotli threaten most of all. 

These get with toile, and keepe with feare : 

Such cares my minde could never beare. 

No princely pompe nor welthie store, 

No force to win the victorie, 
No wylic wit to salve a sore, 

No shape to winne a lover's eye — 
To none of these I yecld as thrall ; 
For why, my minde despiseth all. 

Some have too much, yet still they crave ; 

I little have, yet seek no more. 
They are but poore, though much they have, 

And I am rich with little store. 
Tiioy poor, I rich ; they beg, I give ; 
They lacke, I lend ; they pine, I live. 

I laugh not at another's losse, 
I grudge not at another's gaine ; 

No worldly wave my minde can tosse ; 
I brooke that is another's bane. 

I feare no foe, nor fawne on friend ; 

I lothe not life, nor dread mine end. 

I joy not in no earthly bli&se ; 
I weigh not Cresus' wealth a straw ; 



For care, I care not what it is ; 

I feare not fortune's fatal law : 
My minde is such as may not move 
For boautie bright, or force of love. 

I wish but what I have at will ; 

I w%ander not to seeke for more ; 
I like the plaine, I clime no hill ; 

In greatest stormes I sitte on shore. 
And laugh at them that toile in vaine 
To get what must be lost againe. 

I kisse not where I wish to kill ; 

I feigne not love where most I hate ; 
I breake no sleepe to winne my will ; 

I wayte not at the miglitic's gate. 
I scorne no poorc, I feare no rich ; 
I feelc no want, nor have too much. 

The court ne cart I like ne loath — 
E.\treames are counted worst of all ; 

The golden meane betwi.xt them both 
Dost surest sit, and feares no fall ; 

This is my choyce ; for why, I finde 

No wealth is like a quiet minde. 

My wealth is health and perfect ease ; 

My conscience clere my chiefe defence; 
I never seeke by bribes to please. 

Nor by desert to give olience. 
Thus do I live, thus will I die; 
Would all did so as well as I ! 

Wir.MAM BVRD. 



My Days among the Dead are 
Passed. 

My days among the dead are pass'd ; 

Around me I behold, 
Where'er these casual eyes are cast. 

The mighty minds of old ; 
My never-failing friends are they, 
With whom I converse day by day. 

With them I take dcligiit in weal, 

And seek relief in woe; 
And while I understand and feel 

How much to them I owe, 
Jly cheeks have often been bedew'd 
With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 

My thoughts are with the dead ; with 
tlieni 
I live in long-past years; 



740 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 

Partake their hopes and fears, 
And from their lessons seek and find 
Instruction with an humble mind. 

My hopes are with the dead ; anon 

My pUxce with them will iSe, 
And I with them shall travel on 

Through all futurity, 
Yet leaving here a name, I trust. 
That will not perish in the dust. 

RODEKT SOUTHEY. 



Thoughts in a Libras v. 

Speak low! tread softly through these 
halls; 

Here Genius lives enshrined ; 
Here reign, in silent majesty. 

The monarchs of the mind. 

A mighty spirit-host they come 

From every age and clime ; 
Above the buried wrecks of years 

They breast the tide of Time. 

And in their presence-chamber here 

They hold their regal state, 
And round them throng a noble train. 

The gifted and the great. 

O child of Earth ! when round thy path 

The storms of life arise, 
And when thy brothers pass thee by 

With stern, unloving eyes, 

Here shall the poets chant for thee 

Their sweetest, loftiest lays. 
And prophets wait to guide thy steps 

In Wisdom's pleasant ways. 

Come, with these God-anointed kings 

Be thou companion here; 
And in the miglity realm of mind 

Thou shalt go forth a peer ! 

Anne C. Lynch Botta. 



The LAWYER'S Farewell to his 
Muse. 

As, by some tyrant's stern command, 
A wretch forsakes his native land. 
In foreign climes condemn'd to roam 
An endless exile from his home ; 



Pensive he treads the destined way, 
And dreads to go, nor dares to stay ; 
Till on some neighboring mountain's 

brow 
He stops, and turns his eyes below ; 
There, melting at the well-known view. 
Drops a last tear, and bids adieu ; 
So I, thus dooni'd from thee to part. 
Gay Queen of Fancy and of Art, 
Reluctant move, with doubtful mind. 
Oft stop, and often look behind. 
Companion of my tender age, 
Serenely gay, and sweetly sage, 
How blithesome we were wont to rove 
By verdant hill or shady grove, 
Where fervent bees, with humming 

voice. 
Around the honey'd oak rejoice, 
And aged elms with awful bend 
In long cathedral walks extend ! 
LuU'd by the lapse of gliding floods, 
Cheer'd by the warbling of the woods, 
How bless'd my days, my thoughts how 

free 
In sweet society with thee ! 
Then all was joyous, all was young. 
And years unheeded roU'd along : 
But now the pleasing dream is o'er, 
These scenes must charm me now no 

more ; 
Lost to the fields, and torn from you, — 
Farewell ! — a long, a last adieu. 
Me wrangling courts, and stubborn 

law. 
To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw : 
There selfish Faction rules the day, 
And Pride and Avarice throng the way ; 
Diseases taint the murky air, 
And midnight conflagrations glare ; 
Loose Revelry and Riot bold 
In frighted streets their orgies hold ; 
Or, where in silence all is drown'd, 
Fell Murder walks his lonely round ; 
No room for Peace, no room for you, 
Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu! 

Shakespeare no more thy sylvan son. 
Nor all the art of Addison, 
Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's 

ease, 
Nor Milton's mighty self, nuist please : 
Instead of these, a formal band 
In furs and coifs around me stand ; 



POKMS OF SENTIMENT. 



741 



AVith sounds uncouth, and accents dry, 
That grate the soul of harmony ; 
Each pedant sage unlocks his store 
Of mystic, darli, discordant lore ; 
And points with tottering hand the ways 
That lead me to the thorny maze. 

There, in a winding close retreat, 
Is Justice doom'd to fix her seat ; 
There, fenced by bulwarks of the law, 
She keeps the wondering world in awe; 
And there, from vulgar sight retired, 
Like Eastern queen, is more admired. 

Oh let me pierce the secret shade 
Where dwells the venerable maid ! 
Tliere humbly mark, with reverend awe, 
The guardian of Britannia's law; 
Unfold with joy her sacred page, 
Th' united boast of many an age ; 
Where mix'd, yet uniform, appears 
The wisdom of a thousand years. 
In that pure spring the bottom view. 
Clear, deep, and regularly true ; 
And other doctrines thence imbibe 
Than lurk within the sordid scribe ; 
Observe how parts with parts unite 
In one harmonious rule of right ; 
See countless wheels distinctly tend 
By various laws to one great end : 
While mighty Alfred's piercing soul 
Pervades and regulates the whole. 

Then welcome business, welcome strife, 
Welcome the cares, the thorns of life. 
The visage wan, the purblind sight. 
The toil by day, the lamp at night. 
The tedious forms, the solemn prate. 
The pert dispute, the dull debate. 
The drowsy bench, the babbling hall, — 
For thee, fair Justice, welcome all ! 
Thus though my noon of life be past, 
Yet let my setting sun, at last. 
Find out the still, the rural cell. 
Where sage Retirement loves to dwell! 
There let me taste the homcfelt bliss 
Of innocence and inward peace; 
Untainted by the guilty bribe, 
Uncurscd amid the harpy tribe; 
No orphan's cry to wound my ear; 
My honor and my conscience clear; 
Thus may I calmly meet my end. 
Thus to the grave in peace descend. 

SlK Wn.LIAM Blackstonk. 



OiV Frnsr Looking into Citap- 

,y.iN'.S IIOMKR. 

Much have I travcU'd in the realms of 

gold, 
And many goodly states and kingdoms 

seen ; 
Round many western islands have I been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
That decp-brow'd Homer ruled as his de- 
mesne ; 
Yet did I never breathe its jmre serene 
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and 

bold : 
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
When a new planet swims into his ken ; 
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 
He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 
Look'd at each other with a wild sur- 
mise — 
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 

.loHX Keats. 



A Vision upon this Conceit 
OF THE Faerie Qukene. 

Methought I saw the grave where Laura 

lay, 
Within that temple, where the vestal 

flame 
Wa.s wont to burn ; and passing by that way. 
To see that buried dust of living fonic. 
Whose tomb fair Love, and fairer Virtue 

kept. 
All suddenly I saw the Faerie Queene ; 
At wliose approach the soul of I'etrarch 

we[)t. 
And, from thenceforth, those Graces were 

not seen ; 
For they this Queen attended ; in wliose 

stead 
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse : 
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to 

bleed. 
And groans of buried ghosts the heavens 

did i)ieroe, 
Where Homer's spright did tremble all frr 

grief,- 
And cursed the access of that celestial 

thief! 

8iR Waltkr RAi.Kloir. 



742 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Ode. 

Baeds of passion and of mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Have ye souls in Heaven too, 
Double-lived in regions new? 
Yes, and those of Heaven commune 
With the spheres of sun and moon ; 
With the noise of fountains wondrous, 
And the parle of voices thund'rous ; 
With the whisper of Heaven's trees 
And one another, in soft ease 
Seated on Elysian lawns 
Browsed by none but Dian's fawns ; 
Underneath large blue-bells tented. 
Where the daisies are rose-scented, 
And the rose herself has got 
Perfume which on earth is not; 
Where the nightingale doth sing 
Not a senseless, tranced thing. 
But divine, melodious truth — 
Philosophic numbers smooth — 
Tales and golden histories 
Of Heaven and its mysteries. 

Thus ye live on high, and then 
On the earth ye live again ; 
And the souls ye left behind you 
Teach us here the way to find you. 
Where your other souls are joying. 
Never slumbcr'd, never cloying. 
Here your earth-born souls still speak 
To mortals, of their little week ; 
Of their sorrows and delights; 
Of their passions and their spites ; 
Of their glory and their shame ; 
What doth strengthen and what maim. 
Thus ye teach us, every day. 
Wisdom, though fled far away. 

Bards of passion and of mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Ye have souls in Heaven too, 
Double-lived in regions new! 

John Keats. 

SOXG. 

Still to be neat, still to be drest. 

As you were going to a feast ; 

Still to be powder'd, still perfumed, 

Lady, it is to be presumed. 

Though art's hid causes are not found. 

All is not sweet, all is not sound. 



Give me a look, give me a face, 
That makes simplicity a grace ; 
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free — 
Such sweet neglect more taketh me 
Than all the adulteries of art ; 
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 

Ben Jonson. 

Delight in Disorder. 

A SWEET disorder in the dress 

Kindles in clothes a wantonness : 

A lawn about the shoulders thrown 

Into a fine distractidn — 

An erring lace, which here and there 

Enthralls the crimson stomacher — 

A cuff" neglectful, and thereby 

Ribbons to flow confusedly — 

A winning wave, deserving note, 

In the tempestuous petticoat — 

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie 

I sec a wild civility, — 

Do more bewitch me than when art 

Is too precise in every part. 

EoliEIIT HEERICK. 

The La chr yma tor y. 

Feoii out the grave of one whose budding 
years 
Were crojip'd by death when Rome was 
in her prime, 
I brought the vial of his kinsman's tears, 
There placed, as was the wont of ancient 
time ; 
Roundme, that night, in meads of asphodel. 
The souls of th' early dead did come and 

go, 
Drawn by that flask of grief, as by a spell. 
That long-imprison'd shower of human 
woe ; 
As round Ulysses, for the draught of blood. 
The heroes throng' d, those spirits flock'd 
to me. 
Where, lonely, with that charm of tears I 
stood ; 
Two, most of all, my dreaming eyes did 
see; 
The young Marcellus, young, but great 
and good, 
And Tully's daughter mourn'd so ten- 
derly. Charles Turner. 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 



743 



Age AND Song. 



In vain men tell us time can alter 
Old loves or make old memories falter, 
That with the old year the old year's life 
closes. 
The old dew still falls on the old sweet 

flowers, 
The old sun revives the new-fledged hours. 
The old summer rears the new-born roses. 

JIuch more a Muse that bears upon her 
Raiment and wreath and flower of honor, 

Gather'd long since and long since woven, 
Fades not or falls as falls the vernal 
Blossoms that bear no fruit eternal, 

By summer or winter charr'd or cloven. 

No time casts down, no time upraises 
Such loves, such memories and such praises. 

As need no grace of sun or shower, 
Xo saving screen from frost or thunder, 
To tend and house around and under 

The imperishable and peerless flower. 

1 

I Old thanks, old thoughts, old aspirations, 
Outlive men's lives and lives of nations. 

Dead, but for one thing which survives — 
The inalienable and unpriced treasure, 
The old joy of power, the old pride of 
pleasure. 
That lives in light above men's lives. 
Algerkok Charles Swiskibnk. 



Beauty Fades. 

Teust not, sweet soul, those curlfed waves 
of gold 
With gentle tides that on your temples 

flow. 
Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin 
snow. 
Nor snow of cheeks with Tyrian grain eii- 

roll'd. 
Trust not those shining lights which 
wrought my woe 
When first I did their azure rays be- 
hold. 
Nor voice, whose sounds more strange ef- 
fects do show 
Than of the Thracian harper have been 
told. 



Look to this dying lily, fading rose. 
Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing 
beams 

Made all the neighboring herbs and grass 
rejoice. 
And think how little is 'twi.xt life's ex- 
tremes : 

The cruel tyrant that did kill those flowers 

Shall once, ah me ! not spare that spring 
of yours. 

William Druumokd. 



SHE ^VALKS IN BEA UTY. 

She walks in beauty like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meets in her iLspect and her eyes : 

Thus nicUow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less. 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress. 
Or softly lightens o'er her face — 

Where thoughts serenely sweet e.\pre.ss 
How pure, how dear their dwelling- 
place. 

And on that check, and o'er that brow. 
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 

The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 
But tell of days in goodness spent, 

A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent. 

Lord Bybo.s'. 



HESTER. 

When maidens such .is Hester die, 
Their pl.ice ye may not well supply. 
Though ye among a thousand try. 
With vain endeavor. 

A month or more hath she been dead, 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the wormy bed 
And her, together. 

A springy motion in her gait, 
A rising step did indicate 
Of pride and joy no common rate. 
That iiush'd her spirit ; 



744 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



I know not by wliat name beside 
I shall it call : if 'twas not pride, 
It was a joy to that allied, 
She did inherit. 

Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
Which doth the human feeling cool ; 
But she was ti'ain'd in Nature's school — 
Nature had bless'd her. 

A waking eye, a prying mind, 
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; 
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind — 
Ye could not Hester. 

My sprightly neighbor, gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore I 
Shall we not meet, as heretofore. 
Some summer morning. 

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath struck a bliss upon the day — 
A bliss that would not go away — 
A sweet forewarning? 

Charles Lasib. 



Has Sosrojv thy Young Bays 
Shaded. 

Has sorrow thy young days shaded, 

As clouds o'er the morning fleet? 
Too fast have those young days faded, 

That, even in sorrow, were sweet? 
Does Time with his cold wing wither 

Each feeling that once was dear? — 
Then, child of misfortune, come hither, 

I'll weeji with thee, tear for tear. 

Has love to that soul, so tender. 

Been like our Lagcnian mine, 
Where sparkles of golden splendor 

All over the surface shine? 
But, if in pursuit we go deeper, 

Allured by the gleam that shone. 
Ah ! false as the dream of the sleeper. 

Like Love, the bright ore is gone. 

Has Hope, like the bird in the story, 
That flitted from tree to tree 

With the talisman's glittering glory — 
Has Hope been that bird to thee? 

On branch after branch alighting. 
The gem did she still display. 



And, when nearest and most inviting. 
Then waft the fair gem away ? 

If thus the young hours have fleeted, 

When sorrow itself look'd bright ; 
If thus the fiiir hope hath cheated. 

That led thee along so light ; ■ 
If thus the cold world now wither 

Each feeling that once was dear : — 
Come, child of misfortune, come hither, 

I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. 

Thomas Moore. 

Stanzas. 

And thou art dead, as young and fair 

As aught of mortal birth ; 
And form so soft, and charms so rare. 

Too soon return'd to earth ! 
Though Earth received them in her bed, 
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 

In carelessness or mirth, 
There is an eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. 

I will not ask where thou liest low, 

Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
There flowers or weeds at will may grow, 

So I behold them not : 
It is enough for me to prove 
That what I loved, and long must love. 

Like common earth can rot ; 
To me there needs no stone to tell, 
'Tis nothing that I loved so well. ' 

Yet did I love thee to the last 

As fervently as thou. 
Who didst not change through all the past, 

And canst not alter now. 
The love wliere death has set his seal. 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Nor falsehood disavow : 
And what were worse, thou canst not see 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 

The better days of life were ours ; 

The worst can be but mine ; 
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, 

Shall never more be thine. 
The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too much to weep ; 

Nor need I to repine 
That all those charms have pass'd away, 
I might have watch'd through long decay. 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 



The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 

Must fall the earliest prey; 
Thougli by no liiind untimely snatcb'd, 

The leaves must drop away: 
And yet it were a greater grief 
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 

Than see it pluck'd to-day ; 
Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair. 

I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fade; 
The night that followed such a morn 

Had worn a deeper shade : 
Thy day without a cloud hath past, 
And thou wert lovely to the last ; 

Extinguish'd, not decayed ; 
As stars that shoot along the sky 
Shine brightest as they fall from high. 

As once I wept, if I could weep. 
My tears might well be shed. 

To think I wius not near to keep 
One vigil o'er thy bed ; 

To gaze, liow fondly 1 on thy face, 

To fold thee in a faint embrace. 
Uphold thy drooping head ; 

And show that love, however vain, 

Nor thou nor I can feel again. 

Yet how much less it were to gain. 

Though thou ha-st left nie free. 
The loveliest things that still remain. 

Than thus remember thee ! 
The all of thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dread eternity 

Returns again to me, 
And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught, excejit its living years. 

Lord Bybon. 



OB! SNA TCI/ED A WA Y IN BEA UTTS 

Bloom. 

Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Tlieir leaves, the earliest of the year; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head. 



And feed deep thought with many a dream. 
And lingering pause and lightly tread : 
Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'd 
the dead ! 

Away ! we know tliat tears are vain, 
That death nor heeds nor hears distress. 

Will this uiiteach us to complain ? 
Or make one mourner weep the less ? 

And thou — who tell'st me to forget. 

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 

Lord ]3yR0N. 



Thy Voice is Heard 
Rolling Drums. 



THRO' 



Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, 

That beat to battle where he stands ; 
Thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to his hands: 
A moment, while the trumpets blow. 

He sees his brood about thy knee; 
The next, like lire he meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 
Alfred Tennyson. 



An Angel in the House. 

How sweet it were, if without feeble 

fright. 
Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, 
An angel came to us, and we could bear 
To see him issue from the silent air 
At evening in our room, and bend on 

ours 
His divine eyes, and bring us from his 

bowers 
News of dear friends, and children who 

have never 
Been dead indeed — as we shall know for 

ever. 
Alas ! we think not what we daily see 
About our hearths — angels that arc to 

be. 
Or may be if they will, and we prepare 
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air; 
A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart 

sings 

In unison with ours, breeding its future 

wings. 

Leiou Hunt. 



746 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Off OH US. 

From " Atalanta in Calydon." 

Before the beginning of years 

There came to the making of man 
Time, with a gift of tears ; 

Grief, witli a glass that ran ; 
Pleasure, with pain for leaveu ; 

Summer, with flowers that fell ; 
Remembrance, fallen from heaven ; 

And madness risen from hell ; 
Strength, without hands to smite ; 

Love, that endures for a breath ; 
Night, the shadow of light. 

And life, the shadow of death. 

And the high gods took in hand 

Fire, and the falling of tears, 
And a measure of sliding sand 

From under the feet of the years ; 
And froth and drift of the sea ; 

And dust of the laboring earth ; 
And bodies of things to be 

In the houses of death and of birth ; 
And wrought with weeping and laughter, 

And fashion'd with loathing and love, 
With life before and after. 

And death beneath and above. 
For a day and a night and a morrow, 

That his strength might endure for a span 
With travail and heavy sorrow, 

The holy spirit of man. 

From the winds of the north and the south 

They gather'd as unto strife ; 
They breathed upon his mouth. 

They fill'd his body with life ; 
Eyesight and speech they wrought 

For the veils of the soul therein, 
A time for labor and thought, 

A time to serve and to sin ; 
They gave him light in his ways. 

And love, and a space for delight, 
And beauty and length of days. 

And night, and sleep in the night. 
His speech is a burning fire ; 

With his lips he travaileth ; 
In his heart is a blind desire, 

In his eyes foreknowledge of death ; 
He weaves, and is clothed with derision ; 

Sows, and he shall not reap ; 
His life is a watch or a vision 

Between a sleep and a sleep. 

Algebkok Charles Swinbuknk. 



Qua Cursum Ventus. 

As ships becalm'd at eve, that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side, 

Two towers of sail at dawn of day. 
Are scarce, long leagues apart, descried ; 

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze. 
And all the darkling hours they plied. 

Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side : 

E'en so, — but why the tale reveal 
Of those whom, year by year unchanged, 

Brief absence join'd anew to feel, 

Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? 

At dead of night their sails were fill'd, 
And onward each rejoicing steer'd : 

Ah, neither blame, for neither will'd. 
Or wist, what first with dawn appear'd 1 

To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, 
Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too, 

Through winds and tides one compass 
guides, — 
To that, and your own selves, be true. 

But, O blithe breeze, and O great seas. 
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 

On your wide plain they join again. 
Together lead them home at last! 

One port, methought, alike they sought. 
One purpose hold where'er they fare, — 

O bounding breeze, O rushing seas, 
At last, at last, unite them there. 

Arthuk Hugh Clocgh. 



Address to the Mummy at Bel- 
zoNTs Exhibition. 

And thou hast walk'd about (how strange 
a story !) 
In Thebes' streets three thousand years 
ago, 
When the Memnonium was in all its glory, 

And time had not begun to overthrow 
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupen- 
dous. 
Of which the very ruins are tremendous? 

Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted 
dummy ; 
Thou hast a tongue — come — let us hear 
its tune ; 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 



747 



Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, 
mummy ! 
Revisiting tlie glimpses of the moon — 

Not like tliin ghosts or disembodied crea- 
tures. 

But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, 
and features. 

Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recol- 
lect — 
To whom should we assign the Sphinx's 
fame ? 
Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 

Of either pyramid that bears his name ? 
Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? 
Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by 
Homer ? 

Perhaps thou wcrt a Jlason, and forbidden 

By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade — 

Then say what secret melody was hidden 

In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise 

play'd ? 

Perhaps thou wert a priest — if so, my 

struggles 
Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its 
juggles. 

Perhaps that very hand, now pinion'd flat, 
Has hob-a-nobb'd with Pharaoh, glass 
to glass ; 
Or dropp'd a half-penny in Homer's hat ; 
Or dotT'd thine own to let (iueeu Dido 
pass ; 
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 
A torch at the great temple's dedication. 

I need not ask thee if that hand, when 
arm'd, 
Has any Roman soldier maul'd and 
knuckled ; 

For thou wert dead, and buried, and em- 
balm 'd 
Ere Romulus and Remus had been 
suckled : 

Antiquity appears to have begun 

Long after thy primeval race was run. 

Thou could'st develop — if tliat wither'd 
tongue 
Might tell us what those sightless orbs 
have seen — 



How the world look'd when it was fresh 

and young. 
And the great deluge still had left it 

green ; 
Or was it then so old that history's pages 
Contain'd no record of its early ages? 

Still silent ! incommunicative elf! 

Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy 
vows ; 
But prythee tell us something of thyself — 
Reveal the secrets of tliy ]irison-house; 
Since in the world of spirits thou hast 

slumber'd — 
What hast thou seen — what strange adven- 
tures number'd ? 

Since first thy form was in this box ex- 
tended 
We have, above ground, seen some 
strange mutations ; 

The Roman empire hiis begun and ended — 
New worlds have risen — we have lost 
old nations ; 

And countless kings have into dust been 
humbled. 

While not a fragment of thy flesh has 
crumbled. 

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy 
head 
When the great Persian conqueror, Cam- 
byses, 

March'd armies o'er thy tomb with thun- 
dering tread — 
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis ; 

And shook the pyramids with fear and 
wonder. 

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? 

If the tomb's secrets may not be confes-s'd. 

The nature of thy private life unfold : 
A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern 

breast, 
And tears adown that dusty cheek have 

roll'd ; 
Have children climb'd those knees and 

kiss'd that face? 
What wiis thy name and station, age and 

race ? 

Statue of flesh — Immortal of the dead I 
Imperishable type of evanescence ! 



748 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Posthumous man — who quitt'st thy nar- 
row bed, 
And standest undecay'd within our pres- 
ence ! 

Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment 
morning, 

When the great trump shall thrill thee 
with its warning. 

Why should this worthless tegument en- 
dure. 
If its undying guest be lost for ever ? 

Oh ! let us keep the soul embalm'd and 
pure 
In living virtue — that when both must 
sever, 

Although corruption may our frame con- 
sume. 

The immortal spirit in the skies may 

bloom ! 

Horace Smith. 



Ovu ON A Grecian Urn. 

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness! 
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow 
Time ! 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 
A flowery tale more sweetly than our 
rhyme ! 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about 
thy shape 
Of deities or mortals, or of both, 

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 
What men or gods are these ? what 
maidens loath ? 
What mad pursuit? What struggle to 
escape ? 
What pipes and timbrels ? What wild 
ecstasy ? 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those un- 
heard 
Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, 
play on — 
Not to the sensual ear, but more endear'd, 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst 
not leave 
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be 
bare; 
Bold lover, never, never, canst thou 
kiss. 



Though winning near the goal ; yet do not 
grieve — 
She cannot fade, though thou hast 
not thy bliss ; 
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 

Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot 
shed 
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring 
adieu : 
And, happy melodist, unwearifed, 

For ever piping songs for ever new ; 
More happy love ! more happy, happy 
love ! 
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd. 
For ever panting and for ever 
young ; 
All breathing human passion far above, 
That leaves a heart high sorrowful and 
cloy'd, 
A burning forehead and a parching 
tongue. 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the 
skies, 
And all her silken flanks with garlands 
drest? 
What little town by river or sea-shore. 
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
Is emptied of its folk this pious 
morn? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 
Will silent be ; and not a soul, to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 

Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 
Of marble men and maidens over- 
wrought, 
With forest branches and the trodden 

weed ; 
Thou, silent form ! dost tease us out of 

thought. 
As doth eternity. Cold pastoral ! 

When old age shall this generation 
waste, 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other 
woe 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom 
thou say'st, 



POEMS OF SENTIMEXT. 



749 



" Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"— that is 
all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to 
know. 

John Keats. 



The Men of Old. 

I KNOW not that the men of old 

Were better than men now. 
Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, 

Of more ingenuous brow ; 
I heed not those who pine for force 

A ghost of time to raise, 
As if they thus could check the course 

Of these appointed days. 

Still it is true, and over-true. 

That I delight to close 
This book of life self-wise and new, 

And let my thouglits repose 
On all that humble happiness 

The world has since foregone, — 
The daylight of contentedness 

That on those faces shone ! 

With rights, though not too closely scann'd, 

Enjoy'd as far as known, 
Witli will, by no reverse unmann'd, 

With pulse of even tone, 
They from to-day, and from to-night, 

E.\pccted nothing more 
Than yesterdaw and yesternight 

Had profler'd them before. 

To them was life a simple art 

Of duties to be done, 
A game where each man took his part, 

A race where all must run ; 
A battle whose great scheme and scope 

They little cared to know. 
Content, as men-at-arms, to cope 

Each with his fronting foe. 

Man now his virtue's diadem 

Puts on, and proudly wears, — 
Great thoughts, great feelings, came to 
them 

Like instincts unawares; 
Blending their souls' sublimest needs 

With tiusks of every day. 
They went about their gravest deeds 

As noble boys at play. 



And what if Nature's fearful wound 

They did not probe and bare. 
For that their s])iiits never swoon'd 

To watch the misery there, — 
For that their love but flow'd more fast. 

Their charities more free. 
Not conscious what mere drops they cast 

Into the evil sea. 

A man's be.st things are nearest him, 

Lie close about his feet ; 
It is the distant and the dim 

That we are sick to greet ; 
For flowers that grow our hands beneath 

We struggle and aspire, — 
Our hearts must die, except they breathe 

The air of fresh desire. 

Yet, brothers, w^ho up reason's hill 

Advance with hopeful cheer, — 
Oh, loiter not, those heights are chill. 

As chill as they are clear ; 
And still restrain your haughty gaze 

The loftier that ye go, 
Kememberiiig distance leaves a haze 

On all that lies below. 

lilCIIARI) MOSCKTON MiLNES 
(LOKU HOUOllTON). 



OH! THE PLEASANT DA YS OF OLD ! 

Oh ! the pleasant days of old, which so of- 
ten people prai.se ! 

True, they wanted all the lu.Kuries tliat 
grace our modern days : 

Bare floors tt'cre strew'd with rushes — the 
walls let in tiie cold ; 

Oh ! how tliey must have shiver'd in those 
pleasant days of old I 

Oh ! those ancient lords of old, how mag- 
nificent they were ! 
They threw down and imprison'd kings — 

to thwart them who might dare? 
They ruled their serfs right sternly ; they 

took from .Jews their gold- 
Above both law and equity were those 
great lords of old ! 

Oh I the gallant knights of old, for their 

valor .so renown'd I 
With sword and lance, and armor strong, 

they scour'd the country round ; 



750 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



And whenever aught to tempt them they 

met by wood or wold, 
By right of sword they seized the prize — 

those gallant knights of old ! 

Oh 1 the gentle dames of old I who, quite 

free from fear or pain, 
Could gaze on joust and tournament, and 

see their champions slain ; 
They lived on good beefsteaks and ale, 

which made them strong and bold — 
Oh 1 more like men than women were 

those gentle dames of old ! 



Ohl 



with 



those mighty towers of old 1 
their turrets, moat, and keep, 

Their battlements and bastions, their dun- 
geons dark and deep. 

Full many a baron held his court within 
the castle hold ; 

And many a captive languish'd there, in 
those strong towers of old. 

Oh ! the troubadours of old ! with their 

gentle minstrelsie 
Of hope and joy, or deep despair, which- 

e'er their lot might be — 
For years they sei-ved their lady-love ere 

they their passions told — 
Oh ! wondrous patience must have had 

those troubadours of old ! 

Oh ! those blessed times of old ! with their 

chivalry and state ; 
I love to read their chronicles, which such 

brave deeds relate ; 
I love to sing their ancient rhymes, to hear 

their legends told — 
But, Heaven be thank 'd ! I live not in 

those blessed times of old ! 

Frances Brown. 



Is IT COMEt 

Is it come ? tbey said, on the banks of the 
Nile, 
Who look'd for the world'slong-promised 
day. 
And saw but the strife of Egypt's toil. 
With the desert's sand and the granite 
gray. 



From the pyramid, temple, and treasured 
dead. 
We vainly ask for her wisdom's plan ; 
They tell us of the tyrant's dread- 
Yet there was hope when that day be- 
gan. 

The Chaldee came, with his starry lore. 

And built up Babylon's crown and creed; 
And brick were stamp'd on the Tigris 
shore 
With signs which our sages scarce can 
read. 
From Ninus' temple, and Nimrod's tower. 
The rule of the old East's empire spread 
Unreasoning faith and unquestion'd pow- 
er — 
But still, Is it come? the watcher said. 

The light of the Persian's worshipp'd 
flame, 
The ancient bondage its splendor threw ; 
And once, on the West a sunrise came. 
When Greece to her freedom's trust was 
true ; 
With dreams to the utmost ages dear. 
With human gods, and with god-like 
men. 
No marvel the far-off day seem'd near 
To eyes that look'd through her laurels 
then. 

The Romans conquer'd, and revell'd too, 

Till honor, and faith, and power, were 
gone; 
And deeper old Europe's darkness grew. 

As, wave after wave, the Goth came on. 
The gown was learning, the sword was 
law ; 

The people served in the oxen's stead ; 
But ever some gleam the watcher saw. 

And evermore. Is it come ? they said. 

Poet and Seer that question caught. 

Above the din of life's fears and frets ; 
It march'd with letters, it toil'd with 
thought. 

Through schools and creeds which the 
earth forgets. 
And statesmen trifle, and priests deceive. 

And traders barter our world away — 
Yet hearts to that golden promise cleave, 

And still, at times. Is it come? they say. 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 



751 



The days of the nations bear no trace 
Of all the sunshine so far foretold ; 
The cannon speaks in the teacher's place — 

The age is weary with work and gold ; 
And high hopes wither, and memories 
wane ; 
On hearths and altars the fires are dead ; 
But that brave faith hath not lived in 
vain — 
And this is all that our watcher said. 
FuANCES Brown. 

Tjie Long-Ago. 

Eyes, which can but ill define 

Shapes that rise about and uear, 
Through the far horizon's line 

Stretch a vision free and clear ; 
Memories, feeble to retrace 

Yesterday's immediate flow, 
Find a dear familiar face 

In each hour of Long-ago. 

Follow yon majestic train 

Down the slopes of old renown ; 
Knightly forms without disdain. 

Sainted heads without a frown : 
Emperors of thought and hand 

Congregate, a glorious show. 
Met from every age and land 

In the plains of Long-ago. 

As the heart of childhood brings 

Something of eternal joy 
From its own unsounded springs. 

Such a.s life can scarce destroy; 
So, remindful of the prime, 

Spirits wandering to and fro 
Rest ujwn the resting-time 

In the peace of Long-ago. 

Youthful Hope's religions fire, 

When it l)urns no longer, leaves 
A.shes of impure desire 

On the altars it bereaves; 
But the light that fills the Past 

Sheds a still diviner glow. 
Ever farther it is cast 

O'er the scenes of Long-ago. 

Many a growth of pain and care. 
Cumbering all the present hour, 

Yields, when once transplanted there, 
Healthy fruit or pleiisant flower. 



Thoughts that hardly flourish here, 
Feelings long have ceased to blow. 

Breathe a native atmosphere 
In the world of Long-ago. 

On that deep-retiring shore 

Frequent pearls of beauty lie, 
Where the passion-waves of yore 

Fiercely beat and mounted high ; 
Sorrows — that are sorrows still — 

Lose the bitter taste of woe ; 
Nothing's altogether ill 

In the griefs of Long-ago. 

Tombs where lonely love repines, 

Ghastly tenements of tears. 
Wear the look of happy shrines 

Through the golden mist of years ; 
Death, to those who trust in good, 

Vindicates his hardest blow; 
Oh ! we would not, if we could, 

Wake the sleep of Long-ago ! 

Though the doom of swift decay- 
Shocks the soul where life is strong; 

Though for frailer hearts the day 
Lingers sad and overlong; — 

Still the weight will find a leaven, 
Still the spoiler's hand is slow. 

While the future has its Heaven, 
And the past its Long-ago. 

KiClIARD MONCKTON MiLNES 

(Lord IIougiiton). 



Give me the Old— 

Old Wine to Drink, Old Wood to BfRN, 
Old Books to Read, and Old Friends 
TO Converse with. 

Old wine to drink 1 — 
Ay, give the slippery juice 
That drii)[)eth from the grape thrown loose 

Within the tun ; 
Pluck'd from beneath the cliff" 
Of sunny-sided TenerifTe, 
And ripen'd 'neath the blink 
Of India's sun ! 
Peat whiskey hot, 
Temper'd with well-boil'd water ! 
These make the long night shorter, — 

Forgetting not 
Good stout old English porter. 



752 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Old wood to burn ! — 
Ay, bring the hill-side beech 
From where the owlets meet and screech, 

And ravens croak ; 
The crackling pine, and cedar sweet ; 
Bring too a clump of fragrant peat. 
Dug 'neath the fern ; 

The knotted oak, 

A fagot too, perhap. 
Whose briglit flame, dancing, winking. 
Shall light us at our drinking ; 

While the oozing sap 
Sliall make sweet music to our thinking. 

Old books to read ! — 
Ay, bring those nodes of wit, 
The brazen-clasp'd, the vellum writ, 

Time-honor'd tomes ! 
Tlie same my sire scann'd before, 
The same my grandsire thumb'd o'er. 
The same his sire from college bore. 
The well-earn'd meed 

Of Oxford's domes: 

Old Homer blind, 
Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by 
Old Tully, riautus, Terence lie ; 
Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie, 
Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay ! 
And Gervase Markham's venerie — 

Nor leave behind 
The Holye Book by which we live and 
die. 

Old friends to talk !— 
Ay, bring those chosen few. 
The wise, the courtly, and the true, 

So rarely found ; 
Him for my wine, him for my stud, 
Him for my easel, distich, bud 
In mountain-walk ! 
Bring Walter good: 
With soulful Fred ; and learnfed Will, 
And thee, my alter ego (dearer still 
For every mood). 

Robert Hinckley Messinger. 

The Good Time Cobiing. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming: 
We may not live to see the day. 
But earth shall glisten in the ray 

Of the good time coming. 



Cannon-balls may aid the truth. 
But thought's a weapon stronger ; 

We'll win our battle by its aid ; — 
Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming : 
The pen shall supersede the sword. 
And Right, not Might, shall be the lord, 

In the good time coming. 
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind, 

And be acknowledged stronger ; 
The proper impulse has been given ; — 
Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming: 
War in all men's eyes shall be 
A monster of iniquity 

In the good time coming. 
Nations shall not quarrel then. 

To prove whicli is the stronger ; 
Nor slaughter men for glory's sake ; — 
Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming: 
Hateful rivalries of creed 
Shall not make their martyrs bleed 

In the good time coming. 
Religion shall be shorn of pride. 

And flourish all the stronger; 
And Charity shall trim her lamp ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming: 
Tlie people shall be temperate, 
And shall love instead of hate, 

In the good time coming. 
They shall use, and not abuse, 

And make all virtue stronger; — 
The reformation has begun ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming: 
Let us aid it all we can, 
Every woman, every man. 

The good time coming. 
Smallest helps, if rightly given, 

Make the impulse stronger ; — 

'Twill be strong enough one day ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

Charles Mackay. 



A Petition to Time. 

Touch us gently, Time ! 

Let us glide adown thy stream 
Gently, — as we sometimes glide 

Through a quiet dream ! 
Humble voyagers are we, 
Husband, wife, and children three, — 
(One is lost, — an angel, fled 
To the azure overhead). 

Touch us gently, Time ! 

We've not proud nor soaring wings ; 
Our ambition, our content. 

Lies ill simple things. 
Humble voyagers are we 
O'er life's dim, unsounded sea. 
Seeking only some calm clime ; — 
Touch us gently, gentle Time ! 

Brv\n Waller PROcrEE 
(Barry Cok.swall). 



The Aged MAX-AT-An.-irs. 

His golden locks time hath to silver turn'd ; 
time too swift, O swiftness never 

ceasing! 
His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever 

spurn 'd, 
But spurii'd in vain ; youth waneth by 

increasing: 
Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but 

fading seen. 
Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green. 

His helmet now shall make a hive for 
bees, 
And, lovers' sonnets turn'd to holy 
psalms, 

A man-at-arms must now serve on his 
knees. 
And feed on prayers, which are old 
age's alms ; 

But though from court to cottage he de- 
part, 

His saint is sure of his unspotted heart. 

And when he saddest sit.s in homely cell. 
He'll teach his swains this carol for a 
song: 
" Bless'd be the hearts that wish my sov- 
ereign well. 
Cursed be the souls that think her any 
wrong I" 
4S 



Goddess, allow this agfed man his right, 
To be your beadsman now that was y(jur 
knight. 



GUOROE Peele. 



The One Gray Hair. 

The wisest of the wise 
Listen to pretty lies, 

And love to hear 'em told ; 
Doubt not that Solomon 
Listen'd to many a one, — 
Some in his youth, and more when he 

grew old. 

I never sat among 

The choir of Wisdom's song, 

But i>retty lies loved I 
.\s niueli as any king — 
When youth wius on the wing, 
And (must it then be told?) when youth 

had quite gone by. 

.\las ! and I have not 
The pleasant hour forgot, 

When one pert lady said, 
"O Walter! I am quite 
Bewilder'd with affright! 
I see (sit quiet now !) a white hair on your 

head !" 

Another, more benign, 
Snipt it away from mine. 

And in her own dark hair 
Pretended it was found. ... 
She lept, and twirl'd it round. 
Fair as she was, she never was so fair. 

Walter Savage Landor. 



/'.v Growing Old. 

My days p;iss pleasantly away. 
My nights are bless'd with sweetest 
sleep ; 
I feel no symptoms of decay, 

I have no cause to mourn nor weep ; 
My foes are impotent and shy, 

My friends are neither false nor cold. 
And yet, of late, 1 often sigh, — 
I'm growing old ! 

My growing talk of olden times. 
My growing thirst for early news. 



754 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


My growing apathy for rhymes, 


Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn 


My growing love for easy shoes, 


turn'd, 


My growing hate of crowds and noise. 


In process of the seasons have I seen ; 


My growing fear of taking cold. 


Three April perfumes in three hot Junes 


All whisper, in the plainest voice, 


burn'd. 


I'm growing old ! 


Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are 




green. 


I'm growing fonder of my staff. 


Ah ! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, 


I'm growing dimmer in the eyes, 


Steal from his figure, and no pace per- 


I'm growing fainter in my laugh. 


ceived ; 


I'm growing deeper in my sighs, 


So your sweet hue, which methinks still 


I'm growing careless of my dress, 


doth stand, 


I'm growing frugal of my gold. 


Hath motion, and mine eye may be de- 


I'm growing wise, I'm growing — yes — • 


ceived : 


I'm growing old ! 


For fear of which, hear this, thou age un- 




bred, — • 


I see it in my changing taste, 


Ere you were born was beauty's summer 


I see it in my changing hair, , 


dead. 


I see it in my growing waist, 


William Shakespeare. 


I see it in my growing heir; 




A thousand signs proclaim the truth, 




As plain as truth was ever told, 


SONJVFT. 


That even in my vaunted youth 


When I do count the clock that tells the 


I'm growing old 1 


time. 


Ah me ! my very laurels breathe 


And see the brave day sunk in hideous 


The tale in my reluctant ears ; 


night; 


And every boon the Hours bequeath 


When I behold the violet past prime, 


But makes me debtor to the Years ; 


And sable curls all silver'd o'er with 


E'en Flattery's honey'd words declare 


white ; 


The secret she would fain withhold, 


When lofty trees I see Ijarren of leaves. 


And tells me in " How young you are !" 


Which erst from heat did canopy the herd. 


I'm growing old ! 


And Summer's green all girded up in 


sheaves. 


Thanks for the years whose rapid flight 


Borne on the bier with white and bristly 


My sombre muse too sadly sings ; 


beard ; 


Thanks for the gleams of golden light 


Then, of thy beauty do I question make, 


That tint the darkness of their wings, — 


That thou among the wastes of time 


The light that beams from out the sky. 


must go. 


Those heavenly mansions to unfold. 


Since sweets and beauties do themselves 


Where all are blest, and none may sigh, 


forsake. 


" I'm growing old !" 


And die as fast as they see others grow ; 


John G. Saxe. 


And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can 


■ K>* ■ 


make defence. 




Save breed, to brave him, when he takes 


SOU-KET. 


thee hence. 




William Shakespeare. 


To me, fair friend, you never can be old, 




For as you were, when first your eye I 




eyed. 


SOA^A'ET. 


Such seems your beauty still. Three win- 




ters cold 


Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 


Have from the forests shook three sum- 


Of princes, shall outlive this powerful 


mers' pride ; 


rhyme ; 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 



755 



But you sbull shine more bright in these 
contents 
Than uuswept stone, besmear'd with 
sluttish time. 
Wlien wasteful war shall statues overturn, 
And broils root out the work of ma- 
sonry, 
Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire 
shall burn 
The living record of your memory. 
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity 
Shall you pace forth : your praise shall 
still find room 
Even in the eyes of all posterity. 
That wear this world out to the ending 
doom. 
So, till the judgment that yourself arise, 
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. 
William Shakespeare. 



Sonnet. 

Oh, how much more doth beauty beau- 
teous seem. 
By that sweet ornament which truth 
doth give! 
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 

For that sweet odor which doth iu it live. 
The canker blooms have full as deeji a dye, 

As the perfumed tincture of the roses ; 
Hang on such tliorns, and play aswantoidy 
When summer's breath their mask&d 
buds discloses ; 
But, for their virtue only is their show, 

They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade; 

Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not .so; 

Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors 

made : 

And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, 

^Vhen that shall fade, my verse distils 

your truth. 

William Shake.speabe. 



Sonnet. 

When to the sessions of sweet silent 
thought 
I .summon u|) remembrance of things 
past, 
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, 
And with old woes new wail my dear 
time's waste. 



Then, can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 
For precious friends hid in death's date- 
less night, 
And weep afresh love's long-since cancell'd 
woe, 
And moan th' expense of many a vau- 
ish'd sight. 
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone. 
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan. 
Which I new pay, as if not paid be- 
fore ; 
But if the wliilc I tliiiik on thee, dear 

friend. 
All losses are restored, and sorrows end. 
William Siiakesi'eakb. 

Sonnet. 

Like as the waves make toward the peb- 
bled shore 
So do our minutes hasten to their end ; 
Each changing place with that which 
goes before, 
In sequent toil all forward do contend. 
Nativity once in the main of light 
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being 
crown'd. 
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, 
And Time that gave, dotli now his gift 
confound. 
Time doth transfix the flourish set on 
youth. 
And delves the parallels in beauty's 
brow ; 
Feeds on the rarities of Nature's truth. 
And nothing .stands but for liis scythe to 
mow. 
And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall 

stand 
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 
William SiiakivsI'Kake. 



Sonnet. 

Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 
Fool'd by those rebel powers that thee 
array, 
Why dost thou pine witliin, and sutler 
dcartli, 
i'uinting thy outward walls so costly 
gay? 



756 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion 
spend ? 
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess. 
Eat up thy charge ? is this thy body's 
end? 
Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's 
loss, 
And let that pine to aggravate thy store ; 
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ; 
Within be fed, without be rich no 
more : — 
So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on 

men. 
And death once dead, there's no more dy- 
ing then. 

William Shakespeare. 



Sonnet. 

They that have power to hurt, and will 
do none. 
That do not do the thing they most do 
show, 
Who, moving others, are themselves as 
stone. 
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation 
slow, — 
They rightly do inherit Heaven's graces, 
And husband Nature's riches from ex- 
pense ; 
They are the lords and owners of their 
faces, 
Others, but stewards of their excellence. 
The summer's flower is to the summer 
sweet. 
Though to itself it only live and die ; 
But if that flower with base infection meet, 

The basest weed outbraves his dignity : 
For sweetest things turn sourest by their 

deeds ; 
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. 
William Shakespeake. 



The Old Man\s Wish. 

If I live to grow old, as I find I go down, 
Let this be my fate : in a country town 
May I have a warm house, with a stone at 

my gate. 
And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald 

pate. 



May I govern my passions with an 

absolute sway. 
Grow wiser and better as my strength 

wears away. 
Without gout or stone, by a gentle 

decay. 

In a country town, by a murmuring brook, 
AVith the ocean at distance, on which I 

may look. 
With a spacious plain, without hedge or 

stile, 
And an easy pad nag to ride out a mile. 
May I govern my passions with an 

absolute sway, 
Grow wiser and better as my strength 

wears away. 
Without gout or stone, by a gentle 
decay. 

With Horace and Plutarch, and one or two 

more 
Of the best wits that lived in the ages 

before ; 
With a dish of roast mutton, not ven'son 

nor teal. 
And clean, though coarse linen at every 
meal. 
May I govern my passions with an 

absolute sway. 
Grow wiser and better as my strength 

wears away. 
Without gout or stone, by a gentle 
decay. 

With a pudding on Sunday, and stout, 

humming liquor. 
And remnants of Latin to puzzle the 

vicar; 
With a hidden reserve of Burgundy wine 
To drink the king's health as oft as I 
dine. 
May I govern my passions with an 

absolute sway. 
Grow wiser and better as my strength 

wears away, 
Without gout or stone, by a gentle 
decay. 

With a courage undaunted may I face my 

last day. 
And when I am dead may the better sort 

say, 



POEMS OF SEyTIMEiWT. 



757 



In the morning when sober, in the even- 
ing when mellow, 
" He's gone, and hain't left behind him 
his fellow ; 
For he govern'd his passions with an 

absolute sway. 
And grew wiser and better as his 

strength wore away, 
Without gout or stone, by a gentle 

decay." 

Walter Pope. 



The Last Leaf. 

I SAW him once before. 
As he pass'd by the door ; 

And again 
The pavement-stones resound 
As he totters o'er the ground 

With his cane. 

They say that in his prime. 
Ere the pruniiig-knife of Time 

Cut him down, 
Not a better man was found 
By the crier on his round 

Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets, 
And he looks at all he meets 

Sad and wan ; 
And he shakes his feeble head, 
That it seems as if he said, 

" They are gone." 

The mossy marbles rest 

On the lips that he has press'd 

In their bloom ; 
And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 

On the tomb. 

My grandmamma has said — 
Poor old lady I she is dead 

Long ago — 
That he had a Roman nose, 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow. 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 

Like a stalf; 
And a crook is in his back. 
And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh. 



I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 

At him here, 
But the old tliree-conior'd Imt, 
And the breeches, — and all that, 

Are so queer ! 

And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring, 
Let them smile, as I do now, 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



Ode on Solitude. 

Happy the man, whose wish and care 

A few paternal acres bound. 
Content to breathe his native air 
In his own ground. 

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with 
bread, 
Whose flocks supply him with attire ; 
Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 
In winter, lire. 

Blest, who can unconcern'dly liiid 

Hours, days, and years, slide soft away 
In health of body, peace of mind, 
Quiet by day, 

Sound sleep by night; study and ease 

Together nii.x'd ; sweet recreation. 
And innocence, which most does please 
Witli meditation. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ; 

Thus unlamented let me die ; 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 

Alexander Pope. 



To MY Picture. 

Whex age hath madf me what I am not 

now. 
And every wrinkle tells me where the 

plough 
Of Time hath furrow'd ; when an ice shall 

flow 
Through every vein, and all my head be 

snow; 



758 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



When Death displays his coldness in my 

cheek, 
And I myself in my own picture seek, 
Not finding what I am, but what I was, 
In doubt wiiich to believe — this or my 

glass ; 
Yet though I alter, this remains the same 
As it was drawn, retains the primitive 

frame 
And first complexion ; here will still be seen 
Blood on the cheek and down upon the chin ; 
Here the smooth brow will stay, the lively 

eye. 
The ruddy lip, and hair of youthful dye. 
Behold what frailty we -in man may see. 
Whose shadow is less given to change than 

he! 

Thomas Randolph. 



Crabbed Age and Youth. 

Ckabbed age and youth 

Cannot live together ; 
Youth is full of pleasance. 

Age is full of care ; 
Youth like summer morn. 

Age like winter weather; 
Youth like summer brave, 

Age like winter bare. 
Youth is full of sport. 
Age's breath is short ; 

Youth is nimble, age is lame; 
Youth is hot and bold. 
Age is weak and cold ; 

Youth is wild, and age is tame. 
Age, I do abhor thee. 
Youth, I do adore thee ; 

Oh, my love, my love is young ! 
Age, I do defy Ihee ; 
O sweet shepherd I hie thee. 

For methinks thou stay'st too long. 
William JiiiAKEsrEAKE. 



LIFE. 

I MADE a posy, while the day ran by : 
Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie 

My life within this band. 
But time did beckon to the flowers, and 

they 
By noon most cunningly did steal away. 

And wither'd in my hand. 



My hand was next to them, and then my 

heart ; 
I took, without more thinking, in good 
part. 

Time's gentle admonition ; 
Who did so sweetly death's sad taste con- 
vey, 
Making my mind to smell my fatal day. 
Yet sugaring the suspicion. 

Farewell, dear flowers, sweetly your time 

ye spent, 
Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornament. 

And after death for cures. 
I follow straight without complaints or 

grief, 
Since, if my scent be good, I care not if 
It be as short as yours. 

Geukge Herbert. 



The Deserted Village. 

Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the 

plain, 
Where health and plenty cheer'd the 

laboring swain. 
Where smiling spring its earliest visit 

paid. 
And jiarting summer's lingering blooms 

delay'd — 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and 

ease. 
Seats of my youth, when every sport could 

please — 
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green. 
Where humble happiness endear'd each 

.scene ; 
How otten have I paused on every 

charm — 
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, 
The never-failing brook, the bu.sy mill, 
The decent church that topt the neighbor- 
ing hill. 
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath 

the shade 
For talking age and whispering lovers 

made ; 
How often have I blest the coming day, 
When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play, 
And all the village train, from labor free, 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading 

tree ; 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 



759 



Wliile many a pastime circled in tlie 
shade, 

The young contending as the old sur- 
vey'd ; 

And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the 
ground, 

And sleights of art and feats of strength 
went round ; 

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, 

Succeeding sports the mirthful band in- 
spired : 

The dancing pair, that simply sought re- 
nown 

By holding out, to tire each other down ; 

The swain mistrustless of his smutted 
face. 

While secret laughter titter'd round the 
place ; 

The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, 

The matron's glance that would those 
looks reprove : 

These were thy charms, sweet village! 
sports like these. 

With sweet succession, taught even toil to 
please ; 

These round thy bowers their cheerful in- 
fluence shed ; 

These were thy charms — but all these 
charms are fled. 

Sweet-smiling village, loveliest of the 

lawn ! 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms 

withdrawn ; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is 

seen. 
And desolation saddens all thy green ; 
One only master grasps the whole domain. 
Anil half a tillage stints tliy smiling 

lilain ; 
No more tliy glassy brook reflects the day, 
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy 

way ; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its 

nest ; 
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
And tires their echoes with unvaried 

cries ; 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
And the long grass o'ertops the moulder- 
ing wall ; 



And, trembling, shrinking from the 

spoiler's hand. 
Far, for away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a 
prey, 

Where wealth accumulates, and men 
decay ; 

Princes and lords may flourish, or may 
fede— 

A breath can make them, as a breath has 
mailo ; 

But a boUl peasantry, their country's pride, 

When once destroy'd, can never be sup- 
plied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs 

began. 
When every rood of ground maintain'd 

its man : 
For him light Labor spread her wholesome 

store — 
Just gave what life required, but gave no 

more ; 
His best companions, innocence and 

health ; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are altcr'd: trade's unfeeling 

train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets 

rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp re- 
pose; 
And every want to opulence allied, 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to 

bloom, 
Those calm desires that ask'd but little 

room, 
Those healthful sports that graced the 

peaceful scene, 
Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the 

green. — 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no 

more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful 
hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's 
power. 



760 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Here, as I take my solitary rounds 

Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd 
grounds, 

And, many a year elapsed, return to 
view 

Where once the cottage stood, the haw- 
thorn grew, 

Remembrance wakes with all her busy 
train. 

Swells at my breast, and turns the past to 
pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world 

of care. 
In all my griefs — and God has given my 

share — ■ 
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me 

down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 
And keep the flame from wasting by re- 
pose ; 
I still had hopes — for pride attends us 

still- 
Amidst the swains to show my book- 

leani'd skill. 
Around my fire an evening group to 

draw. 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns 

jjursue. 
Pants to the place from whence at first she 

flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past. 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 

O blest retirement! friend to life's de- 
cline ! 

Retreats from care, that never must be 
mine ! 

How happy he who crowns, in shades like 
these, 

A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 

Who quits a world where strong tempta- 
tions try, 

And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to 

fly- 

For him no wretches, born to work and 

weep. 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous 

deep; 
No surly porter stands, in guilty state. 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 



But on he moves to meet his latter end. 
Angels around befriending Virtue's friend ; 
Bends to the grave with unperceived decay. 
While Resignation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the 

last. 
His heaven commences ere the world be 

past. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at even- 
ing's close 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I pass'd with careless steps and 

slow. 
The mingling notes came soften'd from 

below : 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 
The sober herd that low'd to meet their 

young. 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. 
The playful children just let loose from 

school. 
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whis- 
pering wind. 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant 

mind, — 
These all in sweet confusion sought the 

shade. 
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had 

made. 
But now the sounds of population fail ; 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the 

gale; 
No busy steps the grass-grown footway 

tread, 
For all the bloomy flush of life is fled — 
All but you widow'd, solitary thing. 
That feebly bends beside the plashy 

spring; 
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for 

bread. 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses 

spread, 
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn. 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till 

morn, — 
She only left of all the harmless train. 
The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the gar- 
den smiled, 
And still where many a garden-flower 
grows wild. 



POEMS OF SENTIMEST. 



761 



There, where a few torn shrubs the place 

disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear. 
And passing rich with forty pounds a 

year ; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
Nor e'er bad changed, nor wish'd to 

change, his place ; 
Unpractised be to fawn, or seek for power 
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying 

hour; 
Far otlicr aims bis heart bad learn'd to 

prize — 
More skilled to raise the wretched than to 

rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant 

train ; 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved 

their pain. 
The long-remember'd beggar was his 

guest, 
^Vbose beard, descending, swept hla aged 

breast ; 
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer 

proud, 
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims 

allow'd ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sate by his fire, and talk'd the night 

away — 
Wept o'er bis wounds, or, tales of sorrow 

done. 
Shoulder'd his crutch, and sliow'd how 

fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man 

learn'd to glow. 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to 

scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his 
pride ; 
And e'en his failings lean'd to Virtue's 

side ; 
But in bis duty prompt at every call, 



He tried each art, reproved each dull 

delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the 

way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was 

laid. 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dis- 

may'd, 
The reverend cliam]jion stood. At bis 

control 
Despair and anguish fled tlic struggling 

soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch 

to raise. 
And bis last faltering accents whisper'd 

praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected 

grace. 
His looks adorn'd the vener.-ible place ; 
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double 

sway. 
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to 

pray. 
The service past, around the pious man. 
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
E'en children follow'd with endearing 

wile. 
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good 

man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth e.x- 

prest ; 
Their welfare plea.scd him, and their cares 

distress'd ; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs 

were given — 
But all his serious thoughts bad rest in 

heaven. 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from tlic vale, and midway loaves 

the storm, 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds 

are spread. 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts 
the way. 
He watch'<l and wept, be pray'd and felt I With blosiom'd furze unprofit:ibly gay, 

''"" •■'" ; ! There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule. 

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries ' Tlie village master taught his little school. 
To tempt its new-fledged oflspring to the i A man severe he was, and stern to view — 
s^^^, I I knew him well, and every truant knew ; 



762 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to 

trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
Full well they laugh'd, with counterfeited 

glee, 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he 

frown 'd ; 
Yet he was kind — or, if severe in aught. 
The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
The village all declared how much he 

knew ; 
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher 

too ; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides 

presage. 
And e'en the story ran that he could 

gauge. 
In arguing, too, the parson own'd his 

skill. 
For, e'en though van(pnsh'd, he could 

argue still ; 
While words of learned length and thun- 
dering sound 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder 

grew, 
That one small head could carry all he 

knew. 
But past is all his fame ; the very spot. 
Where many a time he triumph'd, is for- 
got. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on 

high. 
Where once the sign-post caught the pass- 
ing eye. 
Low lies that house where nut-brown 

draughts inspired, 
Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil 

retired. 
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks 

profound. 
And news much older than their ale went 

round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendors of that festive place : 
The whitewash'd wall, the nicely-sanded 

floor. 
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind 

the door, 



The chest contrived a double debt to pay — 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day. 
The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of 

goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the 

day, 
With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel 

gay ; 

While broken tea-cujDs, wisely kept for 

show. 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a 

row. 

Vain, transitory splendors I could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its 

fall ? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's 

heart ; 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's 

tale. 
No more the woodman's ballad shall pre- 
vail; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall 

clear, 
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to 

hear ; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud dis- 
dain, 

These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 

To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 

One native charm than all the gloss of art. 

Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its 
play, 

The soul adopts, and owns their first-born 
sway ; 

Lightly they frolic o'er the -vacant mind, 

Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined ; 

But the long pomp, the midnight mas- 
querade. 

With all the freaks of wanton wealth ar- 
ray'd — 

In these, ere triflers half their wish ob- 
tain. 

The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 



POEMS OF SENTIMEXT. 



703 



Aud, e'en while fiishion's brightest arts de- But when those charms are past— for 

cov, charms are frail — 

The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. , When time advances, and wlicn lovers 

I fail, 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who , g^^ ^^^^ ^i^j,,^,^ ^^dj^ solicitous to bless, 

In all the glaring iniimtcncc of dress : 
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd : 
In Nature's simplest charms at first ar- 
ray 'd ; 
But, verging to decline, its sjilendors rise. 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
While, scourged by famine, from the 

smiling land 
The mournful peasant leads his humble 

band ; 
And while he sinks, without one arm to 

save. 
The country blooms — a garden and a 
grave. 

Where, then, ah ! where shall poverty 
reside 

To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? 

If to some common's fenceless limits 
stray'd. 

He drives his flock to pick the scanty 
blade. 

Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth 
divide. 

And even the bare-worn common is dciiifd. 

If to the city sped, what waits him there? 

To see profusion that he must not share ; 

To see ten thousand baneful arts com- 
bined 

To pam])er luxury, and thin mankind; 

To see those joys the sons of pleasure know 

Extorted from his fellow-creatures' woe. 

Here while the courtier glitters in brocade. 

There the pale artist plies the sickly 
trade ; 

Here while the proud their long-drawn 
pomps display, 

There the black gibbet glooms beside the 
way. 

The dome where Pleasure holds her mid- 
night reign, 

Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous 
train ; 

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing 
.square — 



survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's 

decay ! 
'Tls yours to judge how wide the limits 

stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted 

ore. 
And shouting Folly hails them from her 

shore ; 
Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, 

abound. 
And rich men flock from all the world 

around. 
Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a 

name. 
That leaves our useful products still the 

same. 
Not so the loss : the man of wealth and 

pride 
Takes up a space that many poor sup- 
plied — 
Space for his lake, his park's extended 

bounds — 
Space for his horses, equipage, and 

hounds ; 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken 

cloth 
Has robb'd the neighboring fields of half 

their growth ; 
His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the 

green ; 
Around the world each needful product 

flies. 
For all the luxuries the world supplies; 
While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure 

all, 
In barren splendor, feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female, unadorn'd and 

plain. 
Secure to plea.se while youth confirms her 

reign. 
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress 

supplies. 



Nor shares with art the triumph of her The rattling chariots chush, the torches 



eyes ; 



glare. 



764 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er an- 
noy ! 

Sure these denote one universal joy ! 

Are these thy serious thoughts? Ah ! turn 
thine eyes 

Where the poor, houseless, shivering fe- 
male lies ; 

She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. 

Has wept at tales of innocence distress'd ; 

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the 
thorn : 

Now lost to all — her friends, her virtue 
fled— 

Near her betrayer's door she lays her 
head, 

And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking 
from the shower, 

With heavy heart deplores that luckless 
hour 



Where at each step the stranger fears to 

wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless j 

prey, 
And savage men more murderous still 

than they ; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the 

skies. 
Far difterent these from every former 

scene — 
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that 

parting day 
That call'd them from their native walks 

away ; 



When, idly first, ambitious of the town, i When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 



She left her wheel, and robes of country 
brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn — thine the love- 
liest train — 

Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? 

E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger 
led, 

At proud men's doors they ask a little 
bread. 

Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary 
scene. 

Where half the convex world intrudes be- 
tween, 

Through torrid tracts with fainting steps 
they go, 



Hung round their bowers, and fondly look'd 

their last, 
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in 

vain 
For seats like these beyond the western 

main. 
And, shuddering still to face the distant 

deep, 
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to 

weep ! 
The good old sire the first prepared to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' 

woe; 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the 

grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. 



Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. ' The fond companion of his helpless years, 
Far different there, from all that charm'd .Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 



before, 

Tiie various terrors of that horrid shore : 
t 

Those blazing suns that dart a downward 
ray. 

And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 

Those matted woods where birds forget to 
sing, 

But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 

Those pois'nous fields, with rank luxuri- 
ance crown'd, 

Where the dark scorpion gathers death 
around ; 



And left a lover's for a father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her 

woes. 
And bless'd the cot where every pleasure 

rose; 
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with 

many a tear. 
And clasp'd tliem close, in sorrow doubly 

dear ; 
Whilst her fond husband strove to le?id 

relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 



O Luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 
How ill exchanged are things like these 

for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy. 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms by thee to sickly greatness 

grown 
Boast of a florid vigor not their own. 
At every draught more large and large 

they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe; 
Till, sapp'd their strength and every part 

unsound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin 

round. 

Even now the devastation is begun, 
And half the business of destruction done; 
Even now, methinks, as pondering here I 

stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads 

the sail 
That, idly waiting, flaps with every gale — 
Downward they move, a melancholy band, 
Pass from the shore, and darken all the 

strand. 
Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
And kind connubial tenderness are there ; 
And piety with wishes placed above, 
And steady loyalty and faithful love. 
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest 

maid. 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade — 
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame. 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest 

fame ; 
Dear, charming nymph, neglected and de- 
cried. 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ! 
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe — 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st 

me so ; 
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts 

excel, 
Thou nurse of every virtue — fare thee well I 
Farewell I — and oh ! where'er thy voice be 

tried, 
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side — 
Whether where equinoctial fervors glow. 
Or winter wraps the polar world in 

snow — 



Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime ; 
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive 

strain, 
Teach erring man to spurn the rageof gain ; 
Teach him that states, of native strength 

possest. 
Though very poor, may still be very blest; 
That trade's i)roud empire hastes to swift 

decay. 
As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away ; 
While self-dependent i)ower can time defy. 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 

OLIVKK liOLOSMITIl. 



/ A'.v^ir BY THE Smoke that so 
Gracefully Curled. 

I KNEW by the smoke that so gracefully 
curl'd 
Above the green elms, that a cottage 
was near. 
And I said, " If there's peace to be found 
in the world, 
A heart that is humble might hope for 
it here !" 

It was noon, and on flowers that languish'd 

around 
In silence reposed the voluptuous bee ; 
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a 

sound 
But the woodpecker tapping the hollow 

beech tree. 

And " Here in this lone little wood," I 
exclaim'd, 
" With a maid who was lovely to soul 
and to eye, 
^V^10 would bhisli when I praised her, and 
weep if 1 blamed, 
How blest could I live, and how calm 
could I die ! 

" By the shade of yon sumac, whose red 
berry dips 
In the gush of the fountain, how sweet 
to recline. 
And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent 
lips, 
Which had never been sigh'd on by any 
but mine!" 

TUOMAS MOOKE. 



766 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Never Again. 

ThEee are gains for all our losses, 
There are balms for all our pain : 
But wlien youth, the dream, departs, 
It takes something from our hearts. 
And it never comes again. 

We are stronger, and are better, 

Under manhood's sterner reign : 
Still we feel that something sweet 
Follow'd j'outh, with flying feet, 
And will never come again. 

Something beautiful is vanish'd, 
And we sigh for it in vain : 

We seek it everywhere, 

On the earth and in the air. 
But it never comes again ! 

KicHAKD Henry Stoddard. 



The Legacy. 

When in death I shall calmly recline. 

Oh bear my heart to my mistress dear; 
Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine 

Of the brightest hue while it linger'd 
here. 
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow 

To sully a heart so brilliant and light; 
But balmy drops of the red grape borrow. 

To bathe the relic from morn till night. 

When the light of my song is o'er. 

Then take my harp to your ancient 
hall; 
Hang it up at that friendly door. 

Where weary travellers love to call. 
Then if some bard, who roams forsaken, 

Revive its soft note in passing along. 
Oh ! let one thought of its master waken 

Your warmest smile for the child of 
song. 

Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing. 

To grace your revel when I'm at rest ; 
Never, oh ! never its balm bestowing 

On lips that beauty hath seldom blest. 
But when some warm devoted lover 

To her he adores shall bathe its brim, 
Then, then my spirit around shall hover. 

And hallow each drop that foams for 
him. 



A Peal of Bells. 

Strike the bells wantonly, 

Tinkle tinkle well ; 
Bring me wine, bring me flowers. 

Ring the silver bell. 
All my lamps burn scented oil. 

Hung on laden orange trees. 
Whose shadow'd foliage is the foil 

To golden lamps and oranges. 
Heap my golden plates with fruit, 

Golden fruit, fresh plucked and ripe. 

Strike the bells and breathe the pipe ; 
Shut out showers from summer hours — 
Silence that complaining lute — 

Shut out thinking, shut out pain. 

From hours that cannot come again. 

Strike the hells solemnly. 

Ding dong deep : 
My friend is passing to his bed. 

Fast asleep ; 
There's plaited linen round his head. 

While foremost go his feet — 
His feet that cannot carry him. 
My feast's a show, my lights are dim ; 

Be still, your music is not sweet, — 
There is no music more for him : 

His lights are out, his feast is done ; 
His bowl that sparkled to the brim 
Is drain'd, is broken, cannot hold ; 
My blood is chill, his blood is cold ; 

His death is full, and mine begun. 

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 



Those Evening Bells. 

Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! 
How many a tale their music tells 
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 
When last I heard their soothing chime ! 

Those joyous hours are pass'd away ; 
And many a heart that then was gay 
Within the tomb now darkly dwells. 
And hears no more those evening bells. 

And so 'twill be when I am gone, — 
That tuneful peal will still ring on ; 
While other bards shall walk these dells, 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. 
Thomas JIoore. 



POEMS OF SENTIMEXT. 



767 



The Bells. 



Hear the sledges with the bells, — 
Silver bells, — 
'What a world of mcrriineiit their melody 
foretells ! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 

In the icy air of night ! 
While the stars tliat ovcrsprinkle 
All the heavens seem to twinkle 

With a crystalline delight, — 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the tintinnalmlaliun tliat so musically 
wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells,— 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the 
bells. 

II. 

Hear the mellow wedding-bells, — 
CJolden bells ! 
What a world of happiness their harmony 
foretells ! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight ! 
From the molten-golden notes, 

And all in tune. 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens while she 
gloats 

On the moon ! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells 
AVhat a gush of euphony voluminously 
wells ! 

How it swells ! 
How it dwells 
On the Future ! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells,— 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the 
bells. 

III. 

Hear the loud alarum-bells, — 
Brazen bells ! 
What a tale of terror, now, their turbu- 
lency tells ! 



In the startled car of night 

How they scream out their aflright ! 

Too much horrified to speak. 

They can only shriek, shriek, 

Out of tune. 

In the clamorous appealing to the mercy 

of the fire, 
In a mad cxi)ostulation with the deaf and 
frantic fire 

Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire. 
And a resolute endeavor. 
Now — now to sit or never. 
By the side of the i>ale-faced moon. 
Oh the bells, bells, bells. 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of despair ! 
How they clang and clash and roar ! 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the jialpitating air ! 
Yet the ear it fully knows. 
By the twanging. 
And the clanging. 
How the danger ebbs and flows ; 
Yet the ear distinctly tells. 
In the jangling, 
And the wrangling. 
How the danger sinks and swells. 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger 
of the bells, — 

Of the bells,— 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells,— 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 



IV. 

Hear the tolling of the bells, — 
Iron bells ! 
AVhat a world of solemn thought their 
monody compels ! 
In the silence of the night. 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone ; 
For every sound that float-s 
From the rust within their throats 

Is a groan. 
And the people, — ah, the people, — 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 

All alone. 
And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 
In that muffled monotone, 



768 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Feel a glory in so rolling 

On tlie human heart a stone — 
They are neither man nor woman, — 
They are neither brute nor human, — 

They are ghouls : 
And their king it is who tolls ; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls. 
Rolls, 

A piean from the bells ! 
And his merry bosom swells 

With the paan of the bells 1 
And he dances and he yells ; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 

To tlie p;ean of the bells, — 
Of the bells : 
Keeping time, time, time, 
I:i a sort of Runic rhyme. 

To the throbbing of the bells, — 
Of the bells, bells, bells,— 

To the sobbing of the bells ; 
Keeping time, time, time, 

As he knells, knells, knells. 
In a happy Runic rhyme. 

To the rolling of the bells, — 
Of the bells, bells, bells,— 

To the tolling of the bells, 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,— 

Bells, bells, bells,— 

To the moaning and the groaning of the 

bells. 

Edgar Allan Poe. 



^YHY THUS Longing f 

Why thus longing, thus for ever sighing, 
For the far-off, unattain'd and dim. 

While the beautiful, all round thee lying, 
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn ? 

Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, 
All thy restless yearnings it would still; 

Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching 
Tliine own sphere, though humble, first 
to fill. 

Poor indeed thou must be if around thee 
Thou no ray of light and joy canst 
throw — 
If no silken cord of love hath bound thee 
To some little world through weal and 
woe; 



If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten — 
No fond voices answer to thine own ; 

If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten. 
By daily sympathy and gentle tone. 

Not by deeds that win the crowd's ap- 
plauses, 
Not by works that give thee world-renown. 
Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses, 
Canst thou win and wear the immortal 
crown. 

Daily struggling, though unloved and 
lonely. 

Every day a rich reward will give ; 
Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only, 

And truly loving, thou canst truly live. 

Dost thou revel in the rosy morning. 

When all Nature hails the lord of light, 
And his smile, the mountain-tops adorn- 
ing. 
Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance 
bright? 

Other hands may grasp the field and 
forest. 

Proud proprietors in pomp may shine; 
But with fervent love if thou adorest. 

Thou art wealthier — all the world is thine. 

Yet if through earth's wide domains thou 
rovest, 
Sighing that they are not thine alone, 
Not those fair fields, but thyself thou 
lovest. 
And their beauty and thy wealth are 
gone. 

Nature wears the color of the spirit; 

Sweetly to her worshipper she sings ; 
All the glow, the grace she doth inherit. 

Round her trusting child she fondly 

flings. 

Harriet Winslow Sewall. 



A Lament. 

O world! O Life! Time! 
On whose last steps I climb, 

Trembling at that where I had stood be- 
fore ; 
When will return the glory of your prime? 

No more — oh never more ! 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 



769 



Out of the day and night 
A joy has taken flijiht : 

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter 
hoar 
Move my faint heart with grief, but with 
deliglit 
No more— oh never more ! 

rcBcv Uyssue Shelley. 



The TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT 

OF Society. 

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow. 
Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po, 
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian 

boor 
Against the houseless stranger shuts the 

door. 
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
A weary waste expanding to tlie skies; 
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
My heart untravell'd fondly turns to 

thee; 
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless 

pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthening 

chain. 

Eternal blessings crown my earliest 

friend. 
And round his dwelling guardian saints 

attend ! 
Blest be that spot where cheerful guests 

retire 
To pause from toil, and trim their evening 

fire! 
Blest that abode where want and pain re- 
pair. 
And every stranger finds a ready chair ; 
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty 

crown'd. 
Where all the ruddy family around 
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never 

fail, 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
Or press the basliful stranger to his food. 
And learn the luxury of doing good ! 

But me, not destined such delights to 
share, 
My prime of life in wandering spent, and 
care ; 
49 



Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue 
Some fleeting good that mocks me with the 

view. 
That, like the circle bounding earth and 

skies, 
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies; 
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone. 
And find no spot of all the world my own. 

E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 

I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 

And, placed on liigh above the storm's 
career, 

Look downward where a hundred realms 
appear : 

Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending 
wide. 

The pomp of kings, the shepherd's hum- 
bler pride. 

When thus creation's charms around 

combine, 
Amidst the store should thankless pride 

repine? 
Say, should tlic iihilosophic mind disdain 
That good wliicli makes each humbler 

bosom vain "? 
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it 

can, 
These little tilings are great to little man ; 
And wiser he whose sympathetic mind 
Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
Ye glittering towns, with wealth and 

splendor crown'd ; 
Ye fields, where summer spreads profu- 
sion round ; 
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy 

gale ; 
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery 

vale, — 
For me your tributary stores combine : 
Creation's heir, the world— the world is 

mine! 

As some lone miser, visiting his store, 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it 

o'er. 
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill. 
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting 

still : 
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
Pleased with each good that Heaven to 

man supplies; 



770 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 
To see the hoard of human bliss so small : 
And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find 
Some spot to real happiness consign'd, 
Where my worn soul, each wandering 

hope at rest, 
May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 

But where to find that happiest spot be- 
low 

Who can direct, when all pretend to 
know? 

The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 

Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his 
own ; 

Extols the treasures of his stormy sens. 

And his long nights of revelry and eaao : 

The naked negro, panting at the line. 

Boasts of his golden sands and palmy 
wine, 

Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid 
wave, 

And thanks his gods for all the good they 
gave. 

Such is the patriot's boast where'er we 
roam, 

His first, best country, ever is at home. 

And yet perhaps, if countries we com- 
pare. 

And estimate the blessings which they 
share, 

Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom 
find 

An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 

As different good, by Art or Nature given, 

To different nations, makes their blessings 
even. 

Nature, a mother kind alike to all. 
Still grants her bliss at Labor's earnest 

call; 
With food as well the peasant is supplied 
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side. 
And though the rocky-crested summits 

frown, 
These rocks by custom turn to beds of 

down. 
From Art more various are the blessings 

sent,^ 
Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content. 
Yet these each other's power so strong 

contest. 
That either seems destructive of the rest. 



Where wealth and freedom reign, content- 
ment fails. 

And honor sinks where commerce long 
prevails. 

Hence every state, to one loved blessing 
prone. 

Conforms and models life to that alone. 

Each to the favorite happiness attends. 

And spurns the plan that aims at other 
ends. 

Till, carried to excess in each domain, 

This favorite good begets peculiar pain. 

But let us try these truths with closer 

eyes, 
And trace them through the prospect as it 

lies: 
Here, for a while, my proper cares re- 

sign'd, 
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; 
Like yon neglected shrub at random cast. 
That shades the steep, and sighs at every 

blast. 

Far to the right, where Apennine as- 
cends, 

Bright as the summer, Italy extends; 

Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's 
side. 

Woods over woods, in gay theatric pride. 

While oft some temple's mouldering tops 
between 

With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 

Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
The sons of Italy were surely blest : 
Whatever fruits in different climes are 

found, 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the 

ground ; 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear. 
Whose bright succession decks the varied 

year; 
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; 
These here disporting own the kindred 

soil, 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's 

toil; 
While sea-born gales their gelid wings ex- 
pand, 
To winnow fragrance round the smiling 

land. 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 771 


But small the bliss that sense alone be- 


! By sports like these are all their cares be- 


stows, 


guiled ; 


And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. 


The sports of children satisfy the child : 


In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 


Each nobler aim, repress'd by long con- 


Man seems the only growth that dwindles 


trol. 


here. 


Now sinks at la,st, or feebly mans the soul ; 


Contrasted faults through all his manners 


While low delights, succeeding fast be- 


reign : 


hind, 


Though poor, luxurious; though submis- 


In happier meanness occupy the mind. 


sive, vain ; 


As in those domes where Ciesars once 


Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet 


bore sway. 


untrue ; 


Defaced by time, and tottering in decay, 


And e'en in penance planning sins anew. 


There in the ruin, heedless of the dead. 


All evils here contaminate the mind, 


The shelter-seeking peasant builds liis 


That opulence departed leaves behind ; 


shed ; 


For wealth was theirs, not far removed 


And, wondering man could want the larger 


the date. 


pile. 


WTien commerce proudly flourish'd through 


Exult.s, and owns his cottage with a smile. 


the state. 




At her command the palace Icarn'd to 


Jly soul, turn from them ! turn me to 


rise, 


survey. 


Again the long- fall 'n column sought the 


Where rougher climes a nobler race dis- 


skies. 


play. 


The canvas glow'd beyond e'en Nature 


Where the bleak Swiss their stormy man- 


warm. 


sion tread, 


The pregnant quarry teem'd with human 


And force a churlish soil for scanty bread : 


form ; 


No product here the barren hills afl'ord . 


Till, more unsteady than the southern 


But man and steel, the soldier and his 


gale, 


sword ; 


Commerce on other shores display'd her 


No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array. 


sail; 


But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; 


While naught remained, of all that riches 


No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's 


gave. 


breast, 


But towns unmann'd, and lords without a 


But meteors glare, and stormy glooms in- 


slave : 


vest. 


And late the nation found, with fruitless 




skill. 


Yet still, even here content can spread 


Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 


a charm. 




Redress the clime, and all its rage dis- 


Yet still the loss of wealth is here sup- 


arm. 


plied 


Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast 


By arts, the splendid wrecks of former 


though small, 


pride ; 


He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 


From the.se the feeble heart and long-fallen 


Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, 


mind 


To shame the meanness of his humble 


An easy compensation seem to find. 


shed ; 


Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp ar- 


NV) costly lord the sumptuous banquet 


ray'd, 


deal, 


The pasteboard triumph and the caval- 


To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 


cade ; 


But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil. 


Processions form'd for piety and 4ove, 


Each wish contracting, fits him to the 


A mistress or a saint in every grove. 


soil. 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Cheerful at morn he wakes from short re- 
pose, 

Breasts the keen air, and carols as he 
goes; 

With patient angle trolls the finny deep. 

Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the 
steep ; 

Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark 
the way, 

And drags the struggling savage into day. 

At night returning, every labor sped. 

He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 

Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round sur- 
veys 

His children's looks that brighten. at the 
blaze. 

While his loved partner, boastful of her 
hoard, 

Disjilays her cleanly platter on the board ; 

And haply too some pilgrim, thither led. 

With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 

Thus every good his native wilds im- 
part 

Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; 

And e'en those ills that round his mansion 
rise 

Enhance the bliss his scanty fund sup- 
plies. 

Dear is that shed to which his soul con- 
forms. 

And dear that hill wliich lifts him to the 
storms ; 

And as a child, when scaring sounds mo- 
lest, 

Clings close and closer to the mother's 
breast. 

So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's 
roar 

But bind him to his native mountains 
more. 

Such are the charms to barren states 
assign'd : 
Their wants but few, their wishes all con- 
fined. 
Yet let them only share the praises due, — 
If few their wants, their pleasures are but 

few : 
For every want that stimulates the breast 
Becomes a source of pleasure when re- 
dress'd. 



Whence from such lands each pleasing 

science flies. 
That first excites desire, and then supplies ; 
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures 

cloy, 
To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; 
Unknown those powers that raise the soul 

to flame. 
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through 

the frame. 
Their level life is but a smouldering fire, 
Uuquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong 

desire ; 
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
On some high festival of once a year, 
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire. 
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 

But not their joys alone thus coarsely 

flow, — 
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but 

low : 
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son 
Unalter'd, unimproved the manners run ; 
And love's and friendship's finely-pointed 

dart 
Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's 

breast 
May sit like falcons cowering on the nest ; 
But all the gentler morals, — such as play 
Through life's more cultured walks, and 

charm the way, — 
These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly, 
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 

To kinder skies, where gentler manners 
reign, 
I turn, and France displays her bright do- 
main. 
Gay, sprightly land of mirth and soci.al ease, 
Pleased with thyself, whom all the world 

can please. 
How often have I led thy sportive choir 
With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring 

Loire? 
Where shading elms along the margin grew, 
And, freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr 

flew ; 
And haply, though my harsh touch, fal- 
tering still. 
But mocS'd all tune and marr'd the dan- 
cer's skill ; 



POEMS OF SENTIMEXT. 



773 



Yet would the village praise my wondrous 

power, 
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. 
Alike all ages : dames of ancient days 
Have led their children through the mirth- 
ful maze ; 
And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, 
Has frisk'd beneath the burden of three- 
score. 

So blest a life these thoughtless realms 

display, 
Thus idly busy rolls their world away. 
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind 

endear. 
For honor forms the social temper here : 
Honor, that praise which real merit gains. 
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains. 
Here passes current ; paid from hand to 

hand. 
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land; 
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, 
And all are taught an avarice of praise : 
They please, are pleased ; they give to get 

esteem ; 
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what 

they seem. 

But while this softer art their bliss sup- 
plies. 

It gives their follies also room to rise ; 

For praise too dearly loved, or warmly 
sought. 

Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ; 

And tlie weak soul, within itself uiiblest, 

Leans for all pleasure on another's hri-ast. 

Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art. 

Pants for the vulgar praise which fools 
impart ; 

Here Vanity assumes her pert grimace. 

And trims iier robes of frieze with copper 
lace ; 

Here beggar Pride defrauds her daily 
cheer, 

To boast one splendid banquet once a 
year ; 

The mind still turns where shifting fa.shion 
draws. 

Nor weighs the solid worth of self-ap- 
plause. 

To men of other minds my fancy flics, 
Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. 



Methinks her patient sons before me 

stand, 
Where the broad ocean leans against the 

land, 
And, sedulous to stop the coining tide, 
Lift tiie tall rampire's artilicial pride. 
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, 
The firm connected bulwark seems to 

grow, 
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery 

roar. 
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the 

shore ; 
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, 
See.s «n amphibious world beneath him 

smile ; 
The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd 

vale, 
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding .sail, 
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
A new creation rescued from his reign. 

Thus while around the wave-subjected 

soil 
Impels the native to repeated toil, 
Industrious habits in each bosom reign, 
And industry begets a love of gain. 
Hence all the good from opulence that 

springs. 
With all those ills superfluous treasure 

brings, 
Are here dis|)laycd. Their much-loved 

wealth imparts 
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts: 
But view them closer, craft and fraud ap- 
pear ; 
E'en liberty itself is barter'd here; 
At gold's superior charms all freedom 

flies, 
Tlie needy sell it, and the rich man buys. 
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, 
Here wretches seek dishonorable graves, 
And, calmly bent, to servitude conform. 
Dull as tiieir lakes that .slumber in the 

storm. 

Heavens! how unlike their Belgic sires 

of old ! 
Rough, poor, content, unfjovernably I»ild. 
War in each brciist and freedom on each 

brow ; 
How much unlike the sons of Britain 

now ! 



774 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Fired at the sound, my genius spreads 

her wing, 
And flies where Britain courts the western 

spring ; 
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian 

pride, 
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes 

glide. 
There all around the gentlest breezes 

stray. 
There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
Creation's mildest charms are there com- 
bined, 
Extremes are only in the master's mind. 
Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her 

state. 
With daring aims irregularly great ; 
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
I see the lords of humankind pass by : 
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, 
By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's 

hand, 
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul. 
True to imagined right, above control, — 
While e'en the peasant boasts these rights 

to scan, 
And learns to venerate himself as man. 

Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pic- 
tured here, 
Thine are those charms that dazzle and 

endear ! 
Too blest indeed were such without al- 
loy ; 
But, fostered e'en by freedom, ills annoy ; 
That independence Britons prize too high 
Keeps man from man, and breaks the 

social tie; 
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, 
All claims that bind and sweeten life un- 
known : 
Here, by the bonds of Nature feebly held. 
Minds combat minds, repelling and re- 

pell'd ; 
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 
Repress'd ambition struggles round her 

shore, 
Till, overwrought, the general system feels 
Its motions stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 

Nor this the worst : as Nature's ties de- 
cay. 
As duty, love, and honor fail to sway. 



Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and 

law, 
Still gather strength, and force unwilling 

awe. 
Hence all obedience bows to these alone, 
And talent sinks, and merit weeps un- 
known ; 
Till time may come when, stripp'd of all 

her charms, 
The land of scholars and the nurse of 

arms, 
Where noble stems transmit the patriot 

fiame. 
Where kings have toil'd and poets wrote 

for fame. 
One sink of level avarice shall lie, 
And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonor'd 

die. 

But think not, thus when Freedom's ills 

I state, 
I mean to flatter kings or court the 

great ; 
Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul as- 
pire. 
Far from my bosom drive the low desire ! 
And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to 

feel 
The ral)ble's rage and tyrant's angry 

steel ; 
Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
By proud contempt or favor's fostering 

sun, — 
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime 

endure ! 
I only would repress them to secure. 
For just experience tells, in every soil. 
That those who think nuist govern those 

that toil ; 
And all that Freedom's highest aims can 

reach 
Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. 
Hence, should one order disproportion'd 

grow. 
Its double weight must ruin all below. 

Oh then how blind to all that truth re- 
quires. 
Who think it freedom when a part as- 
pires ! 
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms. 
Except when fast-api^ruachiug danger 
warms ; 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 



775 



But when contending chiefs blockade the 

throne, 
Contracting regal power to stretch their 

own ; 
When I behold a factious band agree 
To call it freedom when themselves are 

free, 
Each wanton judge new penal statutes 

draw, 
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule 

the law, 
The wealth of climes where savage nations 

roam 
Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at 

home, — 
Fear, pity, justice, indignation, start, 
Tear otT reserve and bare my swelling 

heart ; 
Till, half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 

Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful 

hour 
When first ambition struck at regal power; 
And thus, polluting honor in its source, 
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double 

force. 
Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled 

shore, 
Her useful sons exchanged for useless 

ore? 
Seen all her triumphs but destruction 

haste, 
Like flaring tapers brightening as they 

waste ? 
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, 
Lead stern depopulation in her train. 
And over fields where scatter'd hamlets 

rose 
In barren, solitary pomp repose? 
Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, 
The smiling, long-frequented village fall? 
liehcld the duteous son, the sire decay'd. 
The modest matron, and the blushing 

maid. 
Forced from their homes, a melancholy 

train, 
To traverse climes beyond the western 

main, 
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps 

around. 
And Niagara stuns with thundering sound? 



E'en now, perhaps, as there some pil- 
grim strays 
Through tangled forests and through dan- 
gerous ways. 
Where beasts with man divided empire 

claim, 
And the brown Indian marks with mur- 
derous aim ; 
There, while above the giddy tempest flies. 
And all around distressful yells arise, 
The pensive e.xile, bending with his woe, 
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go. 
Casts a long look where England's glories 

shine. 
And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. 

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 

That bliss which only centres in the mind; 

Why have I stray'd from pleasure and re- 
j)ose 

To seek a good each government bestows? 

In every government, though terrors reign, 

Though tyrant kings or tyrant hws re- 
strain. 

How small, of all that human hearts en- 
dure, 

That part which laws or kings can cause 
or cure ! 

Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, 

Our own felicity w'e make or find ; 

With secret course which no loud storms 
annoy 

Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 

The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 

Luke's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of 
steel. 

To men remote from power but rarely 
known. 

Leave reason, faith, and conscience all our 

own. 

Olivsb Goldsmith. 



FOOTSTEPS OF Angels. 

When the hours of day are number'd. 
And the voices of the niglit 

Wake the better soul that slumber'd 
To a holy, calm delight; 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
And, liki' phantoms grim and tall. 

Shadows from the litful firelight 
Dance upon the parlor wall ; 



7G 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door ; 
The beloved, the true-hearted, 

Come to visit nic once more. 

He, the young and strong, who cherish'd 
Noble longings for the strife, 

By the roadside fell and perish'd, 
Weary with the march of life ! 

They, the holy ones and weakly, 
Who the cross of suffering bore, 

Folded their pale hands so meekly, 
Spake with us on earth no more I 

And with them the Being Beauteous 
Who unto my youth was given. 

More than all things else to love me, 
And is now a saint in Heaven. 

With a slow and noiseless footstep 
Comes that messenger divine, 

Takes the vacant chair beside me. 
Lays her gentle hand in mine. 

And she sits and gazes at me 

With those deep and tender eyes, 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like. 
Looking downward from the skies. 

Utter'd not, yet comprehended, 
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, 

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended. 
Breathing from her lips of air. 

Oh, though oft dejjress'd and lonely, 

All my fears are laid aside. 
If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died ! 

Henry Wadswokth Longfellow. 



A Dream. 

All yesterday I was spinning, 

Sitting alone in the sun ; 
And the dream that I spun was so lengthy. 

It lasted till day was done. 

I heeded not cloud or shadow 

That flitted over the hill, 
Or the humming-bees, or the swallows, 

Or the trickling of the rill. 

I took the threads for my spinning. 
All of blue summer air, 



And a flickering ray of sunlight 
Was woven in here and there. 

The shadows grew longer and longer. 

The evening wind pass'd by, 
And the purple splendor of sunset 

Was flooding the western sky. 

But I could not leave my spinning, 
For so fair my dream had grown, 

I heeded not, hour by hour. 
How the silent day had flown. 

At last the gray shadows fell round me, 
And the night came dark and chill. 

And I rose and ran down the valley, 
And left it all on the hill. 

I went up the hill this morning, 
To the place where my spinning lay, — 

There was nothing but glistening dewdrops 
Eemain'd of my dream to-day. 

Adelaide Anne Pkocter. 



Tbe Day is Done. 

The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist ; 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, 

That my soul cannot resist : 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain. 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come, read to me some poem, 
Some simple and heartfelt lay. 

That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime. 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 

For, like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavor ; 
And to-night I long for rest. 



POEMS OF SEXTJMENT. 



777 



Read from some humbler poet, 

Whose songs gush'd from his heart, 

As showers from the clouds of summer. 
Or tears from the eyelids start ; 

Who, through long days of labor, 

And nights devoid of ease, 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care. 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice ; 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be fiU'd with music. 
And the cares that infest the day 

Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 

IlENKY WaDSWORTH LoNGFELLOW. 



Night. 

The crackling embers on the hearth are 
dead ; 
The indoor note of industry is still ; 
The latch is fast; upon the window-sill 
The small birds wait not for their daily 

bread ; 
The voiceless flowers, — how quietly they 
shed 
Their nightly odors ! — and the household 

rill 
Murmurs continuous dulcet sounds that 
fill 
The vacant expectation, and the dread 
Of listening night. And haply now she 
sleeps ; 
For all the garrulous noises of the air 
Are hush'd in peace ; the soft dew silent 
weeps, 
Like hopeless lovers for a maid so fair: — 
Oh, that I were the happy dream that 
creeps 
To her soft heart, to find my image 
there I 

Hartley Colksidob. 



THE Rainy Day. 

The day is cold, and dark and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary. 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering 

Past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast. 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all. 
Into each life some rain must fall. 
Some days must be dark and dreary. 

Henuy Wadswokth Longfellow. 



Night. 

When I survey the bright 

Celestial sphere, 
So rich with jewels hung that night 

Doth like an Ethiop bride appear, 

My soul her wings doth spread. 

And heavenward flies. 
The Almighty's mysteries to read 

In the large volume of the skies. 

For the bright firmament 

Shoots forth no flame 
So silent but is eloquent 

In speaking the Creator's name. 

No unregarded star 

Contracts its light 
Into so small character. 

Removed far from our human sight, 

But if we steadfast look. 

We shall discern 
In it, as in some holy book. 

How man may heavenly knowledge 
learn. 

It tells the conqueror 

That far-stretch'd power, 
Which bin prcjuil dangers traffic for. 

Is but the triumph of an hour, — 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



That from the farthest north 

Some nation may, 
Yet undiscover'd, issue forth, 

And o'er his new-got conquest sway! 

Some nation, yet shut in 

With hills of ice, 
May be let out to scourge his sin, 

Till they shall equal him in vice. 

And they likewise shall 

Their ruin have ; 
For as yourselves your empires fall, 

And every kingdom hath a grave. 

There those celestial fires, 

Though seeming mute. 
The fallacy of our desires 

And all the pride of life confute. 

For they have watch'd since first 

The world had birth, 
And found sin in itself accursed, 

And nothing permanent on earth. 

William Habington. 



Sonnet on Sleep. 

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable 
Night, 
Brother to Death, in silent darkness 
born, 
Eelieve my languish, and restore the light; 
With dark forgetting of my care re- 
turn. 
And let the day be time enough to mourn 
The shipwreck of my ill - adventured 
youth : 
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, 
Without the torment of the night's un- 
truth. 
Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires. 
To model forth the passions of the 
morrow ; 
Never let rising sun approve you liars 
To add more grief to aggravate my 
sorrow : 
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in 

vain. 
And never wake to feel the day's dis- 
dain. 

Samuel Daniel. 



Sonnet on Sleep. 

Come sleep, O sleep ! the certain knot of 
peace, 
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of 
woe ; 
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's re- 
lease, 
The indifferent judge between the high 
and low ! 
With shield of proof, shield me from out 
the prease 
Of those fierce darts Despair doth at me 
throw. 
Oh make in me those civil wars to cease ; 

I will good tribute pay if thou do so. 
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest 
bed, 
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to 
light, 
A rosy garland and a weary head ; 

And if these things, as being thine by 
right. 
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in 

me, 
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 
Sir Philip Sidney. 

Ode to Fear. 

Thou, to whom the world unknown. 
With all its shadowy shapes, is shown. 
Who seest appall'd the unreal scene. 
While Fancy lifts the veil between : 
Ah, Fear! ah, frantic Fear! 
I see — I see thee near. 
I know thy hurried step, thy haggard 

eye! 
Like thee I start, like thee disorder'd fly. 
For, lo, what monsters in thy train ap- 
pear ! 
Danger, whose limbs of giant mould 
What mortal eye can fix'd behold ? 
Who stalks his round, a hideous form, 
Howling amidst the midnight storm, 
Or throws him on the ridgy steep 
Of some loose-hanging rock to sleep : 
And with him thousand phantoms join'd. 
Who prompt to deeds accursed the 

mind : 
And those, the fiends, who, near allied. 
O'er Nature's wounds and wrecks pre- 
side; 



POEMS OF SENTniENT. 



79 



Whilst Vengeance, in the lurid air, • 
Lifts her red arm, exposed and bare: 
On whom that ravening brood of Fate, 
Wiio lap the blood of borrow, wait ; 
Who, Fear, this ijhastly train can see, 
And look not madly wild, like thee? 

EPODE. 

In earliest Greece, to thee, with partial 
choice. 
The grief-full Muse addrest her infant 
tongue ; 
The maids and matrons, on her awful 
voice, 
Silent and pale, in wild amazement 
hung. 

Yet he, the bard who first invoked thy 
name, 
Disdain'd in Marathon its power to 
feel: 
For not alone he nursed the poet's flame. 
But reach'd from Virtue's hand the 
patriot's steel. 

But who is he, whom later garlands grace. 
Who left a while o'er Hybla's dews to 
rove. 
With trembling eyes thy dreary steps to 
trace, 
Where thou and Furies shared the bale- 
ful grove ? 

Wrapt in thy cloudy veil, the incestuous 
queen 
Sigh'd the sad call her son and husband 
heard : 
When once alone it broke the silent scene. 
And he, the wretch of Thebes, no more 
appear'd. 

O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing 
heart : 
Thy withering power inspired each 
mournful line : 
Though gentle I'ity claim her mingled 
part. 
Yet all the thunders of the scene are 
thine I 

Antistrophe. 
Thou who such weary lengths hast past, ] 
Where wilt thou rest, mad nymph, at | 
last? 



Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell. 
Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell? 
Or, in some hollow'd seat 
'Gainst which the big waves beat. 
Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempests 

brought ? 
Dark power, with shuddering meek sub- 
mitted thought. 
Be mine to read the visions old 
Which thy awakening bards have told: 
And, lest thou meet my blasted view. 
Hold each strange tale devoutly true; 
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'crawed. 
In that thrice-hallow'd eve, abroad. 
When ghosts, as cottage-maids believe, 
Their pebbled beds permitted leave, 
And goblins haunt from fire, or fen. 
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men I 

O thou, whose spirit most possest 
The sacred seat of Shakespeare's breast ! 
By all that from thy prophet broke, 
In thy divine emotions spoke; 
Hither again thy fury deal, 
Teach mc but once like him to feel : 
His cypress wreath my meed decree, 
And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee! 

WlLLlAU COLMNS. 



Jlyji.v TO Adversity. 

Daughter of Jove, relentless power, 

Thou tamer of the human breast, 
Whose iron scourge and torturing hour 

The liad affright, alllict the best ! 
Bound in thy adamantine chain 
The proud arc taught to taste of pain, 
And purple tyrants vainly groan 
With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and 
alone. 

Wiien first thy sire to send on earth 
Virtue, his darling child, design'd. 
To thee he gave the heavenly birth. 

And bade to form her infant mind. 
Stern, rugged nurse ! thy rigid lore 
With patience many a year she bore : 
What sorrow was thou bad'st her know. 
And from her own she learn'd to melt at 
others' woe. 

Scared at thy frown terrific, fly 
Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, 



780 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Wild Laughter, Noise and thoughtless 

Joy, 

And leave us leisure to be good. 
Light they disperse, and with them go 
The summer friend, the flattering foe ; 
By vain Prosperity received. 
To her they vow their truth, and are again 
believed. 

Wisdom in sable garb array'd, 

Immers'd in rapturous thought pro- 
found, 
And Melancholy, silent maid, 

W^ith leaden eye that loves the ground. 
Still on thy solemn steps attend : 
Warm Charity, the general friend, 
'With Justice, to herself severe. 
And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing 
tear. 

Oh, gently on thy suppliant's liead. 

Dread goddess, lay thy chastening 

hand ! 
Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, 

Not circled with the vengeful band 
(As by the imjjious thou art seen) 
With thundering voice, and threatening 

mien, 
With screaming Horror's funeral cry. 
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly 

Poverty : 

Thy form benign, O goddess, wear, 

Thy milder influence impart. 
Thy philosophic train be there 

To soften, not to wound my heart. 
The generous spark extinct revive, 
Teach me to love and to forgive. 
Exact my own defects to scan. 
What others are to feel, and know myself 
a Man. 

Thomas Gray. 



Whilst as Fickle Fortune 
Smiled. 

Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled. 
Thou and I were both beguiled. 
Every one that flatters thee 
Is no friend in misery. 
Words are easy, like the wind ; 
Faithful friends are hard to find. 



Every man will be thy friend 
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend ; 
But, if stores of crowns be scant. 
No man will supply thy want. 
If that one be prodigal. 
Bountiful they will him call ; 
And, with such-like flattering, 
" Pity but he were a king." 
If he be addict to vice. 
Quickly him they will entice ; 
But if Fortune once do frown. 
Then farewell his great renown ! 
They that fawn'd on him before 
Use his company no more. 
He that is thy friend indeed, 
He will help thee in thy need ; 
If thou sorrow, he will weep. 
If thou wake, he cannot sleep. 
Thus, of every grief in heart. 
He with thee doth bear a part. 
These are certain signs to know 
Faithful friend from flattering foe. 

Richard Barnefield. 



Times Go by Turns. 

The loppfed tree in time may grow again ; 
Most naked plants renew both fruit and 

flower ; 
The sorest wight may find release of 

pain. 
The driest soil suck in some moist'ning 

shower : 
Times go by turns, and chances change 

by course. 
From foul to fair, from better hap to 

worse. 

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow ; 

She draws her favors to the lowest ebb ; 
Her tides have equal times to come and 

go; 
Her loom doth weave the fine and 

coarsest web : 
No joy so great but runneth to an end. 
No hap so hard but may in fine amend. 

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring. 
No endless night, yet not eternal day ; 

The saddest birds a season find to sing. 
The roughest storm a calm may soon 
allay ; 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 



781 



Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth 

all, 
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to 

fall. 

A chance may win that by mischance was 

lost; 
The well that holds no great, takes little 

fish; 
In some things all, in all things none are 

cross'd ; 
Few all they need, but uoue have all 

they wish; 

Unmeddled joys here to no man befall ; 

Who least, hath some ; who most, hath 

never all. 

RoDERT Southwell. 



Song. 

Rarely, rarely, comest thou, 

Spirit of Delight! 
Wherefore hast thou left me now 

Many a day and night ? 
Many a weary night and day 
'Tis since thou art Hed away. 

How shall ever one like me 

Win thee back again ? 
With the joyous and the free 

Thou wilt scoff at pain. 
Spirit false I thou hast forgot 
All but those who need thee not. 

As a lizard with the shade 

Of a trembling leaf. 
Thou with sorrow art dismay'd ; 

Even the sighs of grief 
Reproach thee, that thou art not near, 
And reproach thou wilt not hear. 

Let me set my mournful ditty 

To a mcrrj- measure ; — 
Thou wilt never come for pity, 

Thou wilt come for pleasure; — 
Pity, then, will cut away 
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. 

I love all that thou love-st. 

Spirit of Delight ! 
The fresh Earth in now leaves drest 

And the starry night ; 
Autumn evening, and the morn 
When the golden mists are born. 



I love snow and all the forms 

Of the radiant frost ; 
I love waves, and winds, and storms. 

Everything almost 
Which is Nature's, and may be 
Untainted by man's misery. 

I love tranquil solitude, 

And such society 
As is (juiet, wise, and good ; 

Uetween tliee and me 
What difference ? But thou dost possess 
The things I seek, not love them less. 

I love Love — though he has wings, 

And like light can flee. 
But above all other things, 

Spirit, I love thee — 
Thou art love and life ! Oh come ! 
Make once more my heart thy home I 
Percy Bvssue Siielley. 



To Lady Ann£ Hamilton. 

Too late I stay'd, — forgive the crime ! 

Unlieeded flew the hours ; 
How noiseless falls the foot of Time 

That only treads on flowers ! 

What eye with clear account remarks 

The ebbing of the glass, 
When all its sands are diamond sparks, 

That dazzle as they pass ? 

Oh, who to sober me.isuremcnt 
Time's happy swiftness brings, 

When birds of paradise have lent 
Their plumage for his wings? 

William Robert Spbnckb. 



O Fairest of the Rural 
Maids; 

O FAIREST of the rural maids! 
Thy birth was in the forest shades ; 
Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, 
Were all that met thine infant eye. 

Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child. 
Were ever in the sylvan wild ; 
And all the beauty of the place 
Is in thy heart and on thy face. 



782 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPMDIA OF POETRY. 



The twilight of the trees and rocks 
Is in the light shade of thy locks ; 
Thy step is as the wind that weaves 
Its playful way among the leaves. 

Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene 
And silent waters heaven is seen ; 
Their lashes are the herbs that look 
On their young figures in the brook. 

The forest depths, by foot unpress'd, 
Are not more sinless than thy breast; 
The holy peace that fills the air 
Of those calm solitudes is there. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



On an Intaglio Head of 
Minerva. 

Beneath the warrior's helm behold 
The flowing tresses of a woman ! 

Minerva — Pallas — what you will, — 
A winsome creature, Greek or Roman. 

Minerva ? No ! 'tis some sly minx 
In cousin's helmet masquerading ; 

If not, then Wisdom was a dame 
For sonnets and for serenading. 

I thought the goddess cold, austere. 
Not made for love's despairs and blisses : 

Did Pallas wear her hair like that? 

Was Wisdom's mouth so shaped for 
kisses? 

The nightingale should be her bird, 
And not the owl, big-eyed and solemn : 

How very fresh she looks, — and yet 
She's older far than Trajan's Column ! 

The magic hand that carved this face. 
And set this vine-work round it running. 

Perhaps ere mighty Phidias wrought 
Had lost its subtle skill and cunning. 

Who was he ? Was he glad or sad. 
Who knew to carve in such a fashion? 

Perchance he 'graved the dainty head 
For some brown girl that scorn'd his 
passion. 

Perchance, in some still garden-place, 
Where neither fount nor tree to-day is, 

He flung the jewel at the feet 
Of Phryne, or perhaps 'twas Lais. 



But he is dust ; we may not know 

His happy or unhappy story : 
Nameless, and dead these centuries. 

His work outlives him — there's his 
glory ! 

Both man and jewel lay in earth 

Beneath a lava-buried city ; 
The countless summers came and went 

With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity. 

Years blotted out the man, but left 
The jewel fresh as any blossom, 

Till some Visconti dug it up, 

To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom I 

O nameless brother ! see how Time 
Your gracious handiwork has guarded; 

See how your loving, patient art 
Has come, at last, to be rewarded. 

Who would not suffer slights of men, 
And pangs of hopeless passion also, 

To have his carven agate-stone 
On such a bosom rise and fall so ? 

Thomas Bailey Aldbich. 



DoLciNO TO Margaret. 

The world goes up and the world goes 
down. 
And the sunshine follows the rain ; 
And yesterday's sneer, and yesterday's 
frown 
Can never come over again. 

Sweet wife. 
No, never come over again. 

For woman is warm, though man be cold. 

And the night will hallow the day ; 
Till the heart which at even was weary 
and old 
Can rise in the morning gay, 

Sweet wife, 
To its work in the morning gay. 

Charles Kingsley. 



Sonnet. 

Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a 
brere ; 
Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his 
bough ; 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 



783 



Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh near, 
Sweet is the firbloom, but his branches 
rough ; 
Sweet is the Cyprus, but his rind is 

tough ; 
Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill ; 
Sweet is the broom-flower, but yet sour 
enough ; 
And sweet is nioly, but his root is ill; 
So, every sweet with sour is temper'd still. 

That makcth it be coveted the more: 
For easy things that may be got at will 

Most sorts of men do set but little store. 
Why then should I account of little pain 
That endless pleasure shall unto me gain '? 
Edmund Spenser. 



Sonnet. 

ScoRX not the Sonnet; Critic, you have 

frown'd, 

Mindless of its just honors; with this Key 

Shakespeare unlocked his heart ; the 

melody 

Of this small Lute gave ease to Petrarch's 

wound, 
A thousand times this Pipe did Tasso 

sound ; 
C'amoens soothed with it an E.xile's grief; 
The Sonnet glitter'd a gay myrtle Leaf 
Amid the cypress with which Dante 

crown'd 
His visionary brow : a glow-worm Lamp, 
It clieer'd mild Spenser, call'd from 
Faery-land 
To struggle through dark ways; and, when 
a damp 
Fell round the path of Milton, in his 
hand 
The Thing became a Trumpet, whence he 

blew 
Soul-animating .strains — alas, too few ! 

William Wordswoktu. 



Sonnet. 

BErArsE I oft in dark abstracted guise 
Seem most alone in greatest company. 
With dearth of words, or answers quite 
awry 
To them that would make speech of speech 
arise. 



They deem, and of their doom the rumor 
flies, 
That poison foul of bubbling Pride doth 

lie 
So in my swelling breast, that only I 
Fawn on myself, and others do despise. 
Yet Pride, I think, doth not my soul pos- 
sess, 
Whicli looks too oft in his unflattering 
glass ; 
But one worse fault Ambition I confess, 
That makes me oft my best friends 
overpass, 
Unseen, unheard, while thought to high- 
est place 
Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's 

grace. 

Sir Philip Sidney. 



FAREWELL TO THEE, ARABTS 

Da ughter. 

Farewell, — farewell to thee, Araby's 
daughter ! 
(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark 
sea) ; 
No pearl ever lay under Oman's green 
water 
More pure in its shell than thy spirit in 
thee. 

Oh, fair a.s the sea-flower close to thee 
growing, 

How light was thy heart till love's witch- 
ery came. 

Like the wind of the south o'er a summer 
lute blowing. 

And hush'd all its music and wither'd its 
frame ! 

But long upon Araby's green sunny high- 
lands 
Shall maids and their lovers remember 
the doom 
Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl 
Islands, 
With naught but the sea-star to light up 
her tomb. 

And still, when the merry date-season is 
burning, 
And calls to the palm-groves the young 
and the old, 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



The. hapjiiest there, from their pastime re- 
turning 
At sunset, will weep when thy story is 
told. 

The young village maid, when with flowers 
she dresses 
Her dark-flowing hair for some festival 
day, 
Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her 
tresses, 
She mournfully turns from the mirror 
away. 

Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero ! forget 
thee, — 
Though tyrants watch over her tears as 
they start, 
Close, close by the side of that hero she'll 
set thee, 
Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of 
her heart. 

Farewell ! — be it ours to embellish thy 
pillow 
With everything beauteous that grows in 
the deep ; 
Each flower of the rock and each gem of 
the billow 
Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy 
sleep. 

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest 
amber 
That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has 
wept ; 
With many a shell, in whose hollow- 
wreathed chamber 
We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have 
slept. 

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie 
darkling, 
And plant all the rosiest stems at thy 
head ; 
We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian 
are sparkling. 
And gather their gold to strew over thy 
bed. 

Farewell! — farewell! — until Pity's sweet 
fountain 
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the 
brave. 



They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on 

that mountain, 

They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps 

in the wave. 

Thomas Mooke. 



Sbells of Ocean. 

One summer eve, with pensive thought, 
I wander'd on the sea-beat shore. 

Where oft, in heedless infant sport, 
I gather'd shells in days before, 
I gather'd shells in days before. 

The splashing waves like music fell, 
Responsive to my fancy wild ; 

A dream came o'er me like a spell, 
I thought I was again a child ; 

A dream came o'er me like a spell, 
I thought I was again, again a child. 

I stood upon the pebbly strand. 
To cull the toys that round me lay ; 

But as I took them in my hand, 
I threw them one by one away, 
I threw them one by one away. 

Oh thus, I said, in every stage. 
By toys our fancy is beguiled ; 

We gather shells from youth to age. 
And then we leave them like a child ; 

We gather shells from youth to age. 

And then we leave them, leave them like 

a child. 

Author Unknown. 



Driftino. 

My soul to-day 

Is far away. 
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; 

My wingfed boat, 

A bird afloat, 
Swims round the purple peaks remote : 

Round purple peaks 

It sails, and seeks 
Blue inlets, and their crystal creeks. 

Where high rocks throw, 

Tlirough deeps below, 
A duplicated golden glow. 

Far, vague, and dim, 
The mountains swim ; 
While on Vesuvius' misty brim, 



POEMS OF SENTIMEXT. 



7.S.5 



With outstretch'd bands, 
The gray smoke stands 
O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 

Here Ischia smiles 

O'er liquid miles ; 
And yonder, bluest of the isles, 

Calm Capri waits. 

Her sapphire gates 
Beguiling to her bright estates. 

I heed not, if 

My rippling skiff 
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; — 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise. 

Under the walls 

Where swells and falls 
The Bay's deep breast at intervals, 

At peace I lie, 

Blown softly by, 
A cloud upon this liquid sky. 

The day, so mild. 

Is Heaven's own child, 
With Earth and Ocean reconciled ; 

The airs I feel 

Around me steal 
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 

Over the rail 

5Iy hand I trail 
Within the shadow of the sail, 

A joy intense, 

The cooling sense. 
Glides down my drowsy indolence. 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Where Summer sings and never dies, — 

O'erveil'd with vines. 

She glows and shines 
Among her future oil and wines. 

Her children, hid 

The cliffs amid. 
Are gambolling with the gambolling kid ; 

Or down the walls. 

With tipsy calls. 
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 

50 



The fisher's child, 

With tresses wild. 
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, 

With glowing lips 

Sings as she skips. 
Or gazes at the far-off ships. 

Yon deep bark goes 

Where Tratlic blows. 
From lands of sun to lands of snows ; — 

This happier one. 

Its course is run 
From lands of snow to lands of sun. 

O happy ship. 

To rise and dip, 
With the blue crystal at your lip ! 

O happy crew, 

My heart with you 
Sails, and sails, and sings anew ! 

Xo more, no more 

The worldly shore 
Upbraids me with its loud uproar ! 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise ! 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 



At Sea. 

The night was m.ide for cooling shade, 

For silence, and for sleep ; 
And when I wjis a child, I laid 
My hands upon my breast, and pray'd, 

And sank to slumbers deep. 
Childlike, a-s then, I lie to-night. 
And watch my lonely cabin-light. 

Each movement of the swaying lamp 

Shows how the vessel reels. 
And o'er her deck the billows tramp, 
And all her timbers strain and cramp 

With every shock she feels ; 
It starts and shudders, while it burns, 
And in its hingM socket turns. 

Now swinging slow, and slanting lo'w, 

It almost level lies : 
And yet I know, while to and fro 
I watch the seeming pendule go 

With restless fall and rise. 
The steady shaft is still upright. 
Poising its little globe of light. 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



hand of God I lamp of peace ! 
promise of my soul ! 

Though weak and toss'd, and ill at ease 
Amid the roar of smiting seas, — 
The ship's convulsive roll, — 

1 own, with love and tender awe, 
Yon perfect type of faith and law. 

A heavenly trust my spirit calms, — 

My soul is fill'd with light ; 
The ocean sings his solemn psalms ; 
The wild winds chant ; I cross my palms ; 

Happy, as if to-night, 
Under the cottage-roof again, 
I heard the soothing summer rain. 

J. T. Trowbridge. 



As BY THE Shore at Break of 
Day. 

As by the shore at break of day, 
A vanquish'd chief expiring lay, 
Upon the sands, with broken sword, 

He traced his farewell to the free ; 
And there the last unfinish'd word 

He dying wrote, was " Liberty !" 

At night a sea-bird shriek'd the knell 
Of him who thus for freedom fell ; 
The words he wrote, ere evening came. 

Were cover'd by the sounding sea ; — 
So pass away the cause and name 

Of him who dies for liberty I 

Thomas Moobe. 



Excelsior. 

The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village pass'd 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner, with the strange device — ■ 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad ; his ej'e beneath 
Flash'd like a falchion from its sheath ; 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue — 
Excelsior ! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and 
bright : 



Above, the spectral glaciers shone. 
And from his lips escaped a groan — 
Excelsior ! 

"Try not the pass," the old man said : 
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead ; 
The roaring torrent is 'deep and wide !" 
And loud that clarion voice replied. 
Excelsior ! 

" Oh stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast !" 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
But still he answer'd with a sigh. 
Excelsior ! 

" Beware the pine tree's wither'd branch '. 
Beware the awful avalanche !" 
This was the peasant's last good-night : 
A voice replied, far up the height. 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of St. Bernard 
Utter'd the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air. 
Excelsior ! 

A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
Half buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasjiing in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device. 
Excelsior ! 

There in the twilight cold and gray. 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star — • 
Excelsior ! 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



The Convict Ship. 

3I0KN on the waters ! and purple and bright 
Bursts on the billows the flushing of 

light ! 
O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun, 
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on ; 
Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail. 
And her pennant streams onward, like hope, 

in the gale ! 
The winds come around her in murmur 

and song, 
And the .surges rejoice as they bear her along ! 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT. 



Upward she points to the goldeu-edged 

clouds, 
And the sailor sings gayly, aloft in the 

shrouds ! 
Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray. 
Over tlie waters — away and away ! 
Bright as the visions of youth, ere they 

part. 
Passing away, like a dream of the heart! — 
Who — as the beautiful pageant sweeps 

by, 
Music around her and sunshine on high — 
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow, 
Oh there be hearts that are breaking 

below ! 

Night on the waves ! — and the moon is on 

high. 
Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the 

sky; 
Treading its depths, in the power of her 

might, 
And turning the clouds, as they pass her, 

to light : 
Look to the waters ! — asleep on their 

breast. 
Seems not the ship like an island of rest ? 
Britrht and alone on the shadowy main, 
Like a heart-cherish'd home on some 

desolate plain ! 
Who, as she smiles in the silvery light, 
Spreading her wings on the bosom of 

night. 
Alone on the deep, — as the moon in the 

sky — 
A phantom of beauty I— could deem, with 

a sigh. 
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of 

sin. 
And souls that are smitten lie bursting 

within ! 
Who, as he watches her silently gliding, 
Remembers that wave after wave is di- 
viding 
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not 

sever, 
Hearts that are parted and broken for 

ever ! 
Or deems that he watches, afloat on the 

wave, 
The death-bed of hope, or the young 

spirit's grave ! 



I 'Tis thus with our life, while it passes 

along, 
Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and 

song ! 
Gayly we glide, in the gaze of the world, 
With streamers afloat, and with canvas 

unfurl'd ; 
All gladness and glory to wondering eyes. 
Yet charter'd by sorrow and freighted with 

sighs I — 
Fading and false is the aspect it wears, 
As the smiles we put on— just to cover our 

tears ; 
And the withering thoughts which the 

world cannot know. 
Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning 

below ; 
While the vessel drives on to that desolate 

shore 
Where the dreams of our childhood are 

vanish'd and o'er. 

Thomas Kibble Hervey. 



Fa TE. 

" The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare, 
The spray of the tempest is white in air. 
The winds are out with the waves at play. 
And I shall not tempt the sea to-day. 

"The trail is narrow, the wood is dim, 
The panther clings to the arching limb. 
And the lion's whelps are abroad at 

play. 
And I shall not join in the chase to-day." 

But the ship sail'd safely over the sea. 
And the hunters came from the chase in 

glee, 
And the town that was builded upon a 

rock 

Was swallow'd up in the earthquake 

shock. 

FBAKCI3 Bret Harte. 



The WnETCii, Coxdemxed with 
Life to Part. 

The wretch, condemn'd with life to part. 

Still, still on hope relies. 
And every pang that rends the heart 

Bids expectation rise. 



Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light, 

Adorns and cheers the way ; 

And still, as darker grows the night. 

Emits a brighter ray. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



Weep no More. 

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan. 
Sorrow calls no time that's gone ; 
Violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain 
Makes not fresh nor grow again ; 
Trim thy locks, look cheerftilly. 
Fate's hidden ends eyes cannot see ; 
Joys as winged dreams fly fast. 
Why should sadness longer last? 
Grief is but a wound to woe ; 
Gentlest fair one, mourn no mo. 

John Fletchek. 



After the Ball. 

They sat and comb'd their beautiful 
hair. 
Their long, bright tresses, one by one. 
As they laugh'd and talk'd in the chamber 
there, 
After the revel was done. 

Idly they talk'd of waltz and quadrille. 
Idly they laugh'd, like other girls. 

Who over the fire, when all is still. 
Comb out their braids and curls. 

Robe of satin and Brussels lace. 
Knots of flowers and ribbons, too, 

Scatter'd about in every place. 
For the revel is through. 

And Maud and Madge in robes of white, 
The prettiest night-gowns under the sun, 

Stockingless, slipperless, sit in the night, 
For the revel is done, — 

Sit and comb their beautiful hair. 
Those wonderful waves of brown and 
gold. 

Till the fire is out in the chamber there. 
And the little bare feet are cold. 

Then out of the gathering winter chill, 
All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather. 

While the fire is out and the house is still, 
Maud and Madge together, — 



Maud and Madge in robes of white. 

The prettiest night-gowns under the 
sun, 

Curtain'd away from the chilly night. 
After the revel is done, — 

Float along in a splendid dream. 
To a golden gittern's tinkling tune. 

While a thousand lustres shimmering 
stream 
In a palace's grand saloon. 

Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces, 
Tropical odors sweeter than musk. 

Men and women with beautiful faces. 
And eyes of tropical dusk ; 

And one face shining out like a star. 
One face haunting the dreams of each. 

And one voice, sweeter than others are. 
Breaking into silvery speech, — 

Telling, through lips of bearded bloom. 

An old, old story over again, 
As down the royal banuer'd room. 

To the golden gittern's strain. 

Two and two, they dreamily walk, 
While an unseen spirit walks beside. 

And all unheard in the lovers' talk. 
He claimeth one for a bride. 

O Maud and Madge, dream on together. 
With never a pang of jealous fear! 

For, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather 
Shall whiten another year. 

Robed for the bridal, and robed for the 
tomb. 
Braided brown hair and golden tress. 
There'll be only one of you left for the 
bloom 
Of the bearded lips to press, — 

Only one for the bridal pearls, 
The robe of satin and Brussels lace, — 

Only one to blush through her curls 
At the sight of a lover's face. 

O beautiful Madge, in your bridal white, 
For you the revel has just begun, 

But for her who sleeps in your arms to- 
night 
The revel of Life is done ! 



POEMS OF SENTIMEXT. 



r89 



But robed and crown'd with your saintly 
bliss, 
Queen of heaven and bride of the sun, 
O beautiful Maud, you'll never miss 
The kisses another hath won. 

KOBA Pebby. 



The Song of the Dying. 

We meet 'neath the sounding rafter. 

And the walls around are bare ; 
As they shout to our peals of laughter 

It seems that the dead are there. 
But stand to your glasses, steady ! 

We drink to our comrades' eyes ; 
Quaff a cup to the dead already — 

And hurrah for the ne.xt that dies! 

Not here are the goblets glowing. 

Not here is the vintage sweet; 
'Tis cold, as our hearts are growing, 

And dark as the doom we meet. 
But stand to your glasses, steady I 

And soon shall our pulses rise; 
A cup to the dead already — 

Hurrah for the next that dies! 

Not a sigh for the lot that darkles, 

Not a tear for the friends that sink ; 
We'll fall, 'midst the wine-cup's sparkles. 

As mute as the wine we drink. 
So stand to your glasses, steady I 

'Tis this that the respite buys; 
One cup to the dead already — 

Hurrah for the next that dies 1 

Time was when we frown'd at others ; 

We thought we were wiser then ; 
Ha ! ha I let those think of their mothers, 

Who hope to see them again. 
No! stand to your glasses, steady ! 

The thoughtless are here the wise; 
A cup to the dead already — 

Hurrah for the next that dies! 

There's many a hand that's shaking, 

There's many a cheek that's sunk ; 
But soon, though our hearts are breaking. 

They'll burn with the wine we've drunk. 
So stand to your glasses, steady I 

'Tis here the revival lies; 
A cup to the dead already — 

Hurrah for the next that dies I 



There's a mist on the glass congealing, 

'Tis the hurricane's fiery breath ; 
And thus does the warmth of feeling 

Turn ice in the grasp of Death. 
Ho ! stand to your glasses, steady ! 

For a moment the vajxjr flies; 
A cup to the dead already — 

Hurrah for the next that dies! 

Who dreads to the dust returning? 

Who shrinks from the sable shore. 
Where the high and haughty yearning 

Of the soul shall sting no more? 
Ho! stand to your glasses, steady ! 

The world is a world of lies; 
A cup to the dead already — 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Cut off from the land that bore us, 

Betray'd by the land we find. 
Where the briglitest have gone before us. 

And the dullest remain behind — 
Stand, stand to your glasses, steady ! 

'Tis all we have left to prize; 
A cup to the dead already — 

And hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Bartholumew Dowuno. 



TITHONUS. 

The woods decay, the woods decay and 

fall. 
The vapors weep their burthen to the 

ground, 
Man comes and tills the field and lies 

beneath. 
And after many a summer dies the swan. 
Me only cruel immortality 
Consumes: I wither slowly in thine 

arms, 
Here at the quiet limit of the world, 
A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a 

dream 
The ever-silent spaces of the East, 
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of 

morn. 

Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a man — 
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice. 
Who madest him thy chosen, that he 

seem'd 
To his great heart none other than a god ! 



790 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



I ask'd thee, " Give me immortality." 
Then didst thou grant mine asking with a 

smile, 
Like wealthy men who care not how they 

give. 
But thy strong Hours indignant work'd 

their wills, 
And beat me down and marr'd and wasted 

me. 
And tho' they could not end me, left me 

niaim'd , 

To dwell in presence of immortal youth, 
Immortal age beside immortal youth, 
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love. 
Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now. 
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, 
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with 

tears 
To hear me? Let me go: take back thy 

gift: 
Why should a man desire in any way 
To vary from the kindly race of men, 
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 
Where all should pause, as is most meet 

for all ? 

A soft air fans the cloud apart: there 

comes 
A glimpse of that dark world where I was 

born. 
Once more the old mysterious glimmer 

steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoul- 
ders pure, 
And bosom beating with a heart re- 

new'd. 
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the 

gloom, 
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to 

mine. 
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild 

team 
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, 

arise. 
And shake the darkness from their loos- 

en'd manes, 
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. 

Lo ! ever thus thou growest beautiful 

In silence, then before thine answer 

given 
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. 



Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy 

tears, 
And make me tremble lest a saying 

learnt, 
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be 

true : 
" The gods themselves cannot recall their 

gifts." 
Ay me ! ay me ! with what another heart 
In days far-off, and with what other eyes 
I used to watch — if I be he that watch'd — 
The lucid outline forming round thee, 

saw 
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings, 
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt 

my blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd 

all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I 

lay. 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy- 
warm 
With kisses balmier than half-opening 

buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that 

kiss'd 
Whispering I knew not what of wild and 

sweet. 
Like that strange song I heard Apollo 

sing. 
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. 

Yet hold me not for ever in thine East: 
How can my nature longer mix with 

thine? 
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold 
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled 

feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when 

the steam 
Floats up from those dim fields about the 

homes 
Of happy men that have the power to die. 
And grassy barrows of the happier dead. 
Release me, and restore me to the ground ; 
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my 

grave ; 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by 

morn ; 
I earth in earth forget these empty 

courts, 
And thee returning on thy silver wheels. 
Alfred Tennyson. 



PART XIV. 



WEIRD 



Fantastic Poems 



Weird and Fantastic. 



The Fairy Queen. 

Come, follow, follow me — 
You, fairy elves that be. 
Which circle on the green — 
Come, follow Jlab, your queen ! 
Hand in hand let's dance around, 
For this place is fairy ground. 

When mortals are at rest, 

And snoring in their nest, 

Unheard and unespied, 

Through keyholes we do glide; 
Over tables, stools, and shelves, 
We trip it with our fairy elves. 

And if the house be foul 

With platter, dish, or bowl, 

Up stairs we nimbly creep, 

And find the sluts asleep ; 
There wc pinch their arms and thighs- 
None escapes, nor none espies. 

But if the house be swept, 
And from uncleanness kept. 
We praise the household maid, 
And duly she is paid ; 

For we use, before we go, 

To drop a tester in her shoe. 

Upon a mushroom's head 

Our tablecloth we spread ; 

A grain of rye or wheat 

Is manclict, which we cat ; 
Pearly drops of dew we drink, 
In acorn cups, fill'd to the brink. 

The brains of nightingales, 
With unctuous fat of snails, 
Between two cockles stew'd, 
Is meat that's ea.sily chew'd ; 
Tails of worms, and marrow of mice, 
Do make a dish that's wondrous nice. 



The grasshopper, gnat, and fly. 

Serve us for our minstrelsy ; 

Grace said, we dance a while, 

And so the time beguile; 
And if the moon doth hide her head, 
The glow-worm lights us home to bed. 

On tops of dewy grass 
So nimbly do we pass, 
The young and tender stalk 
Ne'er beiuls when wc do walk; 
Yet in the morning may be seen 
Where we the night before have been. 
Author Unksowm. 



Song of the Fairies. 

By the moon we sport anrl ])lay ; 
With the night begins our day : 
As we dance the dew doth fall ; 
Trip it, little urchins, all. 
Lightly as the little bee. 
Two by two, and three by three, 
And about go we, and about go we. 

JOIIX LVLY. 



Fairy Song. 

Shed no tear! oh, shed no tear! 
The flower will bloom another year. 
Weep no more! oh, weep no more! 
Young buds sleep in the root's white core. 
Dry your eyes! oh, dry your eyes! 
For I was taught in Paradise 
To liise my breast of melodies, — 
Shed no tear. 

Overhead ! look overhead ! 
'Mong the blossoms white and red, — 
Look up, look up! I flutter now 
On this fresh pomegranate bough. 

793 



794 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


See me ! 'tis this silvery bill 


But doth suffer a sea-change 


Ever cures the good man's ill. 


Into something rich and strange. 


Shed no tear ! oh, shed no tear ! 


Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 


The flower will bloom another year. 


Ding-dong. 


Adieu, adieu — I fly — adieu ! 


Hark ! now I hear them — ding, dong, bell 1 


I vanish in the Heaven's blue, — 




Adieu, adieu ! 


III. 


John Keats. 




K>. 


Where the bee sucks there suck I ; 




In a cowslip's bell I lie ; 


Over Hill, Over Dale. 


There I couch when owls do cry ; 


Fbom "A Midsummer Night's Dkeam." 


On the bat's back I do fly 


Over hill, over dale, 

Thorough bush, thorough brier. 
Over park, over pale, 


After summer merrily. 

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now. 

Under the blossom that hangs on the 

bough. 

William Shakespeare. 


Thorough flood, thorough fire, 


I do wander everywhere. 




Swifter than the moon's sphere ; 


■ 


And I serve the fairy queen. 


Song of Fairies. 


To dew her orbs upon the green. 
The cowslips tall her pensioners be I 


We the fairies, blithe and antic, 


In their gold coats spots you see ; 


Of dimensions not gigantic. 


Those be rubies, fairy favors. 


Though the moonshine mostly keep us. 


In those freckles live their savors : 


Oft in orchards frisk and peep us. 


I must go seek some dewdrops here. 


Stolen sweets are always sweeter ; 


And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 


Stolen kissesj much completer ; 


William Shakespeare. 


Stolen looks are nice in chapels : 




Stolen, stolen be your apples. 




When to bed the world are bobbing. 


ARIEL'S Songs. 


Then's the time for orchard-robbing; 


From " The Tempest." 


Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling 
Were it not for stealing, stealing. 


I. 


Leigh Hunt. 


Come unto these yellow sands, 


(From the Latin of Thomas Randolph.) 


And then take hands : 
Court'sied when you have, and ki.ss'd, — 






The wild waves whist, — 


Tbe Fairies. 


Foot it featly here and there ; 
And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. 


A Child's Song. 


Hark, hark I 


Up the airy mountain. 


Bow, wow. 


Down the rushy glen. 


The watch-dogs bark— 


We daren't go a-hunting 


Bow, wow. 


For fear of little men ; 


Hark, hark ! I hear 


Wee folk, good folk, 


The strain of strutting chanticleer 


Trooi)ing all together ; 


Cry Cock-a-diddle-dow. 


Green jacket, red cap. 




And white owl's feather ! 


II. 

Full fathom five thy father lies ; 


Down along the rocky shore 


Of his bones are coral made ; 


Some make their home, 


Those are pearls that were his eyes ; 


They live on crispy pancakes 


Nothing of him that doth fade 


Of yellow tide-foam ; 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



795 



Some in the reeds 

Of the black mountain-lake, 
With frogs for their watch-dogs, 

All night awake. 

High on the hill-top 
The old King sits ; 

He is now so old and gray- 
He's nigh lost his wits. 

With a bridge of white mist 
Columbkill he crosses. 

On his stately journeys 
From Slieveleague to Rosses ; 

Or going up with music 
On cold starry nights. 

To sup with the Queen 
Of the gay Northern Lights. 

They stole little Bridget 

For seven years long ; 
When she came down again 

Her friends were all gone. 
They took her lightly back, 

Between the night and morrow, 
They thouglit that she wjis fast asleep. 

But she was dead with sorrow. 
They have kept her ever since 

Deep within the lakes, 
On a bed of flag-leaves, 

Watching till she wakes. 

By the craggy hill-side, 

Through the mosses bare, 
They have j)lanted thorn trees 

For pleasure here and there. 
Is any man so daring 

As dig one up in spite, 
He shall find the tliornies set 

In his bed at night. 

Up the airy mountain, 

Down the rushy glen. 
We daren't go a-htinting 

For fear of little men ; 
Wee folk, good folk, 

Trooping all together ; 
Green jacket, red cap. 

And white owl's feather ! 

William Allinoium. 



The Rape of the Lock. 

An Heroi-Comical Poem. 

Nrtliicram, Beliniia. tuos violarecapillos ; 
Sedjuvat hoc precibus me tribuisse luis. — Mast. 

CANTO I. 

What dire offence from amorous causes 

springs, 
What mighty contests rise from trivial 

things, 
I sing — This verse to Caryl, muse ! is due ; 
This, e'en Belinda may vouchsafe to view; 
Slight is the subject, but not so the praise. 
If she inspire, and he approve my lays. 
Say what strange motive, goddess ! could 

compel 
A well-bred lord t' a.ssault a gentle belle ? 
Oh, say wliat stranger cause, yet unex- 
plored. 
Could make a gentle belle reject a lord ? 
In tasks so bold can little men engage, 
And in soft bosoms dwell such mighty rage? 
Sol through wliite curtains shot a timor- 
ous ray. 
And oped those eyes that must eclipse the 

day. 
Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing 

shake. 
And sleepless lovers just at twelve awake: 
Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knock'd 

the ground, 
And the prcss'd watch returned a silver 

sound. 
Belinda still her downy pillow prest — 
Her guardian sylph prolong'd the balmy 

rest; 
'Twas he had summon'd to her silent bed 
The morning-dream that hovor'd o'er her 

head: 
A youth more glittering than a birthnight 

beau 
(That e'en in slumber caused her cheek to 

glow), 
Seem'd to her ear his winning lips to lay. 
And thus in whispers said, or seem'd to 

say: 
" Fairest of mortals, thou distinguish'd 

care 
Of thousand bright inhabitants of air! 
If e'er one vision toiich'd thy infant thought, 
Of all the nurse and all the priest have 

taught, 



796 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen, 


"Know further yet; whoever fair and 


The silver token, and the circled green ; 


chaste 


Or virgins visited by angel powers 


Rejects mankind, is by some sylph em- 


AVith golden crowns and wreaths of heav- 


braced : 


enly flowers — 


For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with 


Hear and believe! thy own importance 


ease 


know, 


Assume what sexes and what shapes they 


Nor bound thy narrow views to things 


please. 


below. 


What guards the purity of melting maids, 


Some secret truths, from learnfed pride con- 


In courtly balls and midnight masquerades. 


cealed. 


Safe from the treacherous friend, the dar- 


To maids alone and children are re- 


ing spark. 


veal'd : 


The glance by day, the whisper in the 


What though no credit doubting wits may 


dark — 


give? 


When kind occasion prompts their warm 


The fair and innocent shall still believe. 


desires, 


Know, then, unnumber'd spirits round 


When music softens, and when dancing 


thee fly— 


fires? 


The light militia of the lower sky : 


'Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials 


These, though unseen, are ever on the 


know. 


wing. 


Though honor is the word with men be- 


Hang o'er the box, and hover round the 


low. 


ring. 


" Some nymphs there are, too conscious 


Think what an equipage thou hast iu air, 


of their face. 


And view with scorn two pages and a 


For life predestined to the gnome's em- 


chair. 


brace ; 


As now your own, our beings were of old. 


These swell their prospects and exalt their 


And once enclosed in woman's beauteous 


pride, 


mould ; 


When offers are disdain'd, and love de- 


Thence, by a soft transition, we repair 


nied ; 


From earthly vehicles to these of air. 


Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain. 


Think not, when woman's transient breath 


While peers, and dukes, and all their 


is fled, 


sweeping train. 


That all her vanities at once are dead ; 


And garters, stars, and coronets appear, 


Succeeding vanities she still regards, 


And in soft sounds ' Your Grace' salutes 


And, though she j^lays no more, o'erlooks 


their ear. 


the cards. 


'Tis these that early taint the female 


Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, 


soul, 


And love of ombre, after death survive ; 


Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to 


For when the fair in all their pride ex- 


roll; 


pire, 


Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to 


To their first elements their souls retire. 


know, 


The sprites of fiery teruuvgants in flame 


And little hearts to flutter at a beau. 


Jlount up, and take a salamander's name; 


" Oft when the world imagine women 


Soft yielding minds to water glide away, 


stray. 


And sip, with nymphs, their elemental tea; 


The sylphs through mystic mazes guide 


The graver prude sinks downward to a 


their way ; 


gnome ■ 


Through all the giddy circle they pursue. 


In search of mischief still on earth to 


.\nd old impertinence expel by new. 


roam ; 


What tender maid but must a victim fall 


The light coquettes in sylphs aloft repair, 


To one man's treat, but for another's 


And sport and flutter in the fields of air. 


ball? 



WEIRD AXD FANTASTIC. 



797 



When Florio speaks, wliat virgin could 

withstand, 
If gentle Damon did not squeeze her 

hand? 
With varj-ing vanities from every part 
They shift tlie moving toy-shop of their 

heart, 
Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots 

8word-knot3 strive, 
Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches 

drive. 
This erring mortals levity may call — 
Oh, blind to truth ! the sylphs contrive it 

all. 
"Of these am I, who thy protection 

claim ; 
A w.atchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. 
Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of 

air. 
In the clear mirror of thy ruling star, 
I saw, alas ! some dread event impend. 
Ere to the main this morning's sun de- 
scend ; 
But Heaven reveals not what, or how, or 

where : 
Warn'd by the sylph, pious maid, be- 
ware ! 
This to disclose is all thy guardian can ; 
Beware of all, but most beware of man !" 
He said ; when Shock, who thought she 

slept too long, 
Leap'd up, and waked his mistress with 

his tongue. 
'Twas then, Belinda, if report say true, 
Thy eyes first open'd on a billet-doux ; 
Wounds, charms, and ardors, were no 

sooner read. 
But all the vision vanish'd from thy head. 
And now, uiiveil'd, the toilet stands dis- 

play'd, 
Each silver va.se in mystic order laid. 
First, robed in white, the nymph intent 

adores. 
With head uncover'd, the cosmetic powers. 
A heavenly image in the gl:L-<s appears — 
To that she bends, to that iier eyes she 

rears ; 
Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side, 
Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. 
Unnunibcr'd treasures ope at once, and 

here 
The various offerings of the world appear ; 



From each she nicely culls with curious 

toil. 
And decks the goddess with the glittering 

spoil. 
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, 
And all Arabia breatiies from yonder box. 
The tortoise here and elephant unite, 
Transform'd to combs — the speckled, and 

the white. 
Here files of pins extend their shining 

rows ; 
Puffs, powders, patches. Bibles, billet-doux. 
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms ; 
The fair each moment rises in her charms. 
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace. 
And calls forth all the wonders of her 

face ; 
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise. 
And keener lightnings quicken in her 

eyes. 
The busy sylphs surround their darling 

care, 
These set the head, and these divide the 

hair; 
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait 

the gown ; 
And Betty's praised for labors not her 

own. 

CA2JT0 II. 

Not with more glories, in th' ethereal 

plain. 
The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, 
Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams 
Launch'd on the bosom of the silver 

Thames. 
Fair nymphs and well-dress'd youths 

around her shone. 
But every eye wius fixed on her alone. 
On her white breast a sparkling cross she 

wore, 
\\liich Jews might kiss, and infidels 

adore ; 
Her lively looks a sprightly mind dis- 
close — 
Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as 

those ; 
j Favors to none, to all she smiles extends; 
Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers 

strike ; 
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 



798 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Yet gracefiil ease, and sweetness void of 


But now secure the painted vessel ' 


pride, 


glides. 


Might hide her faults, if belles had faults 


The sunbeams trembling on the floating 


to hide : 


tides. 


If to her share some female errors fall. 


While melting music steals upon the sky, 


Loolc on her face, and you'll forget them 


And soften'd sounds along the waters 


all. 


die; 


This nymph, to the destruction of man- 


Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently 


kind, 


play, 


Nourish'd two locks, which graceful hung 


Belinda smiled, and all the world was 


behind 


gay- 


In equal curls, and well conspired to deck 


All but the sylph — with careful thoughts 


With shining ringlets the smooth, ivory 


oppress'd, 


neck. 


Th' impending woe sat heavy on his 


Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, 


breast. 


And mighty hearts are held in slender 


He summons straight his denizens of air: 


chains. 


The lucid squadrons round the sails re- 


With hairy springes we the birds betray ; 


pair; 


Slight lines of hair surprise the finny 


Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers 


prey ; 


breathe. 


Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare. 


That seem'd but zephyrs to the train be- 


And beauty draws us with a single hair. 


neath. 


Th' adventurous baron the bright locks 


Some to the sun their insect-wings un- 


admired ; 


fold, 


He saw, he wish'd, and to the prize as- 


Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of 


pired. 


gold. 


Resolved to win, he meditates the way. 


Transparent forms, too fine for mortal 


By force to ravish, or by fraud betray ; 


sight. 


For when success a lover's toil attends. 


Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light; 


Few ask if fraud or force attain'd his 


Loose to the wind their airy garments 


ends. 


flew. 


For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had im- 


Thin, glittering textures of the filmy dew, 


plored 


Dipp'd in the richest tincture of the 


Propitious Heaven, and every power 


skies, 


adored ; 


Where light disports in ever-mingling 


But chiefly Love — to Love an altar built. 


dyes; 


Of twelve vast French romances neatly 


While every beam new transient colors 


gilt. 


flings, 


There lay three garters, half a pair of 


Colors that change whene'er they wave 


gloves, 


their wings. 


And all the trophies of his former loves ; 


Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, 


With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre. 


Superior by the head, was Ariel placed ; 


And breathes three amorous sighs to raise 


His purple pinions opening to the sun. 


the fire. 


He raised his azure wand, and thus be- 


Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent 


gun: 


eyes 


" Ye sylphs and sylphids, to your chief 


Soon to obtain, and long possess the 


give ear ! 


prize. 


Fays, fairies, genii, elves, and demons. 


The powers gave ear, and granted half 


hear ! 


his prayer ; 


Ye know the spheres and various tasks 


The rest the winds dispersed in empty 


assign'd 


air. 


By laws eternal to th' aerial kind : 



WEIRD AXD FAXTASTIC. 



"99 



Souie in the fields of purest ether play, 
And bask and whiten in the blaze of 

clay ; 
Some guide the course of wandering orbs 

on high, 
Or roll the planets through the boundless 

sky; 
Some, less refined, beneath the moon's 

pale light 
Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the 

night, 
Or suck the mists in grosser air below, 
Or dip their pinions in the painted bow. 
Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry i 

main, 
Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain. 
Others, on earth, o'er human race pre- 
side, 
Watch all their ways, and all their actions 

guide : j 

Of these the chief the care of nations 

own, 
And guard with arms divine the British 

throne. 
" Our humbler province is to tend the 

fair, 
Xot a less pleasing, though less glorious 

care ; 
To save the powder from too rude a gale. 
Nor let th' imprison'd essences exhale ; 
To draw fresh colors from the vernal 

flowers ; 
To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in 

showers, 
A brighter wash ; to curl their waving 

hairs. 
Assist their blushes, and inspire their 

airs ; 
Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow. 
To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. 
" This day black omens threat the bright- 
est fair 
That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's 

care ; 
Some dire disaster, or by force or sleight ; 
But what, or where, the Fates have wrapp'd 

in night — 
Whether the nymph shall break Diana's 

law. 
Or some frail china jar receive a flaw : 
Or stain her honor, or her new brocade ; j 
Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade; | 



Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball ; 

Or whether 1 leaven has dooni'd that Shock 
must fall — 

Haste, then, ye spirits ! to your charge re- 
pair : 

The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care ; 

The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign; 

And, Momcntilla, let the watch be thine; 

Do thou, Crispissii, tend her I'avorite lock ; 

Ariel iiimself shall be the guard of Shock. 
" To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note. 

We tru.st th' important charge, the petti- 
coat — 

Oft have we known that seven-fold fence 
to fail. 

Though stiff with hoops, and arniM with 
ribs of whale — 

Form a strong line about the silver bound. 

And guard the wide circumference around. 
" Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, 

His post neglects, or leaves the fair at 
large. 

Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake 
his sins, 

Be stopp'd in vials, or transfi.\'d with 
pins ; 

Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie, 

C)r wedged whole ages in a bodkin's eye; 

Gums and pomatums shall his flight re- 
strain. 

While clogg'd he beats his silken wings in 
vain ; 

Or alum styptics with contracting power 

Shrink his thin essence like a rivell'd 
flower ; 

Or, as I.\ion fix'd, the wretch shall feel 

The giddy motion of the whirling mill ; 

In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow. 

And tremble at the sea that 'froths be- 
low!" 
He spoke ; the spirits from the sails de- 
scend ; 

Some, orb in orb, around the nymph ex- 
tend; 

Some thread the mazy ringlets of her 
hair ; 

Some hang upon the pendants of her 
ear ; 

With beating hearts the dire event they 
wait. 

Anxious, and trembling for the birth of 
fate. 



800 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



CANTO III. 

Close by those meads, for ever crown'd 
with flowers, 

Where Thames with pride surveys his 
rising towers, 

There stands a. structure of majestic 
frame, 

Which from the neighboring Hampton 
talies its name. 

Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall fore- 
doom 

Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at 
home ; 

Here thou, great Anna! whom three 
realms obey, 

Dost sometimes counsel take — and some- 
times tea. 
Hither the heroes and the nymphs re- 
sort, 

To taste a while the pleasures of a court ; 

In various talk th' instructive hours they 
past: 

Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last ; 

One speaks the glory of the British 
queen ; 

And one describes a charming Indian 
screen ; 

A third interprets motions, looks, and 
eyes— 

At every word a reputation dies ; 

Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of 
chat. 

With singing, laughing, ogling, and all 
that. 
Meanwhile, declining from the noon of 
day, 

The sun obliquely shoots his burning 
ray; 

The hungry judges soon the sentence 
sign. 

And wretches hang that jurymen may 
dine ; 

The merchant from th' Exchange returns 
in peace, 

And the long labors of the toilet cease. 

Belinda now, whom thirst of fame in- 
vites. 

Burns to encounter two adventurous 
knights 

At ombre singly to decide their doom, 

And swells her breast with conquests yet 
to come. 



Straight the three bands prepare in arms 

to join. 
Each band the number of the sacred 

Nine. 
Soon as she spreads her hand, the aerial 

guard 
Descend, and sit on each important card : 
First Ariel perch'd upon a matadore, 
Then each according to the rank they 

bore ; 
For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient 

race. 
Are, as when women, wondrous fond of 

place. 
Behold; four kings in majesty revered, 
With hoary whiskers and a forky beard ; 
And four fair queens, whose hands sustain 

a flower, 
Th' expressive emblem of their softer 

power ; 
Four knaves, in garbs succinct, a trusty 

band. 
Caps on their heads, and halberts in their 

hand; 
And parti-colored troops, a shining train. 
Draw forth to combat on the velvet 

plain. 
The skilful nymph reviews her force with 

care; 
" Let spades be trumps !" she said, and 

trumps they were. 
Now move to war her sable matadores. 
In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. 
Spadillio first, unconquerable lord ! 
Led off two captive trumps, and swept the 

board. 
As many more Manillio forced to yield. 
And march'd a victor from the verdant 

field. 
Him Basto follow'd, but his fate more 

hard 
Gain'd but one trump and one plebeian 

card. 
With his broad sabre next, a chief in 

years. 
The hoary majesty of spades appears. 
Puts forth one manly leg, to sight re- 

veal'd, 
The rest his many-color'd robe conceal'd. 
The rebel knave, who dares his prince en- 

Proves the just victim of his royal rage. 



WEIRD A XI) FANTASTIC. 



801 



E'en mighty Pam, that kings and queens 

o'crthrew, 
And mow'd down armies in the fights of 

loo, 
Sad chance of war ! now destitute of aid, 
Kails undistinguish'd by the victor spade ! 

Thus far both armies to Belinda yield; 
Now to the baron fiite inclines the field. 
His warlike amazon her host invades, 
Th' imperial consort of the crown of 

spades. 
The club's black tyrant first her victim 

died, 
Spite of his haughty mien and barbarous 

pride : 
What boots the regal circle on his head. 
His giant limbs, in state unwieldy 

sj)read — 
That long behind he trails his pompous 

robe, 
And, of all monarchs, only grasps the 

globe? 
The baron now his diamonds pours 

apace ; 
Th' enibroider'd king who shows but half 

his face. 
And his refulgent queen, with powers 

combined. 
Of broken troops an easy conquest find. 
Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder 

seen, 
\\'ith throngs promiscuous strew the level 

green. 
Thus when dispersed a routed army runs, 
Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons — 
With like confusion different nations fly, 
Of various habit, and of various dye; 
The pierced battalions disunited fall I 

In heaps on heaps — one fate o'erwhelms > 

them all. 
The knave of diamonds tries his wily arts. 
And wins (oh, shameful chance!) the 

queen of hearts. 
At this the blood the virgin's cheek for- 
sook, 
A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look ; 
She sees, and trembles at th' approaching 

ill, 
Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille. 
And now (as oft in .«ome distemper'd 

state) 
On one nice trick depends the general fate : 
51 



An ace of hearts steps forth : the king un- 
seen 
Lurk'd in her hand, and niourn'd his cap- 
tive queen : 
He springs to vengeance with an eager 

pace, 
And falls like thunder on the prostrate 

ace. 
The nymph, e.xulting, fills with shouts the 

sky ; 
The walls, the woods, and long canals re- 

ply. 
O thoug'.itles.s mortals! ever blind to 

fate. 
Too soon dejected, and too .soon elate ! 
Sudden these honors shall be snatch'd 

away. 
And cursed for ever this victorious day. 
For lo ! The board with cups and spoons 

is crown'd ; 
The berries crackle, and the mill turns 

round ; 
On shining altars of japan they raise 
The silver lamp ; the fiery spirits blaze ; 
From silver spouts the grateful liquors 

glide. 
While China's earth receives the smoking 

tide. 
At once they gratify their scent and taste. 
And frequent cups prolong the rich repast. 
Straight hover round the fair her airy 

band : 
Some, as she sipp'd, the fuming liquor 

fann'd ; 
Some o'er her lap their careful plumes dis- 

play'd. 
Trembling, and conscious of the rich 

brocade. 
Coffee (which makes the politician wise. 
And see through all things with his half- 
shut eyes) 
Sent up in vapors to the baron's brain 
New stratagems, the radiant lock to gain. 
Ah cease, rash youth ! desist ere 'tis too 

late ; 
Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's 

fate ! 
Changed to a binl, and sent to flit in air. 
She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair I 
Hut when to mischief mortals bend their 

will, 
How soon they find fit instruments of ill ! 



802 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting 

grace 
A two-edged weapon from her shining 


" Let wreaths of triumph now my 

temples twine," 
The victor cried, " the glorious prize is 


case: 


mine! 


So ladies, in romance, assist their knight — 
Present the spear and arm him for the 
fight. 


While fish in streams, or birds delight in 

air; 
Or in a coach and six the British fair; 


He takes the gift with reverence, and ex- 


As long as Atalantis shall be read, 


tends 
The little engine on his Angers' ends ; 


Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed; 
While visits shall be paid on solemn days, 


This just behind Belinda's necli: he spread, 


When numerous wax-lights in bright order 


As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her 


blaze ; 


head. 


While nymphs take treats, or assignations 


Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair, 
A thousand wings, by turns, blow back 
the hair ; 


give. 
So long my honor, name, and praise .shall 
live ! 


And thrice they twitch'd the diamond in 


What time would spare, from steel re- 


her ear ; 


ceives its date ; 


Thrice she look'd back, and thrice the foe 


And monuments, • like men, submit to 


drew near. 


fate! 


Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought 


Steel could the labor of the gods destroy. 


The close recesses of the virgin's thought : 


And strike to dust th' imperial towers of 


As on the nosegay in her breast reclined. 
He watch'd the ideas rising in her mind. 
Sudden he view'd, in spite of all her art. 
An earthly lover lurking at her heart. 


Troy ; 

Steel could the works of mortal pride con- 
found. 

And hew triumphal arches to the ground. 


Amazed, confused, he found his power ex- 
pired, 

Eesign'd to fate, and with a sigh retired. 
The peer now spreads the glittering for- 
fex wide. 


What wonder then, fair nymph ! thy hairs 

should feel 
The conquering force of unresisted steel ?" 

CANTO IV. 


T' enclose the lock ; now joins it, to divide. 
E'en then, before the fatal engine closed, 
A wretched sylph too fondly interposed; 
Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph 
in twain 


But anxious cares the pensive nymph op- 

prest. 
And secret passions labor'd in her breast. 
Not youthful kings in battle seized alive ; 
Not scornful virgins who their charms sur- 


(But airy substance soon unites again); 
The meeting points the sacred hair dis- 


vive ; 
Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their 


sever 
From the fair head, for ever, and for ever ! 


bliss ; 
Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss; 


Then flash'd the living lightning from 
her eyes, 


Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die; 
Not Oynthia when her manteau's pinn'd 


And screams of horror rend th' affrighted 
skies. 


awry. 
E'er felt such rage, resentment, and des- 


Not louder shrieks to pitying Heaven arc 

cast 
When husbands, or when lapdogs, breathe 

their last ; 


pair, 
As thou, sad virgin! for thy ravish'd 
hair. 
For, tliat sad moment, when the sylphs 


Or when rich china vessels, fallen from 

high. 
In glittering dust and painted fragments 

lie! 


withdrew. 
And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew, 
Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite, 
As ever sullied the fair face of light, 



WEIRD AXD 


FANTASTIC. 803 


Down to the central earth, his proper 


Unnumber'd throngs on every side are 


scene, 


seen. 


Kepair'd to search the gloomy cave of 


Of bodies changed to various forms by 


Spleen. 


Spleen. 


Swift on his sooty pinions flits the 


Here living teapots stand, one arm held 


gnome, 


out. 


And in a vapor reach'd the dismal dome. 


One bent — the handle tliis, and that the 


Xo cheerful breeze this sullen region 


spout ; 


knows ; 


A ])ipkin there, like Homer's tripod, walks; 


The dreaded east is all the wind that 


Hero sighs a jar, and there a goose-pie 


blows. 


talks ; 


Here in a grotto shelter'd close from air, 


Men prove with child, ius powerful fancy 


And screen'd in shades from day's detested 


works ; 


glare. 


And mai<ls, turuM bottles, call aloud for 


She sighs for ever on her pensive bed, 


corks. 


Pain at her side, and Megrim at her 


Safe pa-ss'd the gnome through this fan- 


head. 


tastic band. 


Two handmaids wait the throne; alike 


A branch of healing spleenwort in his 


in place. 


hand. 


But differing far in figure and in face. 


Then thus address'd the power^" Hail, 


Here stood Ill-nature, like an ancient 


wayward queen ! 


maid. 


Who rule the se.x to fifty from fifteen ; 


Her wrinkled form in black and wliite 


Parent of vapors and of female wit. 


array'd ; 


Who give th' hysteric or poetic fit. 


With store of prayers for mornings, nights. 


On various tempers act by various ways. 


and noons. 


Make some take physic, others scribble 


Her hand is fill'd; her bosom with lam- 


plays ; 


poons. 


Who cause the proud tlieir visits to delay. 


There Affectation with a sickly mien, 


And send the godly in a pet to pr.iy ; 


Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen ; 


A nymph there is that all your power dis- 


Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside, 


dains. 


Faints into airs, and languishes with 


And thousands more in equal mirth main- 


pride ; 


tains. 


On the rich quilt sinks with becoming 


But oh ! if e'er thy gnome could spoil a 


woe, 


grace. 


Wrapt in a gown, for sickness, and for 


Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face, 


show. 


Like citron-waters matrons' cheeks in- 


The fair ones feel such maladies as these. 


flame, j 


When each new night-dress gives a new 


Or change complexions at a losing game— 


disease. 


If e'er with airy horns I planted heads. 


A constant vapor o'er the palace flies ; 


Or rumi)led petticoats or tumbled beds. 


Strange phantoms rising as the mists 


Or caused suspicion when no soul was rude, 


arise — 


Or discomposed the headdress of a prude, 


Dreadful, as hermits' dreams in haunted 


Or e'er to costive lapdog gave disease. 


shades, 


Which not the tears of brightest eyes 


Or bright, a-s visions of expiring maids. 


could ea.se — 


Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling 


Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin ; 


spires. 


That single act gives half the world the 


Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple 


spleen." 


fires; 


The goddess, with a discontented air. 


Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes, 


Seems to reject him, though she grants his 


And crystal domes, and angels in machines. 


prayer. 



804 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



A wondrous bag with both her hands she | And shall this prize, th' inestimable 



binds, 
Like that where once Ulysses held the 

winds ; 
There she collects the force of female 

lungs, 



prize. 
Exposed through crystal to the gazing 

eyes. 
And heighten'd by the diamond's circling 

rays, 



Sigjis, sobs, and passions, and the war of j On that rapacious hand for ever blaze 5 



tongues. 
A vial next she fills with fainting fears, 
Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing 

tears. 
The gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away, 



Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park circus 

grow. 
And wits take lodgings in the sound of 

Bow; 
Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall. 



Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts Men, monkeys, lapdogs, parrots, perish 

to day. 
Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he 

found, 
Her eyes dejected, and her hair unbound. 
Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he 

rent. 
And all the furies issued at the vent. 
Belinda burns with more than mortal ire, 
And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. 
"0 wretched maid!" she spread her hands 

and cried 
(While Hamilton's echoes, "Wretched 

maid," replied), 
" Was it for this you took such constant 

care 
The bodkin, comb, and essence to pre- 



pare .' 
For this your locks in paper durance 

bound ? 
For this with torturing irons wreathed 

around ? 
For this with fillets strain'd your tender 

head? 
And bravely bore the double loads of 

lead ? 
Gods ! shall the ravisher display your 

hair. 
While the fops envy, and the ladies 

stare ? 
Honor forbid! at whose unrivall'd shrine 
Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign. 
Methinks already I your tears survey. 
Already hear the horrid things they say ; 
Already see you a degraded toast. 
And all your honor in a whisper lost ! 
How shall I, then, your hapless fame de- 
fend ? 
'Twill then be infamy to seem your 

friend ! 



all! 
She said ; then raging to Sir Plume re- 
pairs. 
And bids her beau demand the precious 

hairs. 
Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain. 
And the nice conduct of a clouded cane, 
With earnest eyes, and round, unthinking 

face. 
He first the snuff-box open'd, then the 

case. 
And thus broke out — " My lord, why, what 

the devil ! 
Z — ds! damn the lock I 'fore Gad, you must 

be civil ! 
Plague on't ! 'tis past a jest — nay, prithee, 

pox! 
Give her the hair." — He spoke, and rapp'd 

his box. 
"It grieves me much (replied the peer 

again) 
Who speaks so well should ever speak in 

vain ; 
But by this lock, this sacred lock, I swear 
(Which never more shall join its parted 

hair; 
Which never more its honors shall renew, 
Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it 

grew), 
That, while my nostrils draw the vita! air. 
This hand, which won it, shall for ever 

wear." 
He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph 

spread 
The long-contended honors of her head. 
But Umbriel, hateful gnome, forbears 

not so ; 
He breaks the vial whence the sorrows 

flow. 



fVEIRD AND 


FANTASTIC. 805 


Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief 


Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal shears de- 


appears, 


mands. 


Her eyes half languishing, half ilrown'd 


And tempts once more thy sacrilegious 


in tears ; 


hands. 


On her heaved bosom hung her droniiing 


Oil hadst thou, cruel ! been content to 


head. 


seize 


Which with a sigh she raised, and thus she 


Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these 1" 


said: 




" For ever cursed be this detested day, 


CANTO V. 


Which snatch'd my best, my favorite curl 


She said: the pitying audience molt in 


away ; 


tears ; 


Hapi)y! ah, ten times happy had I been, 


But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the baron's 


If Hampton Court these eyes had never 


cars. 


seen ! 


In vain Tlialestris with rq)roach assails, 


Yet am not I the first mistaken maid 


For who can move when fair Belinda 


By love of courts to numerous ills be- 


fails? 


tray'd. 


Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain, 


Oh had I rather unadmired remain'd 


While Anna begg'd and Dido raged in 


In some lone isle, or distant northern 


vain. 


land; 


Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her 


Where the gilt chariot never marks the 


fan ; 


way, 


Silence ensued, and thus the nymph be- 


Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste 


gan : 


bohea ! 


"Say, why are beauties praised and hon- 


There kept my charms conceal'd from 


or'd most, 


mortal eye. 


The wise man's passion, and the vain man's 


Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die. 


toast? 


What moved my mind with youthful lords 


Why deck'd with all that land and sea 


to roam ? 


afford ? 


Oh had I stay'd, and said my prayers at 


Why angels call'd, and angel-like adored? 


home ! 


W^hy round our coaches crowd the white- 


'Twas this the morning omens seem'd to 


gloved beaux '! 


tell, 


Why bows the side-box from its inmost 


Thrice from mv trembling hand the patch- 


rows? 


box fell; 


How vain are all these glorias, all our 


The tottering china shook witliout a 


pains. 


wind, 


Unless good sense preserve what beauty 


Is ay. Poll sat mute, and Shock was most 


gains ; 


unkind! 


That men may say, when we the front box 


A sylph, too, warn'd me of the threats of 


grace. 


fate. 


Behold the first in virtue as in face ! 


In mystic visions, now believed too late ! 


Oh ! if to dance all night, and dress all 


See the poor remnants of these slighted 


day, 


hairs! 


Charm'd the sniall-pox, or chased old age 


My hand shall rend what e'en thy rapine 


away. 


spares : 


Who would not scorn what housewife's 


These in two sable ringlets taught to 


care.s produce. 


break. 


Or who would learn one earthly thing of 


Once gave new beauties to the snowy 


use ? 1 


neck; 


Ti) patch, nay ogle, might become a 


The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone, 


saint; 


And in its fellow's fate foresees its own ; 


Nor could it, sure, be such a sin to paint. 



806 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



But since, alas ! frail beauty must decay ; 

Curl'd or uncurl'd, since locks will turn to 
gray ; 

Since painted, or not painted, all shall 
fade, 

And she who scorns a man must die a 
maid ; 

What then remains, but well our power to 
use, 

And keep good humor still, whate'er we 
lose? 

And trust me, dear, good humor can pre- 
vail. 

When airs, and flights, and screams, and 
scolding fail. 

Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may 

roll- 
Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the 
soul." 
So spoke the dame, but no applause en- 
sued; 

Belinda frown'd, Thalestris call'd her 
prude. 

" To arms, to arms !" the fierce virago 
cries. 

And swift as lightning to the combat flies. 

All side in parties, and begin th' attack ; 

Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whale- 
bones crack ; 

Heroes' and heroines' shouts confusedly 
rise. 

And bass and treble voices strike tKe 
skies. 

No common weapons in their hands are 
found — 

Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal 
wound. 
So when bold Homer makes the gods en- 
gage. 

And heavenly breasts with human passions 
rage ; 

'Gainst Pallas Mars; Latona Hermes 
arms ; 

And all Olympus rings with loud alarms : 

Jove's thunder roars, Heaven trembles all 
around. 

Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps 
resound : 

Earth shakes her nodding towers, the 
ground gives way, 

And the pale ghosts start at the flash of 
day! 



Triumphant Umbriel, on a sconce's 

height, 
Clapp'd his glad wings, and sat to view the 

fight : 
Propp'd on their bodkin-spears, the sprites 

survey 
The growing combat, or assist the fray. 
While through the press enraged Thales- 
tris flies, 
And scatters death around from both her 

eyes, 
A beau and witling perish'd in the throng — • 
One died in metaphor, and one in song : 
" O cruel nymph ! a living death I bear," 
Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his 

chair. 
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upward 

cast, 
"Those eyes are made so killing" — was 

his last. 
Thus on Ma?ander's flowery margin lies 
Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he 

dies. 
When bold Sir Plume had drawn Cla- 
rissa down, 
Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a 

frown ; 
She smiled to see the doughty hero slain. 
But at her smile the beau revived again. 
Now Jove suspends his golden scales in 

air, 
Weighs the men's wits against the lady's 

hair ; 
The doubtful beam long nods from side to 

side ; 
At length the wits mount up, the hairs 

subside. 
See, fierce Belinda on the baron flies. 
With more than usual lightning in her 

eyes : 
Nor fear'd the chief th' unequal fight to 

try. 
Who sought no more than on his foe to 

die. 
But this bold lord, with manly strength 

endued, 
She with one finger and a thumb subdued : 
Just where the breath of life his nostrils 

drew, 
A charge of snuft" the wily virgin threw ; 
The gnomes direct, to every atom just. 
The pungent grains of titillating dust. 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



807 



Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'er- 

flows, 
And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. 
" Xow meet thy fate !" incensed Belinda 

cried, 
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. 
(The same, his ancient personage to deck, 
Her great-great-grandsire wore about his 

neck, 
In three seal-rings ; which after, melted 

down, 
Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's 

gown ; 
Her infant grandame's whistle next it 

grew; 
The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew ; 
Then in a bodkin graced her mother's 

hairs, 
AVTiich long she wore, and now Belinda 

wears.) 
"Boast not my fall (he cried), insulting 

foe! 
Thou by some other siialt be laid as low ; 
Kor think, to die dejects my lofty mind ; 
All that I dread is leaving you behind ! 
Rather than so, ah let me still survive, 
And burn in Cupid's flames^but burn 

alive." 
" Restore the lock I" she cries ; and all 

around 
" Restore the lock !" the vaulted roofs re- 
bound. 
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain 
Roar'd for the handkerchief that caused 

his pain. 
But see how oft ambitious aims are cros.s'd, 
And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost! 
The lock, ol)tain'd with guilt, and kept 

with pain. 
In every place is sought, but sought in 

vain : 
With such a prize no mortal must be blest, 
So Heaven decrees ! with Heaven who can 

contest ? 
Some thought it mounted to the lunar 

sphere, 
Since all things lost on earth arc treasured 

there. 
There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous 

vases, 
.\nd beau.\' in snulf-bo.xes and tweezer- 

cases; 



There broken vows, and deathbed alms are 

found, 
And lovers' hearts with ends of riba:ul 

bound, 
The courtier's promises, and sick men's 

prayeis, 
The smiles of harlots, and the tears of 

heirs. 
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea. 
Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. 
But trust the Muse — she saw it upward 

rise. 
Though mark'd by none but quick poetic 

eyes 
(So Rome's great founder to the heavens 

withdrew, 
To Proculus alone confess'd in view) ; 
A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, 
.\nd drew behind a radiant trail of hair. 
Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright, 
The heavens bespangling with dishevell'd 

light. 
The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, 
And, ple;i.sed, pursue its progress through 

the skies. 
This the beau monde shall from the 

Mall survey. 
And hail with music its propitious ray ; 
This the blest lover shall for Venus take. 
And send up vows from Rosamonda's 

lake ; 
This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless 

skies 
When next he looks through Galileo's 

eyes ; 
And hence th' egregious wizard shall 

foredoom 
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. 
Then cease, bright nymph ! to mourn 

thy ravish'd hair. 
Which adds new glory to the shining 

sphere ! 
Not all the tresses that fair head can 

boast 
Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost. 
For after all the murders of your eye. 
When, after millions slain, yourself shall 

die ; 
When those fair suns shall set, as set they 

must, 
.\nd all those tresses shall be laid in 

dust — 



808 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



This lock the Muse shall consecrate to 

fame, 
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's 

name. 

Alexander Pope. 



The Merry Pranks of Robin 
Good-Fello w. 

From Oberon, in fairy-land, 

The king of ghosts and shadowe? there, 
Mad Robin, I, at his command, 

Am sent to view the night-sports here. 
What revell rout 
Is kept about 
In every corner where I go, 
I will o'ersee, 
And merrie be, 
And make good sport with ho, ho, ho ! 

More swift than lightning can I flye 

About this aery welkin soone. 
And in a minute's space deserye 

Each thing that's done belowe the moone. 
There's not a hag 
Or ghost shall wag. 
Or cry 'Ware goblins ! where I go ; 
But Kobin, I, 
Their feates will spy. 
And send them home with ho, ho, ho ! 

Whene'er such wanderers I meete. 

As fi'om their night-sports they trudge 
home. 
With counterfeiting voice I greete, 
And call them on with me to roame 
Thro' woods, thro' lakes. 
Thro' bogs, thro' brakes ; 
Or else unseene, with them I gq. 
All in the nicke 
To play some tricke. 
And frolick it with ho, ho, ho 1 

Sometimes I meete them like a man. 

Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound, 
And to a horse I turn me can. 
To trip and trot about them round ; 
But if, to ride. 
My backe they stride. 
More swift than wind away I goe ; 
O'er hedge and lands. 
Through pools and ponds, 
I whirry, laughing ho, ho, ho ! 



When lads and lasses merry be. 

With possets, and with junkets fine, 
Unseene of all the company, 

I eat their cakes and sip their wine ; 
And to make sport 
I fume and snort. 
And out the candles I do blow. 
The maids I kiss, — 

They shrieke, Who's this ? 
I answer naught but ho, ho, ho! 

Yet now and then, the maids to please, 

At midnight I card up their wooll, 
Aud while they sleepe and take their ease, 
With wheel to threads their flax I pull. 
I grind at mill 
Their malt up still ; 
I dress their hemp, I spin their tow. 
If any wake. 
And would me take, 
I wend me, laughing ho, ho, ho I 

When house or hearth doth sluttish lye, 

I pinch the maidens black and blue ; 
The bedd-clothes from the bedd pull I, 
And lay them naked all to view. 
'Twixt sleepe and wake 
I do them take, 
And on the key-cold floor them throw ; 
If out they cry, 
Then forth I fly. 
And loudly laugh out, ho, ho, ho ! 

When any need to borrow aught. 

We lend them what they do require. 
And for the use demand we naught,— 
Our owne is all we do desire. 
If to repay 
They do delay. 
Abroad amongst them then I go ; 
And night by night 
I them affright. 
With pinchings, dreams, and ho, ho, 
ho! 

When lazie queans have naught to do 

But study how to cog and lye. 
To make debate and mischief too, 
'Twixt one another secretly, 
I marke their gloze, 
And it disclose 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



809 



To them whom they have wrougfed so. 

When I have done 

I get me gone, 
And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho ! 

When men do traps and engines set 

In loope holes, where the vermine creepe, 
Who from their foldes and houses get 
Their duckos and geese, and lambes and 
sheepe, 

I spy the gin, 
And enter in. 
And seeme a vermine taken so; 
But when they there 
Approach me neare, 
I leap out, laughing ho, ho, ho! 

By wells and rills, in meadowes greene, 
We nightly dance our hey-day guise, 
And to our fairye kinge and queene 
We chant our moon-lighte minstrelsies. 
When larkes 'gin sing 
Away we fling. 
And babes new-born steale as we go, 
And elfe in bed 
We leave instead. 
And wend us, laughing ho, ho, ho I 

From hag-bred Merlin's time have I 

Thus nightly revell'd to and fro. 
And, for my prankes, men call me by 
The name of Robin Good-Fellow. 
Fiends, ghosts, and sprites 
Who haunt the nightes. 
The hags and goblins, do me know; 
And beldames old 
My feates have told,— 
So vale, vak ! Ho, ho, ho ! 

Author Osknown. 



The Fairies of the Caldon 
Low. 

A Midsummer Legend. 

" And where have you been, my Mary, 
And where have you been from me ?" 

" I've been to the top of the Caldon Low, 
The midsummer night to see !" 

" And what did you see, my Mary, 
All up on the Caldon Low ?" 

" I saw the glad sunshine come down, 
And I saw the merrv winds blow." 



"And what did you hear, my Mary, 
All up on the Caldon Hill ?" 

" I heard tiie drops of the water made. 
And the ears of the green corn fill." 

" Oh I tell me all, my Mary- 
All, all that ever you know ; 
For you must have seen the fairies 
Last night on the Caldon Low." 

" Then take me on your knee, mother ; 
And listen, mother of mine : 
A hundred fairies danced hust niglit, 
And the harpers they were nine ; 

" And their harp-strings rung so merrily 
To their dancing feet so small ; 
But oh ! the words of their talking 
Were merrier far than all." 

" And what were the words, my Mary, 
That then you heard them say ?" • 

" I'll toll you all, my mother ; 
But let me have my way. 

"Some of them pluy'd with the water, 
And roll'd it down the hill ; 

'And this,' they said, 'shall speedily turn 
The poor old miller's mill ; 

'" For there has been no water 
Ever since the first of May ; 
And a busy man will the miller be 
At dawning of the day. 

"'Oh! the miller, how he will laugh 
When he sees the mill-dam rise ! 
The jolly old miller, how he will laugh 
Till the tears fill both his eyes!" 

" And some they seized the little winds 
That sounded over the hill ; 
And each put a horn unto his mouth. 
And blew both loud and shrill ; 

"'And there,' they said, 'the merry winds 

go 
Away from every horn; 
And they shall clear the mildew dank 
From the blind old widow's corn. 

"'Oh ! the poor, blind widow. 

Though she has been blind so long. 
She'll be blithe enough when the mil- 
dew's gone, 
And the corn stands tall and strong.' 



810 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



" And some they brought the brown lint- 
seed, 
And flung it down from the Low; 
And this,' they said, ' by the sunrise, 
In tlie weaver's croft shall grow. 

Oh ! the poor, lame weaver. 
How he will laugh outright 

When he sees his dwindling flax-field 
All full of flowers by night !' 

" And then outspoke a brownie, 

With a long beard on his chin ; 

' I have spun up all the tow,' said he. 

And I want some more to spin. 

"'I've spun a piece of hempen cloth, 
And I want to spin another ; 
A little sheet for Mary's bed, 
And an apron for her mother. 

" With that I could not help but laugh, 
And I laugh'd out loud and free ; 
And then on the top of the Caldon 
Low 
There was no one left but me. 

" And all on the top of the Caldon Low 
The mists were cold and gray, 
And nothing I saw but the mossy stones 
That round about me lay. 

" But, coming down from the hill-top, 
I heard afar below. 
How busy the jolly miller was. 
And how the wheel did go. 

"And I peep'd into the widow's field, 
And, sure enough, were seen 
The yellow ears of the mildew'd corn, 
AH standing stout and green. 

" And down by the weaver's croft I stole. 
To see if the flax were sprung; 
And I met the weaver at his gate. 
With the good news on his tongue. 

" Now this is all I heard, mother. 
And all that I did see; 
So, pr'ythee, make my bed, mother. 
For I'm tired as I can be." 

Mary Howitt. 



The Culprit Fay. 

" My visual orbs are purged from film, and, lo ! 

Instead of Ansler's turnip-bearing vales, 
I see old fairyland's miraculous show ! 

Her trees of tinsel kiss'd by frealcish gales, 
Her ouphs that, cloak'd in leaf-gold, skim the breeze. 

And fairies, swarming . . ." 

Tennant's Anster Fair. 

I. 
'Tis the middle watch of a summer's 

night — 
The earth is dark, but the heavens are 

bright ; 
Naught is seen in the vault on high 
But the moon, and the stars, and the 

cloudless sky. 
And the flood which rolls its milky hue, 
A river of light on the welkin blue. 
The moon looks down on old Cronest ; 
She mellows the shades on his shaggy 

breast. 
And seems his huge graj- form to throw 
In a silver cone on the wave below ; 
His sides are broken by spots of shade. 
By the walnut bough and the cedar made. 
And through their clustering branches 

dark 
Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark — 
Like starry twinkles that momently break 
Through the rifts of the gathering tem- 
pest's rack. 

11. 

The stars are on the moving stream, 

And fling, as its ripples gently flow, 
A burnish'd length of wavy beam 

In an eel-like, spiral line below ; 
The winds are whist, and the owl is still ; 

The bat in the shelvy rock is hid ; 
And naught is heard on the lonely hill 
But the cricket's chirp, and the answer 
shrill 

Of the gauze-wing'd katy-did ; 
And the plaint of the wailing whip-poor- 
will. 

Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings. 
Ever a note of wail and woe. 

Till Morning spreads her rosy wings. 
And earth and sky in her glances glow. 

III. 

'Tis the hour of fiiiry ban and spell : 
The wood- tick has kept the minutes well ; 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



811 



He has counted them all with click and 

stroke 
Deep in the heart of the mountain-oak, 
And he has uwaken'd tlie sentry elve 
Who sleeps with him in the haunted 

tree, 
To hid him ring the hour of twelve, 
And call tlie fays to tlieir revelry ; 
Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell 
('Twas made of the white snail's pearly 

shell)— 
" Midnight comes, and all is well ! 
Hither, hither, wing your way ! 
'Tis the dawn of the fairy day." 

IV. 

They come from beds of lichen green, 
They creep from the mullein's velvet 
screen ; 
Some on the backs of beetles fly 
From the silver tops of moon-touch'd 
trees, 
Where they swung in their cobweb ham- 
mocks high, 
And rock'd about in the evening breeze ; 

Some from the hum-bird's downy nest — 
They had driven him out by elfin power, 
And, pillow'd on plumes of his rainbow 
breast, 
Had slumber'd there till the charmed 
hour ; 
Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, 
With glittering ising-stars inlaid ; 

And some had open'd the four-o'clock, 
And stole within its purple shade. 
And now they throng the moonlight 
glade. 
Above — below — on every side. 

Their little minim forms array'd 
In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride I 



They come not now to print the lea 

In freak and dance around the tree. 

Or at the mushroom l)oard to su)i, 

And drink the dew from the buttercup; — 

A scene of sorrow waits them now, 

For an ouj>he has broken his vestal vow ; 

He has loved an earthly maid. 

And left for her his woodland shade ; 

He has lain upon her lip of dew, 

And sunn'd him in her eye of blue, 



Fann'd her check with his wing of air, 
Phiy'd in the ringlets of her hair. 
And, nestling on her snowy breast. 
Forgot the lily-king's behest. 
For this the shadowy tribes of air 

To the elfin court must haste away : — 
And now. they stand expectant there, 

To hear the doom of the culprit lay. 

VI. 

The throne was rear'd upon the grass, 
Of spice-wood and the sa-ssafras ; 
On pillars of mottled tortoise-.shell 

Hung the burnish'd canopy — 
And over it gorgeous curtains fell 

Of the tulii)'s crimson drapery. 
The monarch sat on his judgment-seat. 

On his brow the crown imperial shone. 
The prisoner fay was at his feet. 

And his peers were ranged around the 
throne. 
He waved his sceptre in the air. 

He look'd around and calmly spoke ; 
His brow was grave and his eye severe, 

But his voice in a soften'd accent broke : 

VII. 

" Fairy ! fairy ! list and mark : 

Thou hast broke thine elfin chain ; 
Thy flame-wood lamp is quench'd and 
dark. 

And thy wings are dyed with a deadly 
stain — 
Thou hast sullied tliine elfin purity 

In the glance of a mortal maiden's 
eye ; 
Thou hast scorn'd our dread decree, 

And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high. 
But well I know her sinless mind 

Is pure as the angel forms above, 
Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind. 

Such as a spirit well might love ; 
Fairy ! had she spot or taint, 
Bitter had been thy punishment : 
Tied to the hornet's shardy wings; 
Toss'd on the jjricks of nettle stings; 
Or seven long ages doom'd to <lwell 
With the lazy worm in the walnut-shell; 
Or every night to writhe and bleed 
Beneath the tread of the centipede; 
Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim, 
Your jailer a spider, huge and grim, 



812 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Amid the carrion bodies to lie 

Of the worm, and the bug, and the mur- 

der'd fly : 
These it Iiad been your lot to bear, 
Had a stain been found on the earthly 

fair. 
Now list, and mark our mild decree — 
Fairy, this your doom must be : 



" Thou shalt seek the beach of sand 
Where the water bounds the elfin land; 
Thou shalt watch the oozy brine 
Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moon- 
shine, 
Then dart the glistening arch below. 
And catch a drop from his silver bow. 
The water-sprites will wield their arms 

And dash around, with roar and rave. 
And vain are the woodland spirits" charms; 

They are the imps that rule the wave. 
Yet trust thee in thy single might: 
If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right. 
Thou shalt win the warlock fight. 



" If the spray-bead gem be won, 
The stain of thy wing is wash'd away ; 

But another errand must be done 
Ere thy crime be lost for aye : 

Thy flame-wood lamp is quench'd and 
dark, 

Thou must reillume its spark. 

Mount thy steed and sjiur him high 

To the heaven's blue canopy ; 

And when thou seest a shooting star, 

Follow it fast, and follow it far — 

The last faint spark of its burning train 

Shall light the elfin lamp again. 

Thou hast heard our sentence, fay ; 

Hence ! to the water-side, away !" 



The goblin mark'd his monarch well ; 

He spake not, but he bow'd him low. 
Then pluck'd a crimson colen-bell, 

And turn'd him round in act to go. 
The way is long, he cannot fly, 

His soiled wing has lost its power. 
And he winds adown the mountain high, 

For many a sore and weary hour. 



Through dreary beds of tangled fern, 
Through groves of nightshade dark and 

dern. 
Over the grass and through the brake, 
Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake; 

Now over the violet's azure flush 
He skips along in lightsome mood ; 

And now he thrids the bramble-bush, 
Till its i)oints are dyed in fairy blood. 
He has leap'd the bog, he has pierced the 

brier. 
He has swum the brook, and waded the 

mire, 
Till his spirits sank, and his limbs grew 

weak, 
And the red wax'd fainter in his cheek. 
He had follen to the ground outright. 
For rugged and dim was his onward 
track. 
But there came a spotted toad in sight, 
And he laugh'd as he jump'd upon her 
back ; 
He bridled her mouth with a silkweed 
twist. 
He lash'd her sides with an osier thong ; 
And now, through evening's dewy mist. 

With leap and spring they bound along, 
Till the mountain's magic verge is past, 
And the beach of sand is reach'd at last. 

XI. 

Soft and pale is the moony beam. 
Moveless still the glassy stream ; 
The wave is clear, the beach is bright 

With snowy shells and sparkling stones ; 
The shore-surge comes in ripples light, 

In murmurings faint and distant moans ; 
And ever afar in the silence deep 
Is heard the splash of the sturgeon's 

leap, 
And the bend of his graceful bow is seen — 
A glittering arch of silver sheen. 
Spanning the wave of burnish'd blue. 
And dripping with gems of the river-dew. 

XII. 

The elfin cast a glance around. 

As he lighted down from his courser 
toad ; 
Then round his breast his wings he wound, 

And close to the river's brink he strode; 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



813 



He sprang on a rock, he breathed a prayer, 
Above his head his arms he threw, 

Then toss'd a tiny curve in air, 

And licadlong plunged in the waters 
blue. 



Up sprung the spirits of the waves 

From the sea-silk beds in their coral 

caves ; 
With snail-plate armor snatch'd in haste, 
They speed their way througli the liquid 

waste ; 
Some are rapidly borne along 
On the mailed shrimp or the prickly 

prong ; 
Some on blood-red leeches glide. 
Some on the stony star-fish ride, 
Some on the back of the lancing squab, 
Some on the sideling soldier-crab ; 
And some on the jellied quarl, that flings 
At once a thousand streamy stings; 
They cut the wave with the living oar. 
And hurry on to the moonlight shore, 
To guard their realms and chase away 
The footsteps of the invading fay. 



XIV. 

Fearlessly he skims along. 

His hope is high, and his limbs are 

strong ; 
He spreads his arms like the swallow's 

wing. 
And throws his feet with a frog-like fling; 
His locks of gold on the waters shine. 

At his breast the tiny foam-beads rise, 
His back gleams bright above the brine. 
And the wake-line foam behind him 

lies. 
But the water-sprites are gathering near 

To check his course along the tide ; 
Their warriors come in swift career 

And hem him round on every side ; 
On his thigh the leech ha-s fix'd his hold. 
The quart's long arms are round him 

roll'd, 
The prickly prong ha.s pierced his skin. 
And the squab has thrown his javelin; 
The gritty star has rubb'd him raw, 
And the crab has struck with his giant 

claw ; 



He howls with rage, and he shrieks with 

pain ; 
He strikes around, but his blows are vain ; 
Hopeless is the unequal fight, 
Fairy ! naught is left but flight. 

XV. 

He turuM liim round, and fled amain 

With hurry and dash to the beach again ; 

He twisted over from side to side, 

And laid his cheek to the cleaving tide ; 

The strokes of his plunging arms are fleet, 

And with all his might he flings his feet. 

But the water-sprites are round him still, 

To cross his ])ath and work him ill. 

They bade the waves before him rise; 

They flung the sea-fire in his eyes; 

.\nd they stunn'd his ears with the scal- 
lop stroke, 

With the porpoise heave and the drum-fish 
croak. 

Oh ! but a weary wight was he 

When he reach'd the foot of the dogwood 
tree. 

Gash'd and wounded, and stiff and sore, 

He laid him down on the sandy shore ; 

He bless'd the force of the charmed line. 
And he bann'd the water-goblins' spite. 

For he saw around in the sweet moon- 
shine 

Their little wee faces above the brine. 
Giggling and laughing with all their 

might 
At the piteous hap of the fairy wight. 

xvr. 

Soon he gather'd the balsam dew 

From the sorrel-leaf and the henbane- 
bud ; 
Over each wound the halm he drew, 

And with cobweb lint he stanch'd the 
blood. 
The mild west wind was soft and low. 
It cool'd the heat of his burning brow, 
And he felt new life in his sinews shoot, 
.\s he suck'd the juice of the calamus-root ; 
And now he tre.ads the fatal shore 
As fresh and vigorous as before. 

XVII. 
Wrapp'd in musing stands the sprite; 
'Tis the middle wane of night ; 



814 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



His task is hard, his way is far, 
But he must do his errand right 

Ere dawning mounts her beamy car, 
And rolls her chariot-wheels of light; 
And vain are the spells of fairy-land, — 
He must work with a human hand. 

XVIII. 

He cast a sadden'd look around. 

But he felt new joy his bosom swell, 
When, glittering on the shadow'd ground. 

He saw a purple mussel-shell ; 
Thither he ran, and he bent him low, 
He heaved at the stern and he heaved at 

the bow, 
And he push'd her over the yielding sand, 
Till he came to the verge of the haunted 

land. 
She was as lovely a pleasure-boat 

As ever fairy had travell'd in, 
For she glow'd with purple paint without, 

And shone with silvery pearl within ; 
A sculler's notch in the stern he made. 
An oar he shaped of the bootle-blade ; 
Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome 

leap. 
And launch'd afar on the calm, blue 
deep. 

XIX. 

The imps of the river yell and rave ; 
They had no power above the wave ; 
But they heaved the billow before the prow. 
And they dash'd the surge against her 

side. 
And they struck her keel with jerk and 

blow. 
Till the gunwale bent to the rocking 

tide. 
She whimpled about to the pale moon- 
beam. 
Like a feather that floats on a wind-to.ss'd 

stream ; 
And momently athwart her track 
The quarl uprear'd his island back. 
And the fluttering scallop behind would 

float. 
And spatter the water about the boat; 
But he bail'd her out with his colen-bell, 
And he kept her trimm'd with a wary 

tread. 
While on every side like lightning fell 
The heavy strokes of his bootle-blade. 



XX. 

Onward still he held his way. 
Till he came where the column of moon- 
shine lay. 
And saw beneath the surface dim 
The brown-back'd sturgeon slowly swim ; 
Around him were the goblin train, 
But he scull'd vt-ith all his might and main, 
And follow'd wherever the sturgeon led. 
Till he saw him upward point his head ; 
Then he dropp'd his paddle blade, 
And held his colen-goblet up 
To catch the drop in its crimson cup. 

XXI. 

With sweeping tail and quivering fin 

Through the wave the sturgeon flew, 
And, like the heaven-shot javelin, 

He sprung above the waters blue. 
Instant as the star-fall light, 

He plunged him in the deep again, 
But left an arch of silver bright. 

The rainbow of the moony main. 
It was a strange and lovely sight 

To see the puny goblin there; 
He seem'd an angel form of light. 

With azure wings and sunny hair. 

Throned on a cloud of purple fair, 
Circled with blue and edged with white, 
And sitting at the fall of even 
Beneath the bow of summer heaven. 

XXII. 

A moment, and its lustre fell; 

But ere it met the billow blue. 
He caught within his crimson bell 

A droplet of its sparkling dew — 
Joy to thee, fay ! thy task is done. 
Thy wings are pure, for the gem is won — 
Cheerly ply thy dripping oar. 
And haste away to the elfin shore. 



He turns, and, lo ! on either side 

The ripples on his path divide ; 

And the track o'er which his boat must 

pass 
Is smooth as a sheet of polish'd glass. 
Around, their limbs the sea-nymphs lave. 

With snowy arms half swelling out, 
While on the gloss'd and gleamy wave 

Their sea-green ringlets loo:ely float; 



They swim around with smile and song ; 

They press the bark with pearly hand, 
And gently urge her course along, 

Toward the beach of speckled sand ; 

And, as he lightly leap'd to land, 
They bade adieu with nod and bow ; 

Then gayly kiss'd each little hand. 
And dropp'd in the crystal deep below. 



A moment stay'd the fairy there; 

He kiss'd the beach and breathed a prayer ; 

Then spread his wings of gilded blue, 

And on to the elfin court he flew : 

As ever ye saw a bubble rise, 

And shine with a thousand changing dyes, 

Till, lessening far, through ether driven, 

It mingles with the hues of heaven ; 

As, at the glimpse of morning pale. 

The lance-fly spreads bis silken sail. 

And gleams with blendings soft and 

bright. 
Till lost in the shades of fading night; 
So rose from earth the lovely fay — 
So vanish'd, far in heaven away ! 

Up, fairy! quit thy chickweed bower. 
The cricket has call'd the second hour; 
Twice again, and the lark will rise 
To kiss the streakings of the skies — 
Up ! thy charmed armor don, 
Tiiou'lt need it ere the night be gone. 

XXV. 

He put his acorn helmet on ; 

It was plumed of the silk of the thistle- 
down ; 

The corslet-plate that guarded his breast 

Was once the wild bee's golden vest; 

His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes. 

Was form'd of the wings of butterflies ; 

His shield was the shell of a lady-bug 
queen. 

Studs of gold on a ground of green ; 

And the (|uivering lance which he brand- 
ish'd bright 

Was the sting of a wasp he had slain 
in fight. 

Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed; 
He bared his blade of the bent-grass 
blue; 



He drove his spurs of the cockle-seed. 
And away like a glance of thought he 
flew, ' 
To skim tlie lieavens, and follow far 
The fiery trail of the rocket-star. 

XXVI. 

The moth-fly, as he shot in air. 

Crept under the leaf, and hid her there; 

The katy-did forgot its lay. 

The prowling gnat fled fast away. 

The fell mosquito check'd his drone 

And folded his wings till the fay was 

gone. 
And the wily beetle dropp'd his head. 
And fell on the ground as if he were 

dead ; 
They crouch'd them close in the darksome 

shade. 
They quaked all o'er with awe and 

fear. 
For they had felt the blue-bent blade. 
And writhed at the prick of the elfin 

spear ; 
Many a time, on a summer's night. 
When the sky was clear, and the moon was 

bright. 
They had been roused from the haunted 

ground 
By the yelp and bay of the fairy hound; 

They had heard the tiny bugle-horn, 
They had heard the twang of the maize- 
silk string. 
When the vine-twig bows were tightly 

drawn. 
And the nettle-shaft through tlic air was 

borne, 
Feather'd with down of the hum-bird's 

wing. 
And now tliey deem'd the courier ouphe 

Some hunter-sprite of the elfin ground ; 
And they watch'd till they saw him mount 

the roof 
That canopies the world around ; 
Then glad they left their covert lair, 
.\nd freak'd about in the midnight air. 



Up to the vaulted firmament 
His path the fire-fly courser bent, 
And at every gallop on the wind, 
He flung a glittering spark behind ; 



816 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



He flies like a feather in the blast 
Till the first light cloud in heaven is past. 
But the shapes of air have begun their 
work, 
And a drizzly mist is round him cast ; 
He cannot see through the mantle 
murk ; 
He shivers with cold, but he urges fast ; 
Through storm and darkness, sleet and 
shade, 
He lashes his steed, and spurs amain — 
For shadowy hands have twitch'd the 
rein. 
And flame-shot tongues around him 
play'd, 
And near him many a fiendish eye 
Glared with a fell malignity. 
And yells of rage, and shrieks of fear, 
Came screaming on his startled ear. 



His wings are wet around his breast. 
The plume hangs dripping from his crest. 
His eyes are blurr'd by the lightning's 

glare. 
And his ears are stunu'd with the thun- 
der's blare. 
But he gave a shout, and his blade he 
drew. 
He thrust before and he struck behind, 
Till he pierced their cloudy bodies through, 
And gash'd their shadowy limbs of 
wind ; 
Howling the misty spectres flew, 

They rend the air with frightful cries ; 
For he has gain'd the welkin blue. 
And the land of clouds beneath him 
lies. 

XXIX. 

Up to the cope careering swift, 

In breathless motion fast. 
Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift. 

Or the sea-roc rides the blast. 
The sapphire sheet of eve is shot. 

The sphered moon is past. 
The earth but seems a tiny blot 

On a sheet of azure cast. 
Oh ! it was sweet, in the clear moonlight, 

To tread the starry plain of even ! 
To meet the thousand eyes of night. 

And feel the cooling breath of heaven ! 



But the elfin made no stop or stay 
Till he came to the bank of the milky- 
way ; 
Then he check'd his courser's foot. 
And watch'd for the glimpse of the planet- 
shoot. 



Sudden along the snowy tide 

That swell'd to meet their footsteps' fall, 
The sylphs of heaven were seen to glide. 

Attired in sunset's crimson pall ; 
Around the fay they weave the dance. 

They skip before him on the plain, 
And one has taken his wasp-sting lance, 

And one upholds his bridle-rein ; 
With warblings wild they lead him on 

To where through clouds of amber seen, 
Studded with stars, resplendent shone 

The palace of the sylphid queen. 
Its spiral columns, gleaming bright. 
Were streamers of the northern light ; 
Its curtain's light and lovely flush 
Was of the morning's rosy blush ; 
And the ceiling fair, that rose abonn, 
The white and feathery fleece of noon. 



XXXI. 

But, oh ! how fair the shape that lay 

Beneath a rainbow bending bright ; 
She seem'd to the entrancfed fay 

The loveliest of the forms of light ; 
Her mantle was the purple roU'd 

At twilight in the west afar ; 
'Twas tied with threads of dawning gold, 

And button'd with a sparkling star. 
Her face was like the lily roon 

That veils the vestal planet's hue ; 
Her eyes, two beamlets from the moon, 

Set floating in the welkin blue. 
Her hair is like the sunny beam. 
And the diamond gems which round it 

gleam 
Are the pure drops of dewy even 
That ne'er have left their native heaven. 

XXXII. 

She raised her eyes to the wondering 
sprite. 
And they leap'd with smiles ; for well I 



WEIIW AND FANTASTIC. 



817 



Never before in the bowers of liRht 

Had the form of an earthly fay been 
seen. 
Long she look'd in his tiny face; 

Long with his butterfly cloak slie 
play'd ; 
She smoothed his wings of az.ure lace, 

And handled the tassel of his blade ; 
And as he told in accents low 
The story of his love and woe, 
^Sllc felt new pains in her bosom rise, 
And the tear-drop started in her eyes. 
And " O sweet spirit of earth," she cried, 

" Return no more to your woodland 
height, 
But ever here with me abide 

In the land of everlasting light! 
Within the fleecy drift we'll lie, 

We'll hang upon the rainbow's rim ; 
And all the jewels of the sky 

Around thy brow shall brightly beam! 
And thou shalt bathe thee in the stream 

That rolls its whitening foam aboon, 
And ride upon the lightning's gleam. 

And dance upon the orbed moon I 
We'll sit within the Pleiad ring, 

We'll rest on Orion's starry belt, 
And I will bid my sylphs to sing 

The song that makes the dew-mist melt; 
Their harps are of the umber shade 

That hides the blush of waking day. 
And every gleamy string is made 

Of silvery moonshine's lengthen'd ray ; 
And thou shalt pillow on my breast. 

While heavenly breathings float around, 
And, with the syljihs of ether blest. 

Forget the joys of fairy ground." 

XXXIII. 

She wa.s lovely and fair to see. 
And the elfin's heart beat fitfully ; 
But lovelier far, and still more fair. 
The earthly form imprinted there ; 
Naught he .saw in the heavens above 
Was half so dear as his mortal love, 
For he thought upon her look so meek. 
And he thought of the light flush on her 

cheek ; 
Never again might he ba.'^k and lie 
On that sweet cheek and moonlight eye ; 
But in his dreams her form to see, 
To da-sp her in his revery, 

52 



To think upon his virgin bride, 

Was worth all heaven, and earth beside. 



"Lady," he cried, " I have sworn to-nig'.it, 

On the word of a fairy-knight, 

To do my sentence-task aright ; 

My honor scarce is free from stain — 

I may not soil its snows again ; 

Betide me weal, betide me woe. 

Its mandate must be answer'd now." 

Her bosom heaved with many a sigh, 

The tear was in her drooping eye ; 

But she led him to the palace-gate, 

And call'd the .sylplis whohover'd there. 
And bade them fly and bring him straight. 

Of clouds condensed, a sable car. 
With charm and spell she bless'd it there. 
From all the fiends of upper air ; 
Then round him cast the shadowy shroud. 
And tied his steed behind the cloud ; 
And press'd his hand as she bade him fly 
Far to the verge of the northern sky. 
For by its wan and wavering light 
There was a star would fall to-night. 

XXXV. 

Borne afar on the wings of the bla.st. 
Northward away he speeds him fast, 
And his courser follows the cloudy wain 
Till the hoof-strokes fall like pattering 

rain. 
The clouds roll backward as he flies. 
Each flickering star behind him lies, 
And he has reach'd the northern plain. 
And b.aek'd his fire-fly steed again. 
Ready to follow in its flight 
The streaming of the rocket-light. 

XXXVI. 

The star is yet in the vault of heaven, 

But it rocks in the summer gale ; 
And now 'tis fitful and uneven, 

And now 'tis deadly pale; 
And now 'tis wrapp'd in .sulphur-smoke. 

And quench'd is its ray less beam ; 
And now with a rattling thunder-stro'a:;^ 

It bursts in flash and tlame. 
As swift a.s the glance of the arrowy lance 

That the .storm-spirit flings from high, 
The star-shot flew o'er the welkin blue, 

As it fell from the sheeted skv. 



818 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



As swift as the wind in its train behind 

The elfin gallops along : 
The fiends of the clouds are bellowing loud, 

But the sylphid charm is strong ; 
He gallops unhurt in the shower of fire, 

While the cloud -fiends My from the 
blaze ; 
He watches each flake till its sparks expire, 

And rides in the light of its rays. 
But he drove his steed to the lightning's 
speed, 

And caught a glimmering spark ; 
Then wheel'd around to the fairy ground, 

And sped through the midnight dark. 



Ouphe and goblin ! imp and sprite ! 

Elf of eve ! and starry fay ! 
Ye that love the moon's soft light, 

Hither — hither wend your way ; 
Twine ye in a jocund ring. 

Sing and trip it merrily. 
Hand to hand, and wing to wing, 

Kound the wild witch-hazel tree. 

Hail the wanderer again 

With dance and song, and lute and lyre ; 
Pure his wing and strong his chain, 

And doubly bright his fairy fire. 
Twine ye in an airy round. 

Brush the dew and print the lea ; 
Skip and gambol, hop and bound. 

Round the wild witch-hazel tree. 

The beetle guards our holy ground. 

He flies about the haunted place, 
And if mortal there be found. 

He hums in his ears and flaps his face ; 
The leaf-harp sounds our roundelay, 

The owlet's eyes our lanterns be ; 
Thus we sing and dance and play 

Round the wild witch-hazel tree. 



But hark ! from tower on tree-top high 

The sentry-elf his call has made ; 
A streak is in the eastern sky. 

Shapes of moonlight ! flit and fade ! 
The hill-tops gleam in morning's spring, 
The skylark shakes his dabbled wing, 
The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn. 
The cock has crow'd, and the fays are gone. 
Joseph Rodman Prake. 



CoMus: A Mask. 

The Piest Scene Discovers a Wild 
Wood. 

The Attendant Spirit descends or enters. 

Before the starry threshold of Jove's 

court 
My mansion is, where those immortal 

shapes 
Of bright aerial spirits live inspher'd 
In regions mild of calm and serene air, 
Above the smoke and stir of this dim 

spot. 
Which men call Earth ; and with low- 

thoughted care 
Confined, and pester'd in this pinfold here. 
Strive to keep up a frail and feverish 

being. 
Unmindful of the crown that Virtue gives. 
After this mortal change, to her true ser- 
vants, 
Amongst the enthroned gods on sainted 

seats. 
Yet some there be that by due steps aspire 
To lay their just hands on that golden 

key. 
That opes the palace of eternity ; 
To such my errand is ; and but for such, 
I would not soil these pure ambrosial 

weeds 
With the rank vapors of this sin-worn 

mould. 
But to my task. Neptune, besides the 

sway 
Of every salt flood, and each ebbing 

stream, 
Took in by lot 'twixt high and nether 

Jove 
Imperial rule of all the sea-girt isles. 
That like to rich and various gems inlay 
The unadornfed bosom of the deep ; 
Which he, to grace his tributary gods. 
By course commits to several government. 
And gives them leave to wear their sap- 
phire crowns. 
And wield their little tridents : but this 

Isle, 
The greatest and the best of all the main. 
He quarters to his blue-hair'd deities: 
And all this tract that fronts the falling 

sun 
A noble Peer of mickle trust and power 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



819 



Has ia liis charge, with temper'd awe to 

guide 
An old and haughty nation proud in arms: 
Where his fair offspring, nursed in princely 

lore. 
Are coming to attend their father's state, 
And new-entrusted sceptre; but their way 
Lies through the perplex'd paths of this 

drear wood, 
The nodding horror of whose shady brows 
Threats the forlorn and wandering pas- 
senger ; 
And here their tender age might suffer 

peril, 
But that by quick command from sover- 
eign Jove 
I was despatch'd for their defence and 

guard ; 
And listen why, for I will tell you now 
What never yet was heard in tale or song. 
From old or modern bard, in hall or bower. 
Bacchus, that first from out the purple 

grape 
Crush'd the sweet poison of misusM wine, 
After the Tuscan mariners transform'd. 
Coasting the Tyrrhene shore, as the winds 

listed. 
On Circe's island fell. (Who knows not 

Circe, 
The daughter of the Sun, whose charmfed 

cup 
Whoever tasted, lost his upright shape, 
And downward fell into a grovelling 

swine?) 
This Nymph that gazed upon his clust'ring 

locks. 
With ivy berries wreathed, and his blithe 

youth. 
Had by him, ere he parted thence, a son 
Much like his father, but his mother more, 
Whom therefore she brought up, and 

Comus named : 
Who rijje, and frolic of his full-grown age. 
Roving the Celtic and Iberian fields, 
At last betakes him to this ominous wood, 
And in thick shelter of black shades em- 

bower'd 
Excels his mother at her mighty art, 
Offering to every weary traveller 
His orient liquor in a crystal glass, 
To quench the drouth of Phoebus ; which 

as thcv taste 



(For most do taste through fond intem- 

p'rate thirst). 
Soon as the potion works, their human 

count'nance, 
Th' express resemblance of the gods, is 

changed 
Into some brutish form of wolf, or bear. 
Or ounce, or tiger, hog, or bearded goat. 
All other parts remaining as they were; 
And they, so perfect is their misery. 
Not once perceive their foul disfigure- 
ment, 
But boast themselves more comely than 

before. 
And all their friends and native home for- 
get. 
To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty. 
Therefore, when any favor'd of high Jove 
Chances to pa.ss through this adventurous 

glade. 
Swift its the sparkle of a glancing star 
I shoot from heaven, to give him safe con- 
voy, 
As now I do : But first I must put off 
These my sky robes sinin out of Iris' 

woof, 
And take the weeds and likeness of a 

swain. 
That to the service of this house belongs, 
Who with his soft pipe, and smooth-ditticd 

song. 
Well knows to still the wild winds when 

they roar. 
And hush the waving woods; nor of less 

faith. 
And in this ofiice of his mountain-watch. 
Likeliest, and nearest to the present aid 
Of this occsision. But I hear the tread 
Of hateful steps; I must be viewless now. 

COMrs enters with a charming-rod in one 
hand, hiD glnx» in the other; with him a 
rout of monnlers, headed iike sundry sorts 
of wild henitls, but otherwise like men and 
women, their apparel glistering ; they come 
in making a riotous and unruly noise, with 
torches in their hands. 

CoMi's. The star that bids the shep- 
iierd fold 
Now tiie top of heaven doth hold ; 
And the gilded car of day 
His glowing axle doth allay 



820 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



In the steep Atlantic stream ; 

And the slope sun his upward beam 

Shoots against the dusky pole, 

Pacing toward the other goal 

Of his chamber in the east. 

Meanwhile welcome joy, and feast, 

Midnight shout and revelry, 

Tipsy dance and jollity. 

Braid your locks with rosy twine. 

Dropping odors, dropping wine. 

Rigor now is gone to bed. 

And Advice with scrupulous head. 

Strict Age, and sour Severity, 

With their grave saws in slumber lie. 

We that are of purer fire 

Imitate the starry quire, 

Who in their nightly watchful spheres 

Lead in swift round the months and 

years. 
The sounds and seas, with all their finny 

drove. 
Now to the moon in wavering morrice 

move ; 
And on the tawny sands and shelves 
Trip the pert f;iirics and the dapper elves. 
By dimpled brook, and fountain brim, 
The wood-nymphs, deck'd with daisies 

trim. 
Their merry wakes and pastimes keep ; 
What hath night to do with sleep? 
Night hath better sweets to prove, 
Venus now wakes, and wakens Love. 
Come, let us our rites begin, 
'Tis only daylight that makes sin, 
Which these dun shades will ne'er report. 
Hail, goddess of nocturnal sport, 
Dark-veil'd Cotytto ! t' whom the secret 

flame 
Of midnight torches burns; mysterious 

dame, 
That ne'er art eall'd, but when the dragon 

womb 
Of Stygian darkness spets her thickest 

gloom, 
And makes one blot of all the air; 
Stay thy cloudy ebon chair, 
Wherein thou rid'st with Heeat', and be- 
friend 
Us thy vow'd priests, till utmost end 
Of all thy dues be done, and none left 

out. 
Ere the babbling eastern scout, 



The nice Morn on th' Indian steep. 

From her cabin'd loophole peep. 

And to the tell-tale Sun descry 

Our conceal'd solemnity. 

Come, knit hands, and beat the ground 

In a light fantastic round. 

Tlie Measure. 

Break off, break off, I feel the different 

pace 
Of some chaste footing near about this 

ground. 
Run to your shrouds, within these brakes 

and trees ; 
Our number may affright. Some virgin 

sure 
(For so I can distinguish by mine art) 
Benighted in these woods. Now to my 

charms. 
And to my wily trains; I shall ere long 
Be well stock'd with as fair a herd as 

grazed 
About my mother Circe. Thus I hurl 
My dazzling spells into the spongy air. 
Of power to cheat the eye with blear illu- 
sion, 
And give it false presentments, lest the 

place 
And my quaint habits breed astonish- 
ment, 
And put the damsel to suspicious flight. 
Which must not be, for that's against my 

course : 
I, under fair pretence of friendly ends. 
And well-placed words of glozing courtesy. 
Baited with reasons not unplausible, 
Wind me into the easy-hearted man, 
And hug him into snares. When once her 

eye 
Hath met the virtue of this magic dust, 
I shall appear some harmless villager. 
Whom thrift keeps up about his country 

gear. 
But here she comes ; I fairly step aside, 
And hearken, if I may, her business here. 

The Lady enters. 

This way the noise was, if mine ear be 

true, 
My best guide now ; methought it was the 

sound 



WEIIiD AND FANTASTIC. 



821 



Of riot and ill-managed merriment, 
Such as the jocund flute or gamesome 

pipe 
Stirs up among the loose unletter'd hinds, 
When for their teeming flocks, and granges 

full, 
In wanton dance, they praise the boun- 
teous Pan, 
And thank the gods amiss. I should be 

loath 
To meet the rudeness, and swill'd insolence 
Of such late wassailers ; yet oh ! where 

else 
Shall I inform my unacquainted feet 
In tlie blind mazes of this tangled wood? 
My brothers, when they saw me wearied 

out 
With this long way, resolving here to 

lodge 
Under the spreading favor of these pines, 
Stepp'd, as they said, to the next thicket- 
side 
To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit 
As the kind hospitable woods provide. 
They left nie then, when the gray-hooded 

Even, 
Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed, 
Rose from tlie hindmost wheels of Phoj- 

bus' wain. 
Diit where they are, and why they came 

not back. 
Is now the labor of my thoughts; 'tis 

likeliest 
They liad engaged their wand'ring steps too 

far ; 
And envious darkness, ere they could re- 
turn, 
Had stole them from me: else, O thievish 

Kight, 
Why shouldst thou, but for some felonious 

end, 
In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars. 
That Nature hung in heav'n, and fill'd 

their lamps 
With everlasting oil, to give due light 
To the misled and lonely traveller? 
This is the place, as well as I may guoss, 
Whence even nowthe tumult of loml tiiirth 
Was rife, and perfect in my list'ning ear, 
Yet naught but single darkness do I find. 
What might this be ? A thousand fantasies 
Begin to tlirong into my imniory. 



Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows 
dire, 

And airy tongues, that syUable men's names 

On sands, and shores, and desert wilder- 
nesses. 

These thoughts may startle well, imt not 
astound 

The virtuous mind, that ever walks at- 
tended 

By a strong-siding champion. Conscience. — 

welcome pure-eyed Faith, white-handed 

Hope, 
Thou hovering Angel, girt with golden 

wings. 
And tliou, unblemish'd form of Chastity ! 

1 see ye visibly, and now believe 

That he, the .Supreme Good, t' whom all 

things ill 
Are but as slavish ofiieers of vengeance. 
Would .send a glist'riiig guardian, if need 

were. 
To keej) my life and honor iiiiassail'd. 
Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud 
Turn forth her silver lining on the night? 
I did not err, there does a sable cloud 
Turn forth her silver lining on the night. 
And casts a gleam over this tufted grove: 
I cannot lialloo to my brotiiers, but 
Such noise as I can make to be heard far- 
thest 
I'll venture, for my new-enliven'd spirits 
Prompt me ; and they perhaps are not far 
oflT. 

Song. 

Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st 
unseen 
Within thy airy shell. 
By slow Marauder's margent green, 
And in tlie violet-emliroider'd vale. 

Where the love-lorn nightingale 
Nightly to thee her sail song niourncth 
well ; 
Can.st thou not tell me of a gentle pair 
That iikest thy Narcissus are? 
Oh, if thou have 
Hid tliom in some flow'ry cave, 
Tell me Imt wliere, 
iSweet liucen of Parky, Daughter of the 
Sphere ! 
So mayst thou be translated to the skies. 
And give resounding grace to all Heav'n's 
liarnuinies. 



822 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


Enter COMUS. 


Lad. Dim darkness, and this leafy laby- 


Com. Can any mortal mixture of earth's 


rinth. 


mould 


Com. Could that divide you from near- 


Breathe such divine enchanting ravish- 


ushering guides ? 


ment? 


Lad. They left me weary on a grassy 


Sure something holy lodges in that breast, 


turf 


And with these raptures moves the vocal 


Com. By falsehood, or discourtesy, or 


air 


why? 


To testify his hidden residence : 


Lad. To seek i' th' valley some cool 


How sweetly did they float upon the wings 


friendly spring. 


Of silence, through the empty-vaulted 


Com. And left your fair side all un- 


night, 


guarded. Lady ? 


At every fall smoothing the raven down 


Lad. They were but twain, and pur- 


Of darkness till it smiled ! I have oft 


posed quick return. 


heard 


Com. Perhaps forestalling night pre- 


My mother Circe with the Sirens three, 


vented them. 


Amidst the ilow'ry-kirtled Naiades, 


Lad. How easy my misfortune is to hit ! 


Culling their potent herbs, and baleful 


Com. Imports their loss, beside the pres- 


drugs. 


ent need ? 


Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd 


Lad. No less than if I should my 


soul, 


brothers lose. 


And lap it in Elj^sium ; Scylla wept, 


Com. Were they of manly prime, or 


And chid her barking waves into atten- 


youthful bloom ? 


tion. 


Lad. As smooth as Hebe's their unra- 


And fell Charybdis murmur'd soft ap- 


zor'd lips. 


plause : 


Com. Two such I saw, what time the 


Yet they in pleasing slumber lull'd the 


labor'd ox 


sense. 


In his loose traces from the furrow came, 


And in sweet madness robb'd it of itself; 


And the swink'd hedger at his supper sat ; 


But such a sacred, and homefelt delight, 


I saw them under a green mantling vine 


Such sober certainty of waking bliss. 


That crawls along the side of von small 


I never heard till now. I'll speak to her. 


hill, 


And she shall be my queen. Hail, foreign 


Plucking ripe clusters from the tender 


wonder ! 


shoots ; 


Whom certain these rough shades did 


Their port was more than human, as they 


never breed, 


stood : 


Unless the goddess that in rural shrine 


I took it for a faery vision 


Dwell'st here with Pan, or Sylvan, by blest 


Of some gay creatures of the element, 


song 


That in the. colors of the rainbow live, 


Forbidding every bleak unkindly fog 


And play i' th' plighted clouds. I was 


To touch the prosperous growth of this 


awestruck, 


tall wood. 


And as I pass'd, I worshipp'd ; if those 


Lad. Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost 


you seek. 


that praise 


It were a journey like the path to heaven. 


That is address'd to unattending ears ; 


To help you ttnd them. 


Not any boast of skill, but extreme shift 


Lad. Gentle villager. 


How to regain my sever'd company. 


What readiest way would bring me to that 


Compell'd me to awake the courteous 


place ? 


Echo 


Com. Due west it rises from this shrubby 


To give me answer from her mossy couch. 


point. 


Com. What chance, good Lady, hath 


Lad. To find that out, good shepherd, I 


bereft you thus ? 


suppose. 



WEIRD AND 


FANTASTIC. 823 


In such a scant allowance of star-light, 


2 Br. Or if our eyes 


Would overtask the bust lund-inlofs art. 


Be barr'd that happiness, might we but 


Without the sure guess of well-practised 


hoar 


feet. 


The folded flocks penn'd in their wattlrd 


Com. I know each lane, and every alley 


cotes, j 


green, 


Or sound of past'ral reed with oaten j 


Dingle or bushy dell of this wild wood, 


stops. 


And every bosky bourn from side to side, 


Or whistle from the lodge, or village 


My daily walks and ancient neighbor- 


cock 


hood ; 


Count the night watches to his feathery 


And if your stray attendants be yet lodged 


dames. 


Or shroud within these limits, 1 shall 


'Twould be some solace yet, some little 


know 


cheering 


Ere morrow wake, or the low-roosted lark 


In this close dungeon of innumcrous 


From her thateh'd pallat rouse ; if other- 


boughs. 


wise, 


But oh, that hapless virgin, our lost 


I can conduct you. Lady, to a low 


sister ! 


But loyal cottage, where you may be safe 


Where may she wander now, whither be- 


Till further quest. 


take her 


Lad. yhcpherd, I take thy word. 


From the chill dew, among rude burs and 


And trust thy honest-ofler'd courtesy. 


thistles? 


Which oft is sooner found in lowly sheds 


Perhaps some cold bank is her bolster 


With smoky rafters, than in tap'stry halls 


now, i 


And courts of princes, where it lirst was 


Or 'gainst the rugged bark of some broad 


named. 


elm 


And yet is most pretended : in a place 


Leans her unpillow'd head, fraught with 


Less warranted than this, or less secure. 


sad fears. 


I cannot be, that I should fear to change 


What, if in wild amazement, and affright, 


it. 


Or, while we speak, within the direful 


Eye me, blest Providence, and square my 


grasp 


trial 


Of savage hunger, or of savage heat ? 


To my proportion'd strength. Shepherd, 


1 Br. Peace, brother, be not over ex- 


lead on. 


quisite 




To cast the fashion of uncertain evils; 


Enter The Two Beother-s. 


For grant they be so, while they rest un- 


1 Br. Unmuffle, ye faint stars, and thou, 


known. 


fair moon, 


What need a man forestall his date of 


That wont'st to love the traveller's benizon. 


grief. 


Stoop thy pale visage through an amber 


And run to meet what he would most 


cloud. 


avoid ? 


And disinherit Chaos, that reigns here 


Or if they be but false alarms of fear, 


In double night of darkness and of shades ; 


How bitter is such self-delusion ! 


Or if your influence be quite damni'd up 


I do not think my sister so to seek, 


With black usurping mists, some gentle 


Or so unprincipled in virtue's book, 


taper. 


And the sweet peace that goodness bosoms 


Though a rush candle, from the wicker- 


ever. 


hole 


As that the single want of light and noise 


Of some clay habitation, visit us 


(Not being in danger, as I trust she is 


With thy long-levell'd rule of streaming 


not) 


light; 


Could stir the constant mood of her calm 


And thou shalt be our star of Arcady, 


thoughts, 


Or Tyrian Cynosure. 


And put them into misbecoming plight. 



824 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Virtue could see to do what virtue would 


Infer, as if I thought my sister's state 


By her own radiant light, though sun and 


Secure without all doubt, or controversy ; 


moon 


Yet where an equal poise of hope and 


AVere in the flat sea sunk. And Wisdom's 


fear 


self 


Does arbitrate th' event, my nature is 


Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, 


That I incline to hope, rather than fear. 


Where, with her best nurse Contempla- 


And gladly banish squint suspicion. 


tion, 


My sister is not so defenceless left. 


She plumes her feathers, and lets grow 


As you imagine ; she has a hidden 


her wings. 


strength 


Tliat in the various bustle of resort 


Which you remember not. 


Were all-to ruffled, and sometimes im- 


2 Be. What hidden strength, 


pair'<l. 


Unless the strength of Heaven, if you 


He that has light within his own clear 


mean that ? 


breast. 


1 Be. I mean that too, but yet a hidden 


May sit i' th' centre, and enjoy bright 


strength. 


day : 


Which, if Heav'n gave it, may be term'd 


But he that hides a dark soul, and foul 


her own ; 


thoughts. 


'Tis chastity, my brother, chastity : 


Benighted walks under the mid-day sun ; 


She that has that, is clad in complete 


Himself is his own dungeon. 


steel. 


2 Be. 'Tis most true. 


And like a quiver'd nymph with arrows 


That musing meditation most aflfects 


keen 


Tlie pensive secrecy of desert cell. 


May trace huge forests, and unharbor'd 


Far from the cheerful haunt of men and 


heaths. 


herds, 


Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wilds. 


And sits as safe as in a senate-house ; 


Where through the sacred rays of chas- 


For -who would rob a hermit of his weeds. 


tity. 


His few books, or his beads, or maple 


No savage fierce, bandite, or mountaineer 


dish. 


Will dare to soil her virgin purity : 


Or do his gray hairs any violence? 


Yea there, where very desolation dwells, 


But beauty, like the fair Hesperian tree 


By grots, and caverns shagg'd with horrid 


Laden witli blooming gold, had need the 


shades. 


guard 


She may pass on with unblench'd majesty, 


Of dragon watch with unenchanted eye. 


Be it not done in pride, or in presump- 


To save her blossoms, and defend her 


tion. 


fruit 


Some say no evil thing that walks by 


From the rash hand of bold incontinence. 


night. 


You may as well spread out the unsunn'd 


In fog, or fire, by lake, or moorish fen, 


heaps 


Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid 


Of miser's treasure by an outlaw's den. 


ghost. 


And tell me it is safe, as bid me hope 


That breaks his magic chains at curfew- 


Danger will wink on opportunity, 


time. 


And let a single helpless maiden pass 


No goblin, or swart faery of the mine. 


Uninjured in this wild surrounding waste. 


Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity. 


Of night, or loneliness, it recks me not; 


Do ye believe me yet, or shall I call 


I fear the dread events that dog them 


Antiquity from the old schools of Greece 


both, 


To testify the arms of chastity ? 


Lest some ill-greeting touch attempt the 


Hence had the huntress Dian her dread 


person 


bow. 


Of our unowned sister. 


Fair silver-shafted queen, for ever chaste. 


1 Be. I do not, brother, 


Wherewith she tamed the brinded lioness 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



825 



And spotted mountain-paid, and set at 

naught 
The frivolous bolt of Cupid ; goda and 

men 
Fcar'd her stern frown, and she was queen 

o' the woods. 
What was that snaky-headed Gorgon 

shield. 
That wise Minerva wore, unconquer'd 

virgin. 
Wherewith she freezed her foes to con- 

geal'd stone, 
I5ut rigid looks of chaste austerity, 
And noble grace that dash'd l)ruto vio- 
lence 
With sudden adoration and blank awe? 
So dear to Heav'n is saintly chastity, 
That when a soul is found sincerely so, 
A thousand liveried angels lackey her. 
Driving far oft" each thing of sin and 

guilt. 
And in clear dream, and solemn vision. 
Tell her of things that no gross ear can 

hear. 
Till oft converse with heav'nly habitants 
Degins to east a beam on th' outward 

shape. 
The unpolluted temple of the mind. 
And turns it by degrees to the soul's es- 
sence, 
Till all be made immortal : but when 

lust, 
T5y unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul 

talk, 
Hut most by lewd and lavish act of sin, 
Lets in defilement to the inward parts, 
The soul grows clotted by contagion. 
Embodies, and inibrutcs, till she quite lose 
The divine property of her first being. 
Such are those thick and gloomy shadows 

damp 
Oft seen in charnel vaults, and sepulchres, 
Ling'ring and sitting by a new-made 

grave. 
As loath to leave the body that it loved, 
And link'd itself by carnal sensuality 
To a degenerate and degraded state. 

2 Br. How charming is divine philos- 
ophy ! 
Not harsh, and crabbed, as dull fools sup- 
pose, 
But musical as is Apollo's lute. 



And a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets, 
Where no crude surfeit reigns. 

1 Bu. List, list, I hear 

Some far-oir halloo break the silent air. 

2 Br. Methought so too ; what should 

it be? 

1 Br. For certain 

Either some one like us night-founder'd 

here. 
Or else some neighbor woodman, or, at 

worst. 
Some roving robber calling to his fellows. 

2 Br. Heaven keep my sister 1 Again, 

again, and near! 
Best draw, and stand upon our guard. 

1 Kit. I'll halloo; 

If he be friendly, he comes well ; if not. 
Defence is a good cause, and Heav'n bo 
for us. 

Enter (he Attendant Spirit, habited like 

a shi'pherd. 
That halloo I should know, what are you? 

speak : 
Come not too near, you fall on iron stakes 
else. 
Spir. What voice is that? my young 
Lord? speak again. 

2 Bk. O brother, 'tis my father's shep- 

herd, sure. 
1 Br. Thyrsis ! Whose artful strains 

have oft delay'd 
The huddling brook to hear his madrigal, 
And sweeten'd every musk-rose of the 

dale. 
How cam'st thou here, good swain? hath. 

any ram 
Slipt from the fold, or young kid lost his 

dam. 
Or straggling wether the pent flock for- 
sook? 
How could'st thou find this dark seques- 

ter'd nook? 
Spir. my loved master's heir, and his 

next joy, 
I came not here on such a trivial toy 
As a stray'il ewe, or to pursue the stealth 
Of pilfering wolf; not all the llcecy 

wealth 
That doth enrich these downs is worth a 

thought 
To this my errand, and the care it brought. 



826 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



But, oh ray virgin Lady, where is she ? 

How chance she is not in your company ? 
1 Bk. To tell thee sadly. Shepherd, 
without blame. 

Or our neglect, we lost her as we came. 
Spie. Aye me unhappy ! then my fears 

are true. 
1 Be. What fears, good Thyrsis ? Pri- 
thee briefly shew. 
Spie. I'll tell ye ; 'tis not vain or fabu- 
lous, 

Though so esteem'd by shallow ignorance, 

What the sage poets, taught by th' heav- 
enly Muse, 

Storied of old in high immortal verse, 

Of dire chima^ras, and enchanted isles, 

And rifted rocks wliose entrance leads to 
Hell; 

For such there be, but unbelief is blind. 
Within the navel of this hideous wood, 

Immured in cypress shades a sorcerer 
dwells, 

Of Bacchus and of Circe born, great 
Comus, 

Deep skill'd in all his mother's witch- 
eries ; 

And here to every thirsty wanderer 

By sly enticement gives his baneful cup, 

With many murmurs mix'd, whose pleas- 
ing poison 

The visage quite transforms of him that 
drinks, 

And the inglorious likeness of a beast 

Fixes instead, unmoulding reason's mint- 
age 

Char&cter'd in the face : this I have learnt 

Tending my flocks hard by i' th' hilly 
crofts, 

That brow this bottom-glade, whence, 
night by night, 

He and his monstrous rout are heard to 
howl, 

Like stabled wolves, or tigers at their 

prey, 
Doing abhorred rites to Hecate 
In their obscured haunts of inmost bowers. 
Yet have they many baits, and guileful 

spells, 
T' inveigle and invite th' unwary sense 
Of them that pass uuweeting by the way. 
This evening late, by then the chewing 

flocks 



Had ta'en their supper on the savory herb 
Of knot-grass dew-besprent, and were in 

fold, 
I sat me down to watch upon a bank 
With ivy canopied, and interwove 
With flaunting honeysuckle, and began. 
Wrapt in a pleasing fit of melancholy. 
To meditate my rural minstrelsy. 
Till Fancy had her fill ; but ere a close. 
The wonted roar was up amidst the woods, 
And fiU'd the air with barbarous disso- 
nance ; 
At which I ceased, and listen'd them a 

while. 
Till an unusual stop of sudden silence 
Gave respite to the drowsy frighted steeds, 
That draw the litter of close-curtain'd 

sleep ; 
At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound 
Hose like a steam of rich-distill'd per- 
fumes. 
And stole upon the air, that even Silence 
Was took ere she was ware, and wish'd she 

might 
Deny her nature, and be never more, 
Still to be so displaced. I was all ear. 
And took in strains that might create a 

soul 
Under the ribs of death : but oh ere long 
Too well I did perceive it was the voice 
Of my most honor'd Lady, your dear 

sister. 
Amazed I stood, harrow'd with grief and 

fear. 
And O poor hapless nightingale, thought I, 
How sweet thou sing'st, how near the 

deadly snare ! 
Then down the lawns I ran with headlong 

haste. 
Through paths and turnings often trod by 

day, 
Till guided by mine ear I found the place. 
Where that damn'd wizard, hid in sly dis- 
guise 
{For so by certain signs I knew), had met 
Already, ere my best speed could prevent, 
The aidless innocent lady his wish'd prey ; 
Who gently ask'd if he had seen such two, 
Supposing him some neighbor villager. 
Longer I durst not stay, but soon I guess'd 
Ye were the two she meant ; with that I 
sprung 



WEISD AND FANTASTIC. 



827 



Into swift flight, till I had found you 

here, 
But further know I not. 

2 Br. night ami shades, 
How are ye joiu'd with Hell in triple knot. 
Against th' unarmfed weakness of one vir- 
gin. 
Alone and helpless ! Is this the confidence 
You gave me, brother? 

1 Bk. Yes, and keep it still. 
Lean on it safely ; not a period 
Shall be unsaid for me: against the threats 
Of malice or of sorcery, or that power 
Which erring men call Chance, this I hold 

linn, 
Virtue may be assail'il, but never hurt, 
Surprised by unjust force, but not en- 

thrall'd ; 
Yea even that which Mischief meant most 

harm, 
Shall in the hapjiy trial prove most glory : 
But evil on itself shall back recoil, 
And mix no more with goodness, when at 

last 
Gather'd like scum, and settled to itself. 
It shall be in eternal restless change 
iSclf-fcd, and self-consumed: if this fail. 
The pillar'd firmament is rottenness. 
And earth's base built on stubble. But 

come, let's on. 
Against the opposing will and arm of 

Heaven 
May never this j\ist sword be lifted up ; 
But for that damn'd magician, let him be 

girt 
With all the grisly legions that troop 
Under the sooty flag of Acheron, 
Harpies and Hydras, or all tlie mon.strous 

forms 
'Twixt Africa and Ind, I'll find him out, 
And force him to restore his j)urcha.se back. 
Or drag him by the curls to a foul death. 
Cursed a.s his life. 

Sf'IU. Alas! good vent'rous youth, 
I love thy courage yet, and bold emprise ; 
But here thy sword can do thee little stead ; 
Far other arms and other weapons must 
Be those that quell the might of hellish 

charms : 
He with his bare wand can unthread thy 

joints, 
And crumble all thy sinews. 



1 Br. Why prithee. Shepherd, 
How durst thou then thyself approach so 

near, 
As to make this relation ? 

Spir. Care and utmost shifts 
How to secure the lady from surprisal 
Brought to my mind a certain shepherd 

lad. 
Of small regard to see to, yet well skill'd 
In every virtuous plant and healing herb. 
That spreads her verdant leaf to th' morn- 
ing ray : 
He loved me well, and oft would beg me 

sing. 
Which when I did, he on the tender grass 
Would sit, and hearken e'en to ec.sta.sy, 
And in requital ope his leathern scrip. 
And show me simples of a thousand names, 
Telling their strange and vigorous faculties. 
Amongst the rest a small unsightly root. 
But of divine effect, he cuU'd me out ; 
The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on 

. '*' 
But in another country, as he said. 

Bore a bright golden flow'r, but not in this 

soil: 
Unknown, and like esteem'd, and the dull 

swain 
Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon: 
And yet more med'cinal is it than that 

moly 
That Hermes once to wise Ulysses gave ; 
He call'd it II:emony, and gave it me. 
And bade me keep it as of sovereign use 
'Gainst all enchantments, mildew, blast, or 

damp. 
Or ghiLstly Furies' apparition. 
I pursed it up, but little reck'ning made. 
Till now that this extremity compell'd ; 
But now I find it true, for by this means 
I k^ew the foul enchanter though dis- 
guised, 
Enter'd the very lime-twigs of his .spells. 
And yet came off: if you have this about 

you 
(As I will give you when we go), you may 
IVildly assault the necromancer's hall ; 
Where if he be, with dauntless hardihood. 
And brandish'd blade ru.sh on him, break 

his gla-ss. 
And shed the luscious licjuor on the 

ground. 



S28 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Eut seize his wand ; though he and his 
cursed crew 

Fierce sign of battle make, and menace 
high, 

Or like the sons of Vulcan vomit smoke, 

Yet will they soon retire, if he but shrink. 
1 Br. Thyrsis, lead on apace, I'll fol- 
low thee. 

And some good angel bear a shield before 
us. 

The scene changes to a stately palace, set out 
with all manner of deliciousness ; soft 
music, tables spread with all dainties. 
CoMUS appears with his rabble, and the 
Lady set in an enchanted chair, to whom 
he offers his glass, which she puts by, and 
goes about to rise. 

Com. Nay, Lady, sit; if I but wave 
this wand, 

Your nerves are all chain'd up in alabas- 
ter, 

And you a statue, or as Daphne was, 

Root-bound, that fled Apollo. 
Lad. Fool, do not boast, 

Thou canst not touch the freedom of my 
mind 

With all thy charms, although this cor- 
poral rind 

Thou bast immanacled, while Heaven sees 
good. 
Com. Why are you vext. Lady? why 
do you frown? 

Here dwell no frowns nor anger; from 
these gates 

Sorrow flies far; see, here be all the 
pleasures 

That fancy can beget on youthful thoughts, 

When the fresh blood grows lively, and re- 
turns 

Brisk as the April buds in primrose ^sea- 
son. 

And first behold this cordial julep here, 

That flames, and dances in his crystal 
bounds, 

With spirits of balm, and fragrant syrups 
mix'd. 

Not that Nepenthes, which the wife of 
Thone 

In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena, 

Is of such pow'r to stir up joy as this. 

To life so friendly, or so cool to thirst. 



Why should you be so cruel to yourself, 
And to those dainty limbs which Nature 

lent 
For gentle usage, and soft delicacy ? 
But you invert the covenants of her trust. 
And harshly deal, like an ill borrower, 
With that which you received on other 

terms ; 
Scorning the unexempt condition 
By which all mortal frailty must subsist. 
Refreshment after toil, ease after pain, 
That have been tired all day without re- 
past, 
And timely rest have wanted; but, fair 

virgin. 
This will restore all soon. 

Lad. 'Twill not, false traitor, 
'Twill not restore the truth and honesty 
That thou hast banish'd from thy tongue 

with lies. 
Was this the cottage, and the safe abode 
Thou toldst me of? What grim aspects are 

these. 
These ugly-headed monsters ? Mercy guard 

me ! 
Hence with thy brew'd enchantments, foul 

deceiver ! 
Hast thou betray'd my credulous innocence 
With visor'd falsehood and base forgery ? 
And would'st thou seek again to trap me 

here 
With liquorish baits fit to ensnare a brute? 
Were it a draft for Juno- when she ban- 
quets, 
I would not taste thy treasonous offer ; 

none 
But such as are good men can give good 

things, 
And that which is not good, is not de- 
licious 
To a well-govem'd and wise appetite. 
Com. O foolishness of men ! that lend 
their ears 
To those budge doctors of the Stoic fur. 
And fetch their precepts from the Cynic 

tub, 
Praising the lean and sallow Abstinence. 
Wherefore did Nature pour her bounties 

forth. 
With such a full and unwithdrawing hand, 
Covering the earth with odors, fruits, and 
flocks. 



WETRD AND FANTASTIC. 



829 



Thronging the seas with spawn innumer- 
able, 
But all to please, and sate the curious 

taste? 
And set to work millions of spinning 

worms, 
That in their green shops weave the 

smooth-hair'd silk 
To deck her sons ; and that no corner 

might 
Be vacant of her plenty, in her own loins 
She huteh'd th' all-worshipi)'d ore, and 

precious gems, 
To store her children with : if all the 

world 
Should in a pet of temperance feed on 

pulse. 
Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear 

but frieze, 
Th' All-giver would be unthank'd, would be 

unprais'd. 
Not half his riches known, and yet de- 
spised ; 
And we should serve him as a grudging 

master. 
As a penurious niggard of his wealth ; 
And live like Nature's bastards, not her 

sons, 
Who would be quite surcharged with her 

own weight. 
And strangled witli her waste fertility ; 
Th' earth cumber'd, and the wiiigfcd air 

dark'd with plumes, 
The herds would over-multitude their 

lords. 
The sea o'erfraught would swell, and th' 

unsought diamonds 
Would so emblaze the forehead of the 

deep, 
And so bestud with stars, that they below 
Would grow inured to light, and come at 

last 
To gaze upon the sun with shameless 

brows. 
List, Lady, be not coy, and be not cozen'd 
With that same vaunted name Virginity. 
Beauty is Nature's coin, must not be 

hoarded. 
But must be current, and the good thereof 
Consists in mutual and partaken bliss, 
Unsavory in th' enjoyniont of itself; 
If you let slip time, like a neglected rose 



It withers on the stalk with languish'd 

head. 
Beauty is Nature's brag, and must be 

shown 
In courts, at feasts, and high solemnities, 
Where most may wonder at the workman- 
ship ; 
It is for homely features to keep home, 
They had their name thence ; coarse com- 
plexions. 
And cheeks of sorrv grain, will serve to 

ply 
The sampler, and to tease the huswife's 

wool. 
What need a vermeil-tinctured lip for that. 
Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the 

morn? 
There was another meaning in these gifts; 
Think what, and be advised, you are but 

young yet. 
Lad. I had not thought to have un- 

lockt my lips 
In this unhallow'd air, but'that this jug- 
gler 
Would think to charm my judgment, as 

mine eyes, 
Obtruding false rules prank'd in reason's 

garb. 
I hate when vice can bolt her arguments. 
And virtue has no tongue to check her 

pride. 
Impostor, do not charge most innocent 

Nature, 
As if she would her children should be 

riotous 
With her abundance ; she, good cateress, 
Means her provision only to the good. 
That live according to her sober laws. 
And holy dictate of spare temperance : 
If every just man, that now pines with 

want, 
Had but a moderate and beseeming share 
Of that which Ipwdly-painjiorM luxury 
Now heaps upon some few with vast 

excess, 
Nature's full blessings would be well dis- 

]iensed 
In unsuperHuous even proportion. 
And she no whit encumber'd with her 

store ; 
.Vnd then the (iiver would be better 

thank'd, 



830 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPMBIA OF POETRY. 



His praise due paid ; for swinisli gluttony 
Ne'er looks to Heav'n amidst his gorgeous 

feast, 
But with besotted base ingratitude 
Crams, and blasphemes his feeder. Shall 

I go on? 
Or have I said enow? To him that 

dares 
Arm his profane tongue with contemptu- 
ous words 
Against the sun-clad power of Chastity, 
Fain would I something say, yet to what 

end ? 
Thou hast nor ear, nor soul to apprehend 
The sdblime notion, and high mystery. 
That must be utter'd to unfold the sage 
And serious doctrine of Virginity, 
And thou art worthy that thou shouldst 

not know 
More happiness than this thy jorescnt lot. 
Enjoy your dear wit, and gay rhetoric. 
That hath so well been taught her dazzling 

fence ; 
Thou art not fit to hear thyself convinced; 
Yet should I try, the uncontrolled worth 
Of this pure cause would kindle my rapt 

spirits 
To such a flame of sacred vehemence, 
That dumb things would be moved to sym- 
pathize. 
And the brute earth would lend her nerves, 

and shake. 
Till all thy magic structures rear'd so high. 
Were shatter'd into heaps o'er thy false 
head. 
Com. She fables not: I feel that I do fear 
Her words set off" by some superior power : 
And though not mortal, yet a cold shud- 

d'ring dew 
Dips me all o'er, as when the wrath of 

Jove 
Speaks thunder, and the chains of Erebus, 
To some of Saturn's crew. I must dissemble. 
And try her yet more strongly. Come, no 

more, 
This is mere moral babble, and direct 
Against the canon laws of our founda- 
tion; 
I must not suffer this ; yet 'tis but the 

leos 
And settlings of a melancholy blood : 
Butthiswill cure all stra'ght; one sipofthis 



Will bathe the drooping spirits in delight, 
Beyond the bliss of dreams. Be wise, and 
taste. — 

The Brothees rush in with swords drawn, 
wrest his glass out of his hand, and break 
it against the ground ; his rout make sign 
of resistance, but are all driven in. The 
Attendant Spirit comes in. 

Spib. What, have you let the false en- 
chanter 'scape? 
Oh ye mistook, ye should have snatch'd 

his wand. 
And bound him fast ; without his rod re- 
versed, 
And backward mutters of dissevering 

power. 
We cannot free the Lady that sits here 
In stony fetters fix'd, and motionless : 
Yet stay, be not disturb'd; now I bethink 

me, 
Some other means I have which may be 

used. 
Which once of Meliboeus old I learnt, 
The soothest shepherd that e'er piped on 
plains. 
There is a gentle nymph not far from 
hence, 
That with moist curb sways the smooth 

Severn stream, 
Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure; 
Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine, 
That had the sceptre from his father 

Brute. 
She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pur- 
suit 
Of her enragfed stepdame Guendolen, 
Commended her fair innocence to the 

flood, 
That stay'd her flight with his cross-flow- 
ing course. 
The water-nymphs that in the bottom 

play'd, 
Held up their pearlfed wrists, and took her 

in, 
Bearing her straight to aged Nereus' hall. 
Who piteous of her woes, rear'd her lank 

head, 
And gave her to his daughters to imbathe 
In nectar'd lavers strow'd with asphodil. 
And through the porch and inlet of each 
sense 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



831 



Dropp'd in ambrosial oils, till she revived, 
And underwent a quick immortal change, 
Made Goddess of the river : still she re- 
tains 
Her maiden gentleness, and oft at eve 
Visits the herds along the twilight mea- 
dows, 
Helping all urchin blasts, and ill-luck 

signs 
That the shrewd meddling elf delights to 

make, 
\Vhich she with precious vial'd liquors 

heals ; 
For which the shepherds at their festivals 
Carol her goodness loud in rustic lays. 
And throw sweet garland wreaths into 

her stream 
Of pansics, pinks, and gaudy daffodils. 
And, as the old swain said, she can un- 
lock 
The clasping charm, and thaw the numb- 
ing spell. 
If she be right invoked in warbled song ; 
For maidenhood she loves, and will be 

swift 
To aid a virgin, such as was herself. 
In hard-besetting need ; this will I try. 
And add the pow'r of some adjuring verse. 

SoxG. 
Sabrina fair. 

Listen where thou art sitting 
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave. 

In twisted braids of lilies knitting 
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair ; 

Listen for dear honor's sake, 

Goddess of the silver lake. 
Listen and save. 
Listen and appear to us 
In name of great Ocean us, 
By th' earth-shaking Neptune's mace, 
And Tetliys' grave majestic pace. 
By hoary Xereus' wrinkled look. 
And the Carpathian wizard's hook. 
By scaly Triton's winding shell. 
And old soothsaying Glaueus' spell, 
By Lcucothea's lovely hands, 
And her son that rules the strands, 
By Thetis' tinsel-slipper'd feet, 
And the songs of sirens sweet, 
By dead Parthenope's dear tomb, 
And fair Ligea's golden comb. 



Wherewith she sits on diamond rocks. 
Sleeking her soft alluring locks. 
By all tlie nymphs that nightly dance 
Upon thy streams with wily glance, 
Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head 
From thy coral-paven bed. 
And bridle in thy headlong wave, 
Till thou our summons answer'd have. 
Listen and save. 

Sahuixa rises, attended by water-nymphs, 
and sings. 
By the riLshy-fring^d bank, 
Where grows the willow and the osier 
dank, 

Jly sliding chariot stays, 
Thick set with agate, and the azurn 

sheen 
Of turkis blue, and emerald green, 

That in the channel strays ; 
Whilst from off the waters fleet, 
Thus I sot my printless feet 
O'er the cowslip's velvet head. 

That bends not as I tread ; 
Gentle Swain, at thy request 

I am here. 

Spir. Goddess dear. 
We implore thy pow'rful hand 
To undo the charmi>d band 
Of true virgin here distrest. 
Through the force, and through the wile 
Of unbless'd enchanter vile. 

S.VBR. Shepherd, 'tis my office best 
To help ensnared chastity: 
Brightest Lady, look on me; 
Thus I sprinkle on thy breast 
Drops that from my fountain pure 
I have kept of precious cure. 
Thrice upon thy finger's tip. 
Thrice upon thy rubied lip; 
Ne.xt this marble venom'd seat, 
Smear'd with gums of glutinous heat, 
I touch with chaste palms moist and 

cold : 
Now the spell hath lost his hold ; 
And I must haste ere morning hour 
To wait in Amphitrite's bow'r. 

Sabrina descends, and the Lady r!irs mtt 
of her seat. 
Spir. Virgin, daughter of Locriiie, 
Sprung of old .\nchises' line, 



832 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



May thy brimmfed waves for this 
Their full tribute never miss 
From a thousand petty rills, 
That tumble down the snowy hills : 
Summer drouth, or singed air 
Never scorch thy tresses fair. 
Nor wet October's torrent flood 
Thy molten crystal fill with mud ; 
]\Iay thy billows roll ashore 
The beryl, and the golden ore ; 
May thy lofty head be crown'd 
With many a tow'r and terrace round. 
And here and there thy banks upon 
With groves of myrrh and cinnamon. 
Come, Lady, while Heav'n lends us 
grace. 
Let us fly this cursfcd place, 
Lest the sorcerer us entice 
With some other new device. 
Not a waste or needless sound 
Till we come to holier ground ; 
I shall be your faithful guide 
Through this gloomy covert wide, 
And not many furlongs thence 
Is your Father's residence. 
Where this night are met in state 
Slany a friend to gratulate 
His wish'd presence, and beside 
All the swains that there abide, 
With jigs and rural dance resort ; 
We shall catch them at their sport. 
And our sudden coming there 
Will double all their mirth and cheer; 
Come let us haste, the stars grow high, 
But night sits monarch yet in the mid 
sky. 

The scene changes, present'mg Ludlow town 
and the President's castle; then come in 
country dancers, after them the Attend- 
ant Spirit, with the Two Beothers 
and the Lady. 

Song. 
Spir. Back, Shepherds, back, enough 
your play, 
Till next sunshine holiday; 
Here be without duck or nod 
Other trippings to be trod 
Of lighter toes, and such court guise 
As Mercury did first devise, 
With the mincing Dryades, 
On the lawns, and on the leas. 



This second iSong presents them to their Father 

and Mother. 
Noble Lord, and Lady bright, 
I have brought ye new delight. 
Here behold so goodly grown 
Three fair branches of your own ; 
Heav'n hath timely tried their youth, 
Their faith, their patience, and their truth, 
And sent them here through hard assays 
With a crown of deathless praise. 
To triumph in victorious dance 
O'er sensual folly, and intemperance. 

The dances ended, the Spirit epiloguizes. 

Spir. To the ocean now I fly. 
And those happy climes that lie 
Where day never shuts his eye, 
Up in the broad fields of the sky : 
There I suck the liquid air 
All amidst the gardens fair 
Of Hesperus, and his daughters three 
That sing about the golden tree : 
Along the crisped shades and bowers 

Eevels the spruce and jocund Spring, 
The Graces, and the rosy-bosora'd Hours, 

Thither all their bounties bring; 
There eternal Summer dwells. 

And west winds, with musky wing, 

About the cedarn alleys fling 
Nard and cassia's balmy smells. 
Iris there with humid bow 
Waters the odorous banks, that blow 
Flowers of more mingled hue 
Than her purfled scarf can shew, 
And drenches with Elysian dew 
(List, mortals, if your ears be true), 
Beds of hyacinth and roses, 
Where young Adonis oft reposes, 
Waxing well of his deep wound 
In slumber soft, and on the ground 
Sadly sits th' Assyrian queen ; 
But far above in spangled sheen 
Celestial Cupid her famed son advanced, 
Holds his dear Psyche sweet entranced. 
After her wand'ring labors long. 
Till free consent the Gods among 
Make her his eternal bride. 
And from her fair unspotted side 
Two blissful twins are to be born, 
Youth and Joy ; so Jove hath sworn. 

But now my task is smoothly done, 
I can fly, or I can run 



WEJRD AND FANTASTIC. 



833 



Quickly to the green earth's end, 
Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend, 
And from thence can soar as soon 
To the corners of the moon. 

Mortals, that would follow me, 
Love Virtue, she alone is free ; 
She can teach ye how to climb 
Higher than the si)herv chime: 
Or, if Virtue feeble were, 
Ilcav'n itself would stoop to her. 

John Milton. 



Farewell to the Fairies. 

1*AREWELL rewards and Fairies 1 

Good housewives now may say ; 
For now foule sluts in dairies 

Doe fare as well as they : 
And though they sweepe their hearths no 
less 

Than niayds were wont to doe. 
Yet who of late for cleaneliness 

Finds sixe-pence in her shoe ? 

Lament, lament old Abbies, 

The fairies lost command ; 
They did but change priests babies, 

But some have changed your land : 
And all your children stoln from thence 

Are now growne Puritancs, 
Who live as changelings ever since, 

For love of your demaines. 

At morning and at evening both 

You merry were and glad, 
So little care of sleepe and sloth. 

These prettie ladies ha<l. 
When Tom came home from labour, 

Or Ciss to milking rose. 
Then merrily went their labour. 

And nimbly went their toes. 

Witness those rings and roundclayes 

Of theirs, which yet rcmaine; 
Were footed in tiueene Maries dayes 

On many a. gra.ssy playne. 
But since of late Elizabeth 

And later James came in ; 
They never danced on any heath. 

As when the time hath bin. 

By which wee note the fairies 
Were of the old profession : 
63 



Their songs were Ave Maries, 
Their dances were procession. 

But now, alas! they all are dead. 
Or gone beyond the seas. 

Or farther for religion fled. 
Or else they take their ease. 

A tell-tale in their company 

They never could endure ; 
And whoso kei)t not secretly 

Their mirth, was punish'd sure: 
It was a just and Cliristian deed 

To pinch such blacke and blue : 
Oh how the conimon-welth doth need 

Such justices as you ! 

Now they have left our quarters ; 

A Register they have. 
Who can preserve their charters ; 

A man both wise and grave. 
An hundred of their merry pranks. 

By one that I could name 
Are kept in store; con twenty thanks 

To William for the same. 

To William Churne of Staffordshire 

Give laud and praises due. 
Who every meale can mend your cheare 

With tales both old and true: 
To William all give audience. 

And pr.ay yee for his noddle: 
For all the fairies evidence 

Were lost, if it were addle. 

Richard Corbet. 

KiLjfEyy. 

BONXY Kilmcny gaed up the glen ; 
But it wa.sna to meet Duneira's men. 
Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see. 
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. 
It was only to hear the Yorlin sing, 
And pu' the cress-flower round the spring ; 
The scarlet hyppe, and the hindberry. 
And the nut that hung frae the hazel 

tree ; 
For Kilmeny wa-s pure .ns pure could be. 
But lang nuiy her minuy look o'er the 

wa'. 
And lang may she seek i' the greenwood 

shaw ; 
Lang the laird of Duneira blame, 
And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come 

hamc 1 



834 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



When many lang day had come and fled, 
When grief grew calm, and hope was 

dead, 
When mess for Kilmeny's soul had been 

sung, 
When the bedes-man had prayed, and the 

deadbell rung : 
Late, late in a gloamin when all was 

still. 
When the fringe was red on the westlin 

hill, 
The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane. 
The reek o' the cot hung o'er the plain. 
Like a little wee cloud in the world its 

lane ; 
When the ingle lowed with an eiry leme. 
Late, late in the gloamin Kilmeny came 

hame ! 

" Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you 

been? 
Lang hae we sought baith holt and dean ; 
By linn, by ford, and greenwood tree. 
Yet you are halesome and fair to see. 
Where gat you that joup o' the lily 

sheen ? 
That bonny snood o' the birk sae green? 
And these roses the fairest that ever was 

seen ? — 
Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you 

been ?" 

Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace. 
But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's 

face; 
As still was her look, and as still was 

her ee. 
As the stillness that lay on the emerant 

lea. 
Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless 

sea. 
For Kilmeny had been she ken'd not 

where, 
And Kilmeny had seen what she could 

not declare ; 
Kilmeny had been where the cock never 

crew, 
Where the rain never fell, and the wind 

never blew. 
But it seemed as the harp of the sky had 

rung. 
And the airs of heaven played round her 

tongue, 



When she spake of the lovely forms she 

had seen, 
And a land where sin had never been ; 
A land of love, and a land of light, 
Withouten sun, or moon, or night ; 
Where the river swa'd a living stream. 
And the light a pure and cloudless beam ; 
The land of vision it would seem, 
A still, an everlasting dream. 

In yon greenwood there is a waik. 
And in that waik there is a wene. 

And in that wene there is a maike. 
That neither has flesh, nor blood, nor bane ; 
And down in yon greenwood he walks his 
lane. 

In that green wene Kilmeny lay, 
Her bosom happ'd wi' flowerets gay ; 
But the air was soft and the silence deep, 
And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep. 
She kenned nae mair, nor open'd her ee, 
Till waked by the hymns of a far coun- 
trye. 

She woke on a couch of the silk sae 

slim. 
All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's 

rim ; 
And lovely beings round were rife, 
Who erst had travelled mortal life ; 
And aye they smiled, and 'gan to speer, 
" What spirit has brought this mortal 

here ?" 

" Lang have I ranged the world wide," 
A meek and reverend fere replied ; 
" Baith night and day I have watched the 

fair 
Eident a thousand years and mair. 
Yes, I have watched o'er ilk degree, 
Wherever blooms femenitye ; 
And sinless virgin, free of stain 
In mind and body, fand I nane. 
Never, since the banquet of time, 
Found I a virgin in her prime. 
Till late this bonnie maiden I saw, 
As spotless as the morning snaw : 
Full twenty years she has lived as free 
As the spirits that sojourn in this coun- 

trye: 
I have brought her away frae the snares of 

men, 
That sin or death she never may ken." 



WEIRB AND FANTASTIC. 



835 



They clasped her waist and her hand^J sae 

fair, 
They kissed her cheek, and they kemed 

her hair ; 
And round came many a blooming fere, 
.Saying, " Bonny Kilmeny, ye're welcome 

here ! 
Women are freed of the littand scorn : — 
O, blessed be the day Kilmeny was born I 
Now shall the land of the sj)irits see, 
Now shall it ken what a woman may be ! 
JIaiiy Ling year in sorrow and pain, 
Jlany lang year through the world we've 

gane. 
Commissioned to watch fair womankind, 
For it's they who nurse the immortal 

mind. 
We have watched their steps as the dawn- 
ing shone, 
And deep in the greenwood walks alone; 
By lily bower and silken bed, 
The viewless tears have o'er them shed ; 
Have soothed their ardent minds to sleep, 
Or left the couch of love to weep. 
We have seen ! we have seen ! but the time 

maun come. 
And the angels will weep at the day of 

doom! 

" O, would the fairest of mortal kind 
Aye keep these holy truths in mind, 
That kindred spirits their motions see, 
Who watch their ways with anxious ee, 
And grieve for the guilt of humanitye! 
0, sweet to Heaven the maiden's prayer. 
And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair! 
And dear to Heaven the words of truth. 
And the praise of virtue frae beauty's 

mouth ! 
-Vnd dear to the viewless forms of air, , 

The mind that kythes as the body fair! 

" O bonny Kilmeny ! free frfte stain, 
If ever you seek the world again, 
That world of sin, of sorrow, and fear, 
O, tell of the joys that are waiting here; 
And tell of the signs you shall shortly see; 
Of the times that are now, and the times 
that shall be." 

They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away, 
And she walked in the light of a sunless 
day: 



The sky was a dome of crystal bright, 
The fountain of vision, and fountain of 

light : 
The emerant fields were of dazzling glow, 
And the flowers of everlasting blow. 
Then deep in the stream her body they 

laid. 
That her youth and beauty never might 

fade; 
And they smiled on heaven, when they 

saw her lie 
In the stream of life that wandered by. 
And she heard a song, she heard it sung. 
She kend not wliere ; but sae sweetly it 

rung. 
It fell on her ear like a dream of the 

morn : — 
" O, blest be the d.iy Kilmeny was 

born! 
Now shall the land of the spirits see, 
Now shall it ken what a woman may be ! 
The sun that .shines on the world sae 

bright, 
A borrowed gleid frae the fountain of 

light; 
And the moon that sleeks the skj' sac dun, 
Like a gouden bow, or a beamlcss sun, 
Shall wear away and be seen nae mair. 
And the angels shall miss them travelling 

the air. 
But lang, lang after baith night and day, 
When the sun and the world have fled 

away ; 
When the sinner has gane to his waesome 

doom, 
Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom !" 

They bore her away, she wist not how, 
For she felt not arm nor rest below ; 
But so swift they wained lier through the 

light, 
'Twas like the motion of sound or sight; 
They seemed to split the gales of air. 
And yet nor gale nor breeze was there. 
Unnumbered groves below them grew ; 
They came, they past, and backward 

flew. 
Like floods of blossoms gliding on, 
A moment seen, in a moment gone. 
0, never vales to mortal view 
Appeared like those o'er which they flew ! 
That land to human spirits given, 
The lowermost vales of the storied heaven ; 



836 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


From thence they can view the world 


She saw the plaid and the broad claymore, 


below, 


And the brows that the badge of freedom 


And heaven's blue gates with sapphires 


bore ;— 


glow, 


And she thought she had seen the land be- 


More glory yet unmeet to know. 


fore. 


They bore her far to a mountain green, 


She saw a lady sit on a throne. 


To see what mortal never had seen ; 


The fairest that ever the sun shone on : 


And they seated her high on a purple 


A lion licked her hand of milk, 


sward, 


And she held him in a leish of silk ; 


And bade her heed what she saw and 


And a leifu' maiden stood at her knee, 


heard ; 


With a silver wand and melting ee ; 


And note the changes the spirits wrought, 


Her sovereign shield till love stole in. 


For now she lived in the land of 


And poisoned all the fount within. 


thought. 




She looked, and .she saw nor sun nor skies, 


Then a gruff untoward bedes-man came, 


But a cry.stal dome of a thousand dyes ; 


And hundit the lion on his dame ; 


She looked, and she saw nae land aright. 


And the guardian maid wi' the dauntless 


But an endless whirl of glory and light : 


ee, 


And radiant beings went and came 


She dropped a tear, and left her knee ; 


Far swifter than wind, or the linked flame. 


And she saw till the queen frae the lion 


She hid her een frae the dazzling view ; 


fled, 


She looked again, and the scene was new. 


Till the bonniest flower of the world lay 




dead; 


She saw a sun on a summer sky, 


A coffin was set on a distant plain. 


And clouds of amber sailing by ; 


And she saw the red blood fall like rain: 


A lovely land beneath her lay. 


Then bonny Kilmeny's heart grew sair, 


And that land had lakes and mountains 


And she turned away, and could look nae 


gray ; 


mair. 


And that land had valleys and hoary 




piles. 


Then the gruff grim carle girnfed amain. 


And marled seas and a thousand isles. 


And they trampled him down, but he rose 


Its fields were speckled, its forests green, 


again ; 


And its lakes were all of the dazzling 


And he baited the lion to deeds of weir. 


sheen. 


Till he lapped the blood to the kingdom 


Like magic mirrors, where slumbering lay 


dear ; 


The sun and the sky, .and the cloudlet 


And weening his head was danger-preef. 


gray; 


When crowned with the rose and clover 


Which heaved and trembled, and gently 


leaf, 


swung, 


He gowled at the carle, and chased him 


On every shore they seemed to be hung : 


away 


For there they were seen on their down- 


To feed wi' the deer on the mountain 


ward plain 


gray. 


A thousand times, and a thousand again ; 


He gowled at the carle, and he gex;ked at 


In winding lake, and placid firth, 


Heaven ; 


Little peaceful heavens in the bosom of 


But his mark was set, and his arles given. 


earth. 


Kilmeny a while her een withdrew ; 




She looked again, and the scene was new. 


Kilmeny sighed and seemed to grieve. 




For she found her heart to that land did 


She saw below her fair unfurled 


cleave ; . 


One half of all the glowing world. 


She saw the corn wave on the vale, 


Where oceans rolled, and rivers ran. 


She saw the deer run down the dale ; 


To bound the aims of sinful man. 



WEIJiD AND FAXTASTIC. 



837 



She saw a people, fierce and fell, 
Burst frae tlieir bounds like fiends of hell ; 
Tliere lilies grew, and tlie eagle flew. 
And she herked on her ravening crew. 
Till the cities and towers were wrapt in a 

blaze, 
And tlio thunder it roared o'er the lauds 

and the seas. 
The widows they wailed, and the red blood 

ran, 
And she threatened an end to the race of 

man : 
She never lened, nor stood in awe. 
Till caught by the lion's deadly paw. 
Oh I then the eagle swinked for life. 
And brainzellcd up a mortal strife ; 
But flew she north, or flew she south, 
She met wi' the gowl of the lion's mouth. 

With a mooted wing and wacfii' maen, 
The eagle sought her eiry again ; 
But lang may she cower in her bloody nest, 
And lang, lang sleek her wounded breast. 
Before she sey another flight. 
To play wi' the norland lion's might. 

But to sing the sights Kilmeny saw. 
So far surpassing nature's law. 
The singer's voice wad sink away. 
And the string of his liar[) wad cease to 

play. 
But she saw till the sorrows of man were 

by. 
And all was love and harmony ; — 
Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away. 
Like the flakes of snaw on a winter's day. 

Then Kilmeny begged again to see 
The friends she liad left in her own 

c<iuntrye, 
To tell of the place where she had boon. 
And the glories that lay in the land un- 
seen ; 
To warn the living maidens fair. 
The loved of Heaven, the spirits' c.»re, 
Tliat all wliose minds unmeled remain 
Shall bloom in beauty when time is ganc. 

With distant music, soft and deep, 
Tluy lulh'd Kilmrny snun<I as]crp; 
And when she awakened, she lay her lane, 
All happed with flowers in the greenwood 
wene. 



When seven lang years had come and 

fled ; 
When grief was calm, and hope was dead ; 
When scarce was remembered Kilmeny's 

name. 
Late, late in a gloamin Kilmeny came 

harue. 
And O, her beauty was fair to see. 
But still and steadfast was her ee! 
Such beauty bard may never declare. 
For there was no pride nor passion there ; 
And the soft desire of maidens' een 
In, that mild face could never be seen. 
Her seymar was the lily flower. 
And her cheek the moss-rose in the 

shower ; 
And her voice like the distant melodye. 
That floats along the twilight sea. 
But she loved to raike the lanely glen, 
Ami keep afar frae the haunts of men ; 
Her holy hymns unheard to sing, 
To suck the flowers and drink the spring. 
But wherever her peaceful form appeared, 
The wild beasts of the hills were ciieered ; 
The wolf played blythely round the field. 
The lordly hyson lowed and kneeled ; 
The dun deer wooed witli manner bland. 
And cowered aneath her lily hand. 
And when at eve the woodlands rung. 
When hymns of other worlds she sung 
In ecstasy of sweet devotion, 
O, then the glen was all in motion ! 
The wild beasts of the forest came, 
Broke from their boughts and faulds the 

tame. 
And goved around, charmed and amazed ; 
Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed. 
And murmured and looked with anxious 

jiain. 
For something the mystery to exjilain. 
The buzzard eanie with the throstle-cock ; 
The corby left her houf in the rock ; 
The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew ; 
The hind came tripping o'er the dew ; 
The wolf and the kid their raike began. 
And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret 

ran ; 
The hawk and the hern attourthem hung, 
And the merl and the mavis forhooyed 

their young ; 
And all in a peaceful ring were hurled : — 
It was like an eve in a sinless world I 



838 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



When a month and day had come and 

gane, 
Kilmeny sought the greenwood wene ; 
There laid her down on the leaves sae 

green, 
And Kilmeny on earth was never mair 

seen. 
But O, the words that fell from her 

mouth, 
Were words of wonder and words of 

truth ! 
But all the land were in fear and dread, 
For they kendna whether she was living 

or dead. 
It wasna her hame, and she couldna re- 
main ; 
She left this world of sorrow and pain. 
And returned to the land of thought again. 

James Houg. 

Song 

Fkom "The Merchant or Venice." 
Tell me where is fancy bred, 
Or in the heart, or in the head ? 
How begot, how nourished? 
Keply, reply. 

It is engender'd in the eyes, 
With gazing fed ; and fancy dies 
In the cradle where it lies : 
Let us all ring fancy's knell ; 
I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell. 
Ding, dong, bell. 

"William Shakespeare. 

Alice Brand. 

Merby it is in the good greenwood. 
When the mavis and merle are sing- 
ing, 
When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds 
are in cry. 
And the hunter's horn is ringing. 

" O Alice Brand, my native land 

Is lost for love of you ; 
And we must hold by wood and wold, 

As outlaws wont to do. 

" O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so bright, 
And 'twas all for thine eyes so blue, 

That on the night of our luckless flight, 
Thy brother bold I slew. 



" Now must I teach to hew the beech. 
The hand that held the glaive. 

For leaves to spread our lowly bed, 
And stakes to fence our cave. 

" And for vest of pall, thy fingers small. 

That wont on harp to stray, 
A cloak must shear from the slaughter'd 
deer, 

To keep the cold away." — 

" O Richard ! if my brother died, 

'Twas but a fiital chance ; 
For darkling was the battle tried, 

And fortune sped the lance. 

" If pall and vair no more I wear, 

Nor thou the crimson sheen, 
As warm, we'll say, is the russet gray. 

As gay the forest green. 

" And, Richard, if our lot be hard, 

And lost thy native land. 
Still Alice has her own Richard, 

And he his Alice Brand." 

'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood, 
So blithe Lady Alice is singing; 

On the beech's pride, and oak's brown side, 
Lord Richard's axe is ringing. 

Up spoke the moody Elfin King, 
Who wonn'd within the hill, — 

Like wind in the porch of a ruin'd church, 
His voice was ghostly shrill. 

"Why sounds yon stroke on beech and 
oak. 

Our moonlight circle's screen ? 
Or who comes here to chase the deer. 

Beloved of our Elfin Queen ? 
Or who may dare on wold to wear 

The fairie's fatal green? 

" Up, Urgan, up ! to you mortal hie, 
For thou wert christeu'd man; 

For cross or sign thou wilt not fly. 
For mutter'd word or ban. 

"Lay on him the curse of the wither'd 
heart. 
The curse of the sleepless eye ; 
Till he wish and pray that his life would 
part. 
Nor yet find leave to die." 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



839 



'Tis merrry, 'tis merry, in good green- 
wood, 
Though the birds have still'd their 
singing; 
The evening blaze doth Alice raise, 
And Richard is fagots bringing. 

Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf. 

Before Lord Richard stands. 
And, as he cross'd and bless'd himself, 
" I fear not sign," quoth the grisly elf, 

" That is made with bloody hands." 

But out then spoke she, Alice Brand, 

That woman void of fear, — 
"And if there's blood upon his hand, 

'Tis but the blooil of deer.—" 

"Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood! 

It cleaves unto his hand. 
The stain of thine own kindly blood. 

The blood of Ethert Brand." 

Then forward stepp'd she, Alice Brand, 

And made the holy sign, — 
"And if there's blood on Richard's hand, 

A spotless hand is mine. 

"And I conjure thee, Demon elf. 

By Him whom Demons fear. 
To show us whence thou art thyself, 

And what thine errand here ? — " 

" 'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in Fairy-land, 

When fairy birds are singing. 
When the court doth ride by their mon- 
arch's side. 

With bit and bridle ringing : 

"And gaily shines the Fairy-land — 

But all is glistening show. 
Like the idle gleam that December's 
beam 

Can dart on ice and snow. 

"And fading, like that varied gleam, 

Is our inconstant shape. 
Who now like knight and lady seem, 

And now like dwarf and ape. 

" It was between the night and day. 
When the Fairy King has power. 
That I sunk down in a sinful fray, 
And, 'twi.xt life and death, was snatch'd 
away 
To the joyless Elfin bower. 



" But wist I of a woman bold. 
Who thrice my brow durst sign, 

I might regain my mortal mold. 
As fair a form as thine." 

She cross'd him once — she cross'd him 
twice — 

That lady was so brave; 
The fouler grew his goblin hue. 

The darker grew the cave. 

She cross'd him thrice, that lady bold; 

He rose beneath her hand 
The fairest knight on Scottish mold, 

Her brother, Ethert Brand ! 

Merry it is in good greenwood. 

When the mavis and merle are singing, 
But merrier were they in Dunfermline 
grey, 
When all the bells were ringing. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



Tbe Blessed Damozel. 

The blessed damozel leaned out 
From the gold bar of Heaven ; 

Her eyes were deeper than the depth 
Of waters stilled at even ; 

She had three lilies in her hand. 

And the stars in her hair were seven. 

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, 
' No wrought Howers did adorn, 
But a white rose of Mary's gift, 

For service meetly worn; 
Her hair that lay along her back 

Was yellow like ripe corn. 

Her seemed she scarce had been a day 

One of God's choristers ; 
The wonder was not yet quite gone 

From that still look of hers; 
Albeit, to them she left, her day 

Had counted as ten years. 

(To one, it is ten years of years. 

. . . Yet now, and in this place. 
Surely she leaned o'er me ; her hair 

Fell all about my face. . . . 
Nothing: the autumn fall of leaves. 

The whole year sets a])ace.) 

It wa.s the rampart of God's house 
That she was standing on ; 



840 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



By God built over the sheer depth 

The which is Space begun ; 
So high, that looking downward thence 

She scarce could see the sun. 

It lies in Heaven, across the flood 

Of ether, as a bridge. 
Beneath, the tides of day and night 

With flame and darkness ridge 
The void, as low as where this earth 

Spins like a fretful midge. 

Heard hardly, some of her new friends 

Amid their loving games 
Spake evermore among themselves 

Their virginal chaste names ; 
And the souls mounting up to God 

Went by her like thin flames. 

And still she bowed herself, and stooped 

Out of the circling charm ; 
Until her bosom must have made 

The bar she leaned on warm, 
And the lilies lay as if asleep 

Along her bended arm. 

From the fixed place of Heaven she saw 

Time like a pulse shake fierce 
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still 
strove 

Within the gulf to pierce 
Its path ; and now she spoke as when 

The stars sang in their spheres. 

The sun was gone now ; the curlfed moon 

Was like a little feather 
Fluttering far down the gulf; and now 

She spoke through the still weather. 
Her voice was like the voice the stars 

Had when they sang together. 

(Ah, sweet! Even now, in that bird's 
song, 

Strove not her accents there, 
Fain to be hearken'd ? When those bells 

Possessed the mid-day air, 
Strove not her steps to reach my side 

Down all the echoing stair?) 

" I wish that he were come to me, 

For he will come," she said. 
" Have I not pray'd in heaven ? — on earth, 

Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd? 
Are not two prayers a perfect strength ? 

And shall I feel afraid ? 



" When round his head the aureole clings 

And he is clothed in white, 
I'll take his hand and go with him 

To the deep wells of light; 
We will step down as to a stream. 

And bathe there in God's sight. 

" We two will stand beside that shrine. 

Occult, withheld, untrod, 
Whose lamps are stirred continually 

With prayer sent up to God ; 
And see our old prayers, granted, melt 

Each like a little cloud. 

" We two will lie i' the shadow of 

That living mystic tree, 
Within whose secret growth the Dove 

Is sometimes felt to be. 
While every leaf that His plumes touch 

Saith His name audibly. 

" And I myself will teach to him, 

I myself, lying so. 
The songs I sing here; which his voice 

Shall pause in, hushed and slow, 
And find some knowledge at each pause. 

Or some new thing to know." 

(Alas ! We two, we two, thou say'st ! 

Yea, one wast thou with me 
That once of old. But shall God lift 

To endless unity 
The soul whose likeness with thy soul 

Was but its love for thee?) 

" We two," she said, " will seek the groves 

Where the lady Mary is. 
With her five handmaidens, whose names 

Are five sweet symphonies, 
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, 

Margaret and Eosalys. 

" Circlewise sit they, with bound locks 

And foreheads garlanded ; 
Into the fine cloth white like flame, 

Weaving the golden thread. 
To fashion the birth-robes for them 

Who are just born, being dead. 

"He shall fear, haply, and be dumb: 

Then will I lay my cheek 
To his, and tell about our love, 

Not once abash'd or weak : 
And the dear Mother will approve 

My pride, and let me sj>eak. 



weihd and fantastic. 



841 



"Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, 
To Him round whom all souls 

Kneel, the elear-ranged unnumbered heads 
Bowed with their aureoles : 

And angels meeting us shall sing 
To their citherns and citoles. 

" There will I ask of Christ the Lord 
Thus much for him and me : — 

Only to live as once on earth 
With Love, — only to be, 

And then a while, for ever now 
Together, I and he." 

She gazed and listened, and then said, 
Less sad of speech than mild, — 

" All this is when he comes." She ceased. 
The light thrill'd toward her, fill'd 

With angels in strong level flight. 
Her eyes prayed, and she smiled. 

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path 
Was vague in distant spheres ; 

And then she cast her arms along 
The golden barriers. 

And laid her face between her hands, 
And wept. (I heard her tears.) 

Dante Gabbibl Rossetti. 



Christabel. 

Part I. 
'Tis the middle of night by the castle 

clock, 
And the owls have awakened the crowing 

cock ; 
Tu-whit!— Tu-whoo! 
And hark, again ! the crowing cock, 
How drowsily it crew. 

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich. 

Hath a toothless mastiff bitch ; 

From her kennel beneath the rock 

She maketh answer to the clock, 

Four for the quarters, and twelve for the 

hour; 
Ever and aye, by shine and shower, 
Sixteen short howls, not over-loud ; 
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 

Is the night chilly and dark? 
The night is chilly, but not dark. 
The thin gray cloud is spread on high, 
It covers but not hides the sky. 



The moon is behind, and at the full ; 
And yet she looks both small and dull. 
The night is chill, tlie cloud is gray : 
'Tis a month before the month of May, 
And the Spring comes slowly up this way. 

The lovely lady, Christabel, 

Whom her father loves so well, 

AVhat makes her in the wood so late, 

A furlong from the castle-gate? 

She had dreams all yesternight 

Of her own betrothed knight ; 

And she in the midnight wood will pray 

For the weal of her lover that's far away. 

She stole along, she nothing spoke. 
The sighs she heaved were soft and low, 
And naught was green upon the oak. 
But moss and rarest mistletoe : 
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, 
And in silence prayeth she. 

The lady sprang up suddenly, 

The lovely lady, Christabel I 

It moaned as near, as near can be, 

But what it is, she cannot tell. — 

On the other side it seems to be. 

Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. 

The night is chill ; the forest bare ; 
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? 
There is not wind enough in the air 
To move away the ringlet curl 
From the lovely lady's cheek — 
There is not wind enough to twirl 
The one red leaf, the last of its clan. 
That dances as often as dance it can, 
Hanging so light, and hanging so high. 
On the topmost twig that looks up at the 
sky. 

Hush, beating heart of Christabel I 
Jesu, Maria, shield her well ! 
She folded her arms beneath her cloak, 
And stole to the other side of the oak. 
What sees she there ? 

Tliere she sees a damsel bright, 

Drest in a silken robe of white. 

That shadowy in the moonlight shone: 

The neck that made that white robe wan. 

Her stately neck, and arms were bare ; 

Her blue-veined feet unsandall'd were, 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



And wildly glittered here and there 
The gems entangled in her hair. 
I guess, 'twas frightful there to see 
A lady so richly clad as she, — 
Beautiful exceedingly ! 

"Mary mother, save me now!" 

(Said Christabel;) "And who art thou?" 

The lady strange made answer meet, 

And her voice was faint and sweet : — 

" Have pity on my sore distress, 

I scarce can speak for weariness." 

" Stretch forth thy hand, and have no 

fear !" 
Said Christabel, " how earnest thou here ?" 
And the lady, whose voice was faint and 

sweet, 
Did thus pursue her answer meet :— 

" My sire is of a noble line. 
And my name is Geraldine : 
Five warriors seized me yestermorn, 
Me, even me, a maid forlorn : 
They choked my cries with force and 

fright. 
And tied me on a palfrey white. 
The palfrey was as fleet as wind, 
And they rode furiously behind. 
They spurred amain, their steeds were 

white : 
And once we crossed the shade of night. 
As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, 
I have no thought what men they be ; 
Nor do I know how long it is 
{For I have lain entranced I wis) 
Since one, the tallest of the five, 
Took me from the palfrey's back, 
A weary woman, scarce alive. 
Some muttered words his comrades spoke : 
He placed me underneath this oak ; 
He swore they would return with haste ; 
Whither they went I cannot tell — 
I thought I heard, some minutes past. 
Sounds as of a castle bell. 
Stretch forth thy hand" (thus ended she), 
" And help a wretched maid to flee." 

Then Christabel stretched forth her hand 
And comforted fair Geraldine: 
" Oh, well, bright dame ! may you com- 
mand 
The service of Sir Leoline ; 



And gladly our stout chivalry 
Will he send forth and friends withal 
To guide and guard you safe and free 
Home to your noble father's hall." 

She rose : and forth with steps they passed 

That strove to be, and were not, fast. 

Her gracious stars the lady blest. 

And thus spake on sweet Christabel : 

" All our household are at rest. 

The hall as silent as the cell ; 

Sir Leoline is weak in health. 

And may not well awakened be, 

But we will move as if in stealth, 

And I beseech your courtesy, 

This night, to share your couch with me." 

They crossed the moat, and Christabel 

Took the key that fitted well ; 

A little door she opened straight. 

All in the middle of the gate ; 

The gate that was ironed within and without. 

Where an army in battle array had 

marched out. 
The lady sank, belike through pain. 
And Christabel with might and main 
Lifted her up, a weary weight. 
Over the threshold of the gate : 
Then the lady rose again. 
And moved, as she were not in pain. 

So free from danger, free from fear. 
They crossed the court : right glad they 

were. 
And Christabel devoutly cried 
To the Lady by her side, 
" Praise we the Virgin all divine 
Who hath rescued thee from thy distress 1" 
" Alas, alas !" said Geraldine, 
" I cannot speak for weariness." 
So, free from danger, free from fear. 
They cross'd the court : right glad they 

were. 

Outside her kennel the mastifl" old 
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 
The mastiff" old did not awake. 
Yet she an angry moan did make! 
And what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 
Never till now she uttered yell 
Beneath the eye of Christabel. 
Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch. 
For what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



&13 



They passed the hall, that echoes still, 

Pass as lightly as you will ! 

The brands were Hat, the brands were dying, 

Amid their own white sishcs lying ; 

But when the lady pas^^ed, there came 

A tongue of light, a fit of flame ; 

And Christabel saw the lady's eye. 

And nothing else saw she thereby, 

Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline 

tall. 
Which hung in a murky old niche in the 

wall. 
"O, softly tread!" said Christabel, 
" My father seldom sleepeth well." 

Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare. 
And, jealous of the listening air, 
Tliey steal their way from stair to stair. 
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom, 
And now they pass the Baron's room. 
As still as death with stifled breath ! 
And now have reach'd her chamber door ; 
And now dotli Gcraldine press down 
The rushes of the chamber floor. 

The moon shines dim in the open air, 

And not a moonbeam enters here. 

But they without its liglit can see 

The chamber carved so curiously. 

Carved with figures strange and sweet, 

All made out of the carver's brain. 

For a lady's chamber meet : 

The lamp with twofold silver chain 

Is fastened to an angel's feet. 

The silver lamp burns dead and dim ; 

But Christabel the lamp will trim. 

She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright, 

And left it swinging to and fro, 

While Geraldine, in wrctelied plight, 

Sank down upon the floor below. 

" O weary lady, Geraldine, 
I pray you, drink tliis cordial wine! 
It is a wine of virtuous powers ; 
My mother made it of wild flowers." 

" And will your mother pity nie, 
Who am a maiden most forlorn?" 
Christabel answered—" Woe is me! 
She died the liour that I Wius born. 
I have heard the gray-haired friar tell. 
How on her deathbed she did say, 
That she should hear the castle-bcU 
Strike twelve upon my wedding day. 



mother dear! that thou wert here!" 

" I would," said Geraldine, " she were !" 
But soon with altered voice, said she — 
"■Off", wandering mother! Peak afid pine! 

1 have power to bid thee flee." 
Alas ! what ails poor Geraldine? 
Why stares she with unsettled eye? 
Can she the bodiless dead espy ? 
And why with hollow voice cries she, 
"Off, woman, otfl this hour is mine — 
Though thou her guardian spirit be. 
Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me." 

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, 
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue — 
" Alas !" said she, " this gha.stly ride — 
Dear lady ! it hath wildered you!" 
The lady wiped her moist cold brow. 
And faintly said, " 'tis over now I" 

Again the wild-flower wine she drank : 
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright, 
And from the floor whereon she sank. 
The lofty lady stood upright ; 
She was most beautiful to see, 
Like a lady of a for countr^e. 

And thus the lofty lady spake — 

" All they, who live in the ujiper sky. 

Do love you, holy Christabel ! 

And you love them, an<l for their sake 

And for the good which me befell, 

Even I in my degree will try. 

Fair maiden, to requite you well. 

But now unrobe yourself; for I 

Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie." 

Quoth Christabel, " So let it be !" 
And as the lady bade, did she. 
Her gentle limbs did she undress. 
And lay down in her loveliness. 

But through her brain of weal and woe 
So many thoughts moved to and fro, 
That vain it were her lids to close ; 
So halfway from the bed she rose. 
And on her elbow did recline 
To look at the Lady Geraldine. 

Beneath the lamp the lady bowed. 
And slowly rolled her eyes around ; 
Then drawing in her breath aloud 
Like one that sliuddered, she uid)ound 
The cincture from beneath her breast : 
Her silken robe, and inner vest. 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Dropt to her feet, and full in view, 
Behold ! her bosom and half her side — 
A sight to dream of, not to tell ! 
O shield'her ! shield sweet Christabel ! 

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs ; 

Ah ! what a stricken look was hers ! 

Deep from witliiu she seems half-way 

To lift some weight with sick assay, 

And eyes the maid and seeks delay ; 

Then suddenlj' as one defied 

Collects herself in scorn and pride. 

And lay down by the maiden's side !— 

And in her arms the maid she took. 
Ah well-a-day ! 

And with low voice and doleful look 

These words did say : 

" In the touch of this bosom there worketh 
a spell, 

Which is lord of thy utterance, Christa- 
bel ! 

Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to- 
morrow 

This mark of my shame, this seal of my 
sorrow ; 
But vainly thou warrest. 

For this is alone in 
Thy power to declare. 

That in the dim forest 
Thou heard'st a low moaning. 

And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly 
fair : 

And didst bring her home with thee in love 
and in charity. 

To shield her and shelter her from the damp 



The Conclusion to Part I. 

It was a lovely sight to see 
The Lady Christabel, when she 
Was praying at the old oak tree. 

Amid the jagged shadows 

Of mossy leafless boughs, 

Kneeling in the moonlight. 

To make her gentle vows ; 
Her slender palms together prest. 
Heaving sometimes on her breast ; 
Her face resigned to bliss or bale — 
Her face, oh call it fair not pale, 
And both blue eyes more bright than 

clear. 
Each about to have a tear. 



With open eyes (ah, woe is me!) 
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, 
Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis. 
Dreaming that alone which is — 
sorrow and shame ! Can this be she, 
The lady who knelt at the old oak tree ? 
And lo ! the worker of these harms, 
That holds the maiden in her arms. 
Seems to slumber still and mild, 
As a mother with her child. 

A star hath set, a star hath risen, 
O Geraldine! since arms of thine 
Have been the lovely lady's prison. 
O Geraldine I one hour was thine — 
Thou'st had thy will ! By tarn and rill. 
The night-birds all that hour were still. 
But now they are jubilant anew. 
From cliff and tower, tu-whoo ! tu-whoo ! 
Tu-whoo ! tu-whoo ! from wood and fell ! 
And see ! the Lady Christabel 
Gathers herself from out her trance ; 
Her limbs relax, her countenance 
Grows sad aud soft ; the smooth thin lids 
Close o'er her eyes ; and tears she sheds — - 
Large tears that leave the lashes bright ! 
And oft the while she seems to smile 
As infants at a sudden light! 
Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep. 
Like a youthful hermitess. 
Beauteous in a wilderness. 
Who, praying always, prays in sleep. 
And, if she move unquietly. 
Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free, 
Comes back and tingles in her feet. 
No doubt, she hath a vision sweet. 
What if her guardian spirit 'twere? 
What if she knew her mother near? 
But this she knows, in joys and woes. 
That saints will aid if men will call: 
For the blue sky bends over all ! 

Part II. 

"Each matin boll," the Baron saith, 
" Knells us back to a world of death." 
These words Sir Leoline first said. 
When he rose and found his lady dead: 
These words Sir Leoline will say, 
Many a morn to his dying day ! 

And hence the custom and law began. 
That still at dawn the sacristan. 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



845 



Who duly pulls the heavy bell, 
Five and forty beads must tell 
Between each stroke — a warning knell, 
Which not a soul can choose hut hear 
From Bratha Head to Wyndcrniere. 

Saith Bracy the bard, "So let it knoll! 
And let the drowsy sacristan 
Still count as slowly as he can . 
There is no lack of such, I ween, 
As well fill u]) the space between. 
In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, 
And Dungcon-ghyll so foully rent. 
With ropes of rock and bells of air 
Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent. 
Who all give back, one after t'other, 
The death-note to their living brother; 
And oft too, by tlie kuell offended. 
Just as their one ! two! three! is ended, 
The devil mocks the doleful tale 
With a merry peal from Borodale." 

The air is still ! through mi.st and cloud 
That merry peal comes ringing loud ; 
And Gcraldine shakes off her dread. 
And rises lightly from the bed ; 
Puts on her silken vestments white, 
And tricks her hair in lovely plight. 
And, nothing doubting of her spell, 
Awakens the Lady Christabel. 
"Sleep you, sweet Lady Christabel? 
I trust that you have rested well." 

And Christabel awoke and spied 
The same who lay down by her side — 
O, rather say, the same whom she 
Raised up beneath the old oak tree I 
Nay, fairer yet ! and yet more fair ! 
For she belike hath drunken deep 
Of all tlie blessedness of sleep ! 
And while she spake, her looks, her air, 
Such gentle thankfulness declare. 
That (so it seemed) her girded vests 
Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 
" Sure I have sinned !" said Christabel, 
"Now Heaven be praised if all be well I" 
And in low faltering tones, yet sweet, 
Did she the lofty lady greet 
With such perplexity of mind 
As dreams too lively leave behind. 

So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed 
Her maiden limbs, and having prayed 



That He, who on the cross did groan, 
Might wash away her sins unknown. 
She forthwith led fair (ieraldine 
To meet her sire, Sir Leuline. 

The lovely maid and the lady tall 
Are pacing both into the hall, 
And pacing on through j)age and groom, 
Enter the Baron's presence room. 

The Baron rose, and while he prest 
His gentle daughter to his breast, 
With cheerful wonder in his eyes 
The Lady Geraldiue espies. 
And gave such welcome to the same 
As might beseem so bright a dame 1 

But when he heard the lady's tale, 
And when she told her father's name. 
Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale. 
Murmuring o'er the name again. 
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine? 

Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
And constancy lives in realms above; 
And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 
And to be wroth with one we love. 
Doth work like madness in the brain. 
And thus it chanced, as I divine. 
With Roland and Sir Leoline. 
Each spake words of high disdain 
And insult to his heart's best brother : 
They parted — ne'er to meet again ! 
But never either found another 
To free the hollow heart from paining — 
They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 
Like clifls which had been rent asunder ; 
A dreary sea now flows between ; — 
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder. 
Shall wholly do away, I ween. 
The marks of that which once hath been. 

Sir Leoline, a moment's space, 

Stood gazing on the damsel's face : 
And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine 
Came back upon his heart again. 

O then the Baron forgot his .age, 

His noble heart swelled high with rage; 

He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side, 

He would proclaim it far and wide 

With trump and solemn heraldry. 

That they who thus had wronged the dame, 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



AVere base as spotted infamy! 

" And if they dare deny the same, 

My herald shall appoint a week, 

And let the recreant traitors seek 

My tourney coiirt^ — that there and then 

I may dislodge their reptile souls 

From the bodies and forms of men!" 

He spake: his eye in lightning rolls! 

For the lady was ruthlessly seized ; and he 

kenned 
In the beautiful lady the child of his 

friend ! 

And now the tears were on his face, 

And fondly in his arms he took 

Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace, 

Prolonging it with joyous look. 

Which when she viewed, a vision fell 

Upon the soul of Christabel, 

The vision of fear, the touch and pain ! 

She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again — 

(Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee. 

Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?) 

Again she saw that bosom old, 

Again she felt that bosom cold, 

And drew in her breath witli a hissing 

sound : 
Whereat the Knight turned wildly round, 
And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid 
With eyes upraised, as one that prayed. 

The touch, the sight, had passed away, 
And in its stead that vision blest, 
Which comforted her after-rest 
While in the lady's arms she lay, 
Had put a rapture in her breast. 
And on her lips and o'er her eyes 
Spread smiles like light ! 

With new surprise, 
" AVhat ails then my beloved child ?" 
The Baron said. — His daughter mild 
Made answer, " All will yet be well !" 
I ween, she had no power to tell 
Aught else : so mighty was the spell. 

Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, 
Had deemed her sure a thing divine. 
Such sorrow with such grace she blended, 
As if she feared she had offended 
Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid ! 
And with such lowly tones she prayed, 
She might be sent without delay 
Home to her father's mansion. 

" Nay ! 



Nay, by my soul !" said Leoline. 
" Ho ! Bracy, the bard, the charge be thine ! 
Go thou, with music sweet and loud, 
And take two steeds with trai)pings proud, 
And take the youth whom thou lov'st 

best 
To bear thy harp, and learn thy song, 
And clothe you both in solemn vest, 
And over the mountains haste along, 
Lest wandering folk, that are abroad, 
Detain you on the valley road. 
And when he has crossed the Irthing flood, 
My merry bard ! he hastes, he hastes 
Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth 

Wood, 
And reaches soon that castle good 
Which stands and threatens Scotland's 

wastes. 

" Bard Bracy ! Bard Bracy ! your horses 

are fleet. 
Ye must ride up the hall, your music so 

sweet. 
More loud than your horses' echoing feet ! 
And loud and loud to Lord Roland call, 
Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall ! 
Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free, — 
Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. 
He bids thee come without delay 
With all thy numerous array ; 
And take thy lovely daughter home : 
And he will meet thee on the way 
With all his numerous array 
White with their panting palfreys' foam : 
And by mine honor ! I will say, 
That I repent me of the day 
When I spake words of fierce disdain 
To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ! — 
For since that evil hour hath flown, 
Many a summer's sun hath shone ; 
Yet ne'er found I a friend again 
Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine." 

The lady fell, and clasp'd his knees, 
Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing ; 
And Bracy replied, with faltering voice, 
His gracious hail on all bestowing ! — 
" Thy words, thou sire of Christabel, 
Are sweeter than my harp can tell ; 
Yet might I gain a boon of thee, 
This day my journey should not be, 
So strange a dream hath come to me ; 
That I had vowed with music loud 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



M7 



To clear yon wood from thing unblest, 
Warned by a vision in my rest 1 
For in my sleep I saw that dove, 
That gentle bird, whom thou dost love, 
And call'st by thy own daughter's name — 
Sir Leoline 1 I saw the same 
Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan, 
Among the green herbs in the forest alone. 
Whieli when I saw and wlien I heard, 
I wonder'd wliat might ail the bird ; 
For nothing near it could I see. 
Save the gniss and green herbs underneath 
the old tree. 

" And in my dream methought I went 
To search out what miglit there be found ; 
And what tlie sweet bird's trouble meant. 
That thus lay fluttering on the ground. 
I went and peered and could descry 
No cause for her distressful cry ; 
But yet for her dear lady's sake 
I stooped, methouglit, the dove to take. 
When lo ! I saw a bright green snake 
Coil'd around its wings and neck. 
Green as the herbs on which it couched. 
Close by the dove's its head it crouched ; 
And with the dove it heaves and stirs, 
Swelling its neck as slie swell'd hers ! 
I woke ; it was the midnight hour, 
Tlic dock was echoing in the tower; 
But though uiy slumber was gone by. 
This dream it would not pass away — 
It seems to live upon my eye ! 
And thence I vowed this selfsame day, 
With music strong and saintly song 
To wander through the forest bare, 
Lest aught unholy loiter there." 

Thus Bracy said : the Baron, the while, 

Half listening heard liim with a smile ; 

Then turned to Lady Geraldine, 

His eyes made up of wonder and love. 

And said in courtly accents fine, 

"Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous 

dove. 
With arms more strong than harp or song. 
Thy sire and I will crush the snake!" 
He kissed lier foreliead as he spake, 
And Geraldine, in maiden wise, 
Casting down her large bright eyes, 
With blushing cheek and courtesy fine 
She turned her from Sir Leoline ; 



Softly gathering up her train. 
That o'er her right arm fell again ; 
And folded her arms across her chest. 
And couched her liead upon lier breast, 
And looked askance at Cliristabel — 
Jesu Maria, shield her well ! 

A snake's snuill eye blinks dull and 

shy, 
And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her 

head. 
Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye. 
And witli somewhat of malice, and more 

of dread. 
At Christabel she look'd askance ! — 
One moment — and the sight was tied ! 
But Christabel, in dizzy trance 
Stumbling on tlie unsteady ground. 
Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound; 
And Geraldine again turned round, 
And like a thing, that souglit relief. 
Full of wonder and full of grief. 
She rolled her large bright eyes divine 
Wildly on Sir Leoline. 

The maid, alas 1 her thoughts are gone, 
She nothing sees — no sight but one 1 
The maid, devoid of guile and sin, 
I know not how, in fearful wise 
So deeply had she drunken in 
Tliat look, tliose shrunken serpent eyes, 
That all her features were resigned 
To this sole image in her mind ; 
And passively did imitate 
That look of dull and treacherous hate I 
And thus she stood, in dizzy trance, 
Still picturing that look askance 
With forced unconscious sympathy 
Full before her father's view — 
As far as such a look could be, 
In eyes so innocent and blue I 
And wlien the trance was o'er, the maid 
Pausi'd a while, and inly pray'd: 
Then falling at the Baron's feet, 
" By my mother's soul do I entreat 
That thou this woman send aw.ay !" 
She said : and more .she could not say : 
For what she knew slie could not tell, 
O'er-mastered by tlie mighty spell. 

Why is thy cheek so wan and wild. 
Sir Leoline? Thy only child 
Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride, 
So fair, so innocent, so mild; 



848 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


The same for whom thy lady died ! 


(0 sorrow and shame should this be 


by the pangs of her dear mother 


true!) 


Think thou no evil of thy child ! 


Such giddiness of heart and brain 


For her, and thee, and for no other, 


Comes seldom save from rage and pain, 


She prayed the moment ere she died. 


So talks as it's most used to do. 


Prayed that the babe for whom she died, 


Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 


Might prove her dear lord's joy and jjride ! 


le^ 


That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled, 


KUBLA Khan. 


Sir Leoline ! 




And wouldst thou wrong thy only child, 


In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 


Her child and thine ? 


A stately pleasure-dome decree : 




Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 


Within the Baron's heart and brain. 


Through caverns measureless to man 


If thoughts like these had any share. 


Down to a sunless sea. 


They only swell'd his rage and pain. 


So twice five miles of fertile ground 


And did but work confusion there. 


With walls and towers were girdled round: 


His heart was cleft with pain and rage, 


And there were gardens bright with sinu- 


His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were 


ous rills 


wild. 


Where blossomed many an incense-bearing 


Dishonored thus in his old age; 


tree; 


Dishonored by his only child, 


And here were forests ancient as the hills, 


And all his hospitality 


Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 


To the wrong'd daughter of his friend, 




By more than woman's jealousy 


But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which 


Brought thus to a disgraceful end. — 


slanted 


He roll'd his eyes with stern regard 


Down the green hill athwart a cedarn 


Upon the gentle minstrel bard. 


cover ! 


And said in tones abrupt, austere — 


A savage place ! as holy and enchanted 


" Why, Bracy ! dost thou loiter here? 


As e'er beneath a waning moon was 


I bade thee hence !" The bard obeyed ; 


haunted 


And turning from his own sweet maid, 


By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! 


The aged knight. Sir Leoline, 


And from this chasm, with ceaseless tur- 


Led forth the Lady Geraldine ! 


moil seething. 




As if this earth in fast thick pants were 


The Conclusion to Part II. 


breathing. 


A little child, a limber elf, 


A mighty fountain momently was forced: 


Singing, dancing to itself, 


Amid whose swift, half-intermitted burst 


A fairy thing with red round cheeks, 


Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding 


That always finds, and never seeks, 


hail, 


]\Iakes such a vision to the sight 


Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail : 


As fills a father's eyes with light ; 


And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and 


And pleasures flow in so thick and fast 


ever 


Upon his heart, that he at last 


It flung up momently the sacred river. 


Must needs express his love's excess 


Five miles meandering with a mazy mo- 


With words of unmeant bitterness. 


tion 


Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together 


Through wood and dale the sacred river 


Thoughts so all unlike each other ; 


ran, 


To mutter and mock a broken charm. 


Then reached the caverns measureless to 


To dally with wrong that does no harm. 


man. 


Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 


And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 


At each wild word to feel within 


And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from 


A sweet recoil of love and pity. 


far 


And what if in a world of sin 


Ancestral voices prophesying war ! 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



849 



The shadow of the dome of pleasure 

Flouted midway on the waves; 

Where was heard the mingled measure 

From the fountain and the caves. 
It wiis a miracle of rare device, 
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! 

A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw ; 

It was an Ahyssinian maid, 

And on her dulcimer she played, 

Singinp of Mount Ahora. 

Could I revive within me 

Her symphony and song, 

To such a deep delight 'twould win me 
That, with music loud and long, 
I would build that dome in air, 
That sunny dome! those caves of ice! 
And all who heard should see them 

there, 
And all should cry, Beware! beware 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 
Weave a circle round him thrice. 
And close your eyes with holy dread. 
For he on honey-dew hath fed, 
And drunk the milk of Paradise. 

.Sasicel Taylor Coleridge. 



TsE Raven. 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I 
pondered, weak and weary. 
Over many a quaint and curioufe volume 
of forgotten lore. 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly 
there came a tapi)ing, 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping 

at my chamber-door. i 

'"Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tap- 
ping at my chamher-door — 
Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember it wa.s in the 
bleak December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought 
its ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow ; — vainly I 
had tried to borrow 
From my books surcea.se of sorrow — 

sorrow for the lost Lenore — 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom 
the angels name Lenore, 
JCameless here for evermore. 



And the silken sad uncertain rustling of 
each purple curtain 
Thrilled me, — filled me with fantastic 
terrors never felt before ; 
So that now, to still the beating of my 
heart, I stood repeating, 
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance 

at my chamber-door. 
Some late visitor entreating entrance at 
my chamber-door ; 
This it is and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesi- 
tating then no longer, 
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your 
forgiveness I implore ; 
But the fact is I w.as napping, and so 
gently you came rapping. 
And so faintly you came tapping, tap- 
ping at my chamber-door. 
That I .scarce w.is sure I heard you." — 
Here I opened wide the door; — 
Darkness there and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I 
stood there wondering, fearing, 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal 
ever dared to dream before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the 
stillness gave no token. 
And the only word there spoken was 

the whispered word " Lenore!" 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured 
back the word " Lenore !" — 
Merely this and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my 

soul within me burning. 
Soon again I heard a tapping, .somewhat 

louder than before. 
" Surely," said I, " surely that is something 

at my window-lattice ; 
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and 

this mystery e.tplore. 
Let my heart be still a moment, and 

this mystery explore; 
'Tis the wind, and udtliing morel" 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with 
many a flirt and flutter. 
In there stepp'd a stately Raven of the 
saintly days of yore. 



850 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Not the least obeisance made he ; not an 


Till the dirges of his Hope that melan- 


instant stopped or stayed he ; 


choly burden bore — 


But with mien of lord or lady, perched 


Of ' Never '— ' Nevermore.' " 


above my cliamber-door, — 




Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just 


But the Raven still beguiling all my sad 


above my chamber-door, — 


soul into smiling, 


Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 


Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd seat in 




front of bird, and bust, and door ; 


Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad 


Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook 


fancy into smiling, 


myself to linking 


By the grave and stern decorum of the 


Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this 


countenance it wore, 


ominous bird of yore — 


" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, 


What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, 


thou," I said, " art sure no craven, 


gaunt, and ominous bird of yore 


Ghastly, grim, and ancient Kaven, wan- 


Meant in croaking "Nevermore." 


dering from the Nightly shore, — 




Tell me what thy lordly name is on the 


This I sat engaged in guessing, but no 


Night's Plutonian shore." 


syllable expressing 


Quoth the Kaven, " Nevermore." 


To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned 




into my bosom's core ; 


Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to 


This and more I sat divining, with my 


hear discourse so plainly, 


head at ease reclining 


Though its answer little meaning — little 


On the cushion's velvet lining that the 


relevancy bore ; 


lamplight gloated o'er. 


For we cannot help agreeing that no living 


But whose velvet violet lining with the 


human being 


lamplight gloating o'er — 


Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above 


She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 


his chamber-door — 




Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust 


Then, methought the air grew denser, per- 


above his chamber-door. 


fumed from an unseen censer 


With such name as " Nevermore." 


Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls 




tinkled on the tufted floor. 


But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid 


"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent 


bust, spoke only 


thee — by these angels he hath sent 


That one word, as if his soul in that one 


thee 


word he did outpour. 


Respite— respite and nepenthe from thy 


Nothing further then he uttered ; not a 


memories of Lenore ! 


feather then he fluttered — 


Quaff', oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and 


Till I scarcely more than muttered. 


forget this lost Lenore !" 


" Other friends have flown before — 


Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 


On the morrow he will leave me, as my 




Hopes have flown before." 


" Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil ! proph- 


Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 


et still, if bird or devil !— 




Whether Tempter sent, or whether tem- 


Startled at the stillness broken by reply so 


pest tossed thee here ashore. 


aptly spoken. 


Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert 


" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is 


land enchanted — 


its only stock and store. 


On this home by Horror haunted — tell 


Caught from some unhappy master whom 


me truly, I implore — 


unmerciful Disaster 


Is there— is there balm in Gilead ?— tell 


Followed fast and followed faster till his 


me, tell me, I implore !" 


song one burden bore — 


Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



851 



" Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil, — proph- 
et still, if bird or devil I 
By that Ileavcn that bends above us — 
by that God we both adore — 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within 
the distant Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom 

the angels name Lenore — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom 
the angels name Lenore." 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or 
fiend I" I shrieked, upstarting — 
" Get thee back into the tempest and the 
Night's Plutonian shore ! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that 
lie thy soul hath spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the 

bust above my door ! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and 
take thy form from off my door !" 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sit- 
ting, still is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above 
my chamber-door ; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a 
demon's that is dreaming, 
And the lamplight o'er him streaming 

throws his shadow on the floor ; 
And my soul from out that shadow that 
lies floating on the floor, 
Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 

KbGAR Allan Poe. 



The Pied Piper of HAMELiy. 

Hamemn Town's in Brunswick, 
By famous Hanover city; 

The river Weser, deep and wide, 

Washes its wall on the southern side ; 

A pleasanter spot you never spied ; 
But, when begins my ditty, 

Almost five hundred years ago, 

To see the townsfolk suffer so 
From vermin was a pity. 

Rats I 
They fought the dogs, and kill'd the 
cats. 



And bit the babies in the cradles, 
And ate the cheeses out of the vats. 
And lick'd the soup from the cook's own 
ladles, 
Split open the kegs of salted sprats. 
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, 
And even spoil'd the women's chats. 
By drowning their speaking 
With shrieking and squeaking 
In fifty difterent sharps and flats. 

At last the people in a body 

To the Town Hall came flocking : 
" 'Tis clear," cried, they " our Mayor's a 
noddy ; 
And as for our Corporation — shocking 
To think we buy gowns lined with er- 
mine 
For dolts that can't or won't determine 
What's best to rid us of our vermin ! 
You ho|«', because you're old and obese, 
To find in the furry civic robe e.ase? 
Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a rack- 
ing 
To find the remedy we're lacking. 
Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing !" 
At this the JIayor and Corporation 
Quaked with a mighty consternation. 

An hour they sate in counsel. 
At length the Mayor broke silence : 

" For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell; 
I wish I were a mile hence! 

It's easy to bid one rack one's brain — 

I'm sure my poor head aches again, 

I've scratch'd it so, and all in vain. 

Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap I" 

Just as he said this, what should hap 

At the chamber-door but a gentle tap? 

"Bless us!" cried the JIayor, "what's 
that?" 

(With the Corporation as he sat. 

Looking little though wondrous fat; 

Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister 

Than a too long-opcn'd oyster, 

Save when at noon his paunch grew 
mutinous 

For a plate of turtle, green and glutin- 
ous) 

" Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? 

Anything like the sound of a rat 

Makes my heart go |>it-a-pat !" 



852 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



" Come in !" — the Mayor cried, looking 

bigger : 
And in did come the strangest figure! 
His queer long coat from heel to head 
Was half of yellow and half of red ; 
And he himself was tall and thin, 
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, 
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, 
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, 
But lips where smiles went out and in — 
There was no guessing his kith and kin ! 
And nobody could enough admire 
The tall man and his quaint attire: 
Quoth one : " It's as my great-grandsire. 
Starting up at the Trump of Doom's 

tone. 
Had walk'd this way from his painted 

tombstone !" 

He advanced to the council-table : 

And, " Please your honors," said he, " I'm 

able. 
By means of a secret charm, to draw 
All creatures living beneath the sun. 
That creep, or swim, or fly, or run. 
After me so as you never saw ! 
And I chiefly use my charm 
On creatures that do people harm. 
The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper ; 
And people call me the Pied Piper.". 
(And here they noticed round his neck 
A scarf of red and yellow stripe, 
To match with his coat of the selfsame 

check ; 
And at the scarf's end hung a pipe ; 
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever 

straying 
As if impatient to be playing 
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled 
Over his vesture so old-fangled.) 
" Yet," said he, " poor piper as I am. 
In Tartary I freed the Cham, 
Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats ; 
I eased in Asia the Nizam 
Of a monstrous brood of vampyre bats ; 
And, as for what your brain bewilders — 
If I can rid your town of rats. 
Will you give me a thousand guilders?" 
"One? fifty thousand !" was the exclama- 
tion 
Of the astonish'd Mayor and Corpora- 
tion. 



Into the street the piper stept. 

Smiling first a little smile, 
As if he knew what magic slept 

In his quiet pipe the while ; 
Then, like a musical adept. 
To blow the pipe his lijis he wrinkled. 
And green and blue his sharp eves twink- 
led. 
Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled ; 
And ere three shrill notes the pipe utter'd. 
You heard as if an army mutter'd ; 
And the muttering grew to a grumbling ; 
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rum- 
bling; 
And out of the houses the rats came tum- 
bling. 
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny 

rats, 
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny 

rats, 
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, 

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, 

Families by tens and dozens. 
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — 
Follow'd the piper for their lives. 
From street to street he piped advancing. 
And step for step they follow'd dancing, 
Until they came to the river Weser, 
Wherein all plunged and perish'd, 
Save one who, stout as Julius Csesar, 
Swam across and lived to carry 
(As the manuscript he clierish'd) 
To Rat-land home his commentary, 
Which was, "At the first shrill notes of 

the pipe, 
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe. 
And putting apples, wondrous ripe, 
Into a cider press's gripe : 
And a moving away of pickle-tub boards. 
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cup- 
boards. 
And a drawing the corks of train-oil 

flasks. 
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks ; 
And it seemed as if a voice 
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery 
Is breathed) call'd out, O rats, rejoice ! 
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery ! 
So munch on, crunch on, take your nun- 

cheon. 
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon ! 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



853 



And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, 
All ready staved, like a great sun shone 
Glorious scarce an inch before me. 
Just as methought it said. Come, bore me I 
I found the Weser rolling o'er me." 

You should have heard the Hamelin peo- 
ple 
Ringing the bells till they rock'd the stee- 
ple; 
" Go," cried the Mayor, " and get long 

poles ! 
Poke out the nests and block up the holes! 
Consult with carpenters and builders. 
And leave in our town not even a trace 
Of the rats!" — when suddenly up the face 
Of the piper perk'd in the market-place. 
With a, " First, if you please, my thou- 
sand guilders !" 
A thousand guilders ! The Mayor look'd 

blue; 
So did the Corporation too. 
For council dinners made rare havoc 
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; 
And half the money would replenish 
Tlieir cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. 
To i)ay this sum to a wandering fellow 
With a gypsy coat of red and yellow ! 
'"Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a know- 
ing wink, 
" Our business was done at the river's 

brink ; 
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, 
And wluit's dead can't come to life, I 

think. 
So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink 
From the duty of giving you something 

for drink. 
And a matter of money to put in your 

poke ; 
But, as for the guilders, what we spoke 
Of them, as you very well know, was in 

joke. 
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty ; 
A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty I" 

The piper's face fell and he cried, 

" Xo trifling ! I can't wait ! beside, 

I've promi.sed to visit by dinner-time 

Bagdat, and accept the prime 

Of the Head Cook's pottage, all he's rich in. 

For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen. 



Of a nest of scorpions no survivor — 
With liini I proved no bargain-driver. 
With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! 
And folks who put me in a passion 
May find me pipe to another fashion." 

"How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think 

I'll brook 
Being worse treated than a Cook ? 
Insulted by a lazy ribald 
With idle pipe and vesture piebald ? 
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst. 
Blow your pipe there till you burst!'' 

Once more he stept into the street ; 

And to his lips again 
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight 

cane ; 
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet 
Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 

Never gave the enraptured air) 
There was a rustling, that seem'd like a 

bustling 
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and 

hustling, 
Small feet were [jattcring, wooden shoes 

clattering, 
Little hands clapping, and little tongues 

chattering. 
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when 

barley is scattering, 
Out came the children running. 
All the little boys and girls. 
With rosy checks and fla.xen curls. 
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, 
Trip|)iiig and skip|)ing, ran merrily after 
The wonderful music with shouting and 

laughter. 

The Slayor was dumb, and the Council 

stood 
As if they were changed into blocks of 

wood. 
Unable to move a stej), or cry 
To the children merrily skipping by — 
And could only follow with the eye 
That joyous crowd at the I'iper's back. 
But how the Mayor was on the rack, 
And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, 
As the Piper turn'd from the High Street 
To where the Weser roll'd its waters 
Right in the way of their sons and daugh- 
ters! 



854 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



However, he turned from south to west, 
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps ad- 

dress'd. 
And after him the children press'd ; 
Great was the joy in every breast. 
" He never can cross that mighty top ! 
He's forced to let the piping drop, 
And we shall see our children stop !" 
When, lo, as they reach'd the mountain's 

side, 
A wondrous portal open'd wide, 
As if a cavern was suddenly hoUow'd ; 
And the Piper advanced and the children 

follow'd, 
And when all were in to the very last, 
The door in the mountain-side shut fast. 
Did I say all ? No ! one was lame. 
And could not dance the whole of the 

way, 
And in after years, if you would blame 
His sadness, he was used to say, 
" It's dull in our town since my playmates 

left ! 
I can't forget that I'm bereft 
Of all the pleasant sights they see, 
Which the Piper also promised me,. 
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, 
Joining the town and just at hand, 
Where waters gush'd and fruit trees 

grew. 
And flowers put forth a fairer hue. 
And everything was strange and new ; 
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks 

here, 
And their dogs outran our fallow deer, 
And honey-bees had lost their stings, 
And horses were born with eagles' 

wings ; 
And just as I became assured 
My lame foot would be speedily cured. 
The music stopp'd, and I stood still. 
And found myself outside the Hill, 
Left alone against my will. 
To go now limping as before, 
And never hear of that country more !" 

Alas, alas for Hamelin ! 
There came into many a burgher's 

pate 
A text which says that Heaven's Gate 
Opes to the rich at as easy rate 

As the needle's eye takes a camel in ! 



The Mayor sent east, west, north, and 

south 
To offer the Piper by word of mouth. 

Wherever it was men's lot to find him. 
Silver and gold to his heart's content. 
If he'd only return the way he went. 

And bring the children behind him. 
But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, 
And Piper and dancers were gone for 

ever. 
They made a decree that lawyers never 

Should think their records dated duly 
If, after the day of the month and year. 
These words did not as well appear : 
" And so long after what happen'd here 

On the twenty-second of July, 
Thirteen hundred and Seventy-six ;" 
And the better in memory to fix 
The place of the children's last retreat, 
They call'd it the Pied Piper's Street, 
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor 
Was sure for the future to lose his labor. 
Nor suffer'd they hostelry or tavern 

To shock with mirth a street so solemn. 
But opposite the place of the cavern 

They wrote the story on a column. 
And on the great church-window painted 
The same, to make the world acquainted 
How their children were stolen away. 
And there it stands to this very day. 
And I must not omit to say 
That in Transylvania there's a tribe 
Of alien people that ascribe 
The outlandish ways and dress 
On which their neighbors lay such stress. 
To their fathers and mothers having 

risen 
Out of some subterranean prison, 
Into which they were trepann'd 
Long time ago in a mighty band 
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land. 
But how or why, they don't understand. 

So, Willy, let you and me be wipers 

Of scores out with all men — especially 

pipers ; 
And, whether they pipe us free, from rats 

or from mice. 
If we've promised them aught, let us keep 

our promise. 

Robert Browning. 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



8W 



TffE Rime of the ancient Mar- 
iner. 

Part I. 

^cnt"' I^ '* "" ancient mariner, 
mariner And lie stoi)i)eth one of three, 

nifoteth .,,,," , , 1 i-i 

tlirw gal- '■ Bv thy long gray beard and glit- 

lants bid- ' . . 

den to a tenng eye, 

;^^j"°«jNow wherefore stopp'st thou me? 

detaioeth 
one. 

" The Bridegroom's doors are open- 
ed wide, 

And I am next of kin ; 

The guests are met, the feast is 
set: 

May'st hear the merry din." 

He holds him with his skinny hand, 

"There was a ship," quoth he. 

" Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard 

loon !" 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 



The wed 
diDKguest 
is spell- 
bound by 
llie eve of 
the old 
sea-faring 
man, and 
constrain- 
ed to hear 
bis Ule. 



The mar- 
iner tells 
how the 
ship sail- 
ed south- 
ward with 
a good 
wiud and 
fair wea- 
ther, till 
It reached 
the line. 



He holds him with his glittering 

eye — 
The wedding guest stood .still, 
And listens like a three years child : 
The mariner hath his will. 

The wedding guest sat on a stone : 

He cannot choose but hear ; 

And thus spake on that ancient 

man, 
The bright-eyed mariner. 

The ship was cheer'd, the harbor 

clear'd, 
Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk, below the hill, 
Below the lighthouse top. 

The sun came up upon the left. 

Out of the sea came he ! 

And he shone bright, and on the 

right 
Went down into the sea. 

Higher and higher everj- day. 

Till over the mast at noon — 

The wedding guest here boat his 

breast. 
For he heard the loud bassoon. 



The bride hath paced into the hall, J''" ""i- 

* 'dinggue<t 

Red as a rose is she ; hcaretii 

Nodding their heads before her music- 

goes ''"' •''"'• 

The merry minstrelsy. 



manner 
continu- 
eth his 
tale. 



The wedding guest he beat his 

breast. 
Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 
And thas spake on that ancient man. 
The bright-eyed mariner. 

And now the storm-blast came, andT''" ^'''J' 

' drawn by 

he ^ storm 

Was tyrannous and strong : the south 

He struck with his o'crtaki ng wings, P"'*' 
And chased us south along. 

With sloping masts and dipping 

prow, 
As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads tlic shadow of his foe 
And forward bends his head, 
The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the 

blast. 
And southward aye we fled. 

And now there came both mist and 

snow. 
And it grew wondrous cold : 
And ice, ma.st-high, came floating 

by, 

As green as emerald. 



And through the drifts the snowy The land 

,.^ of ice, and 

Clltts of fiarfiil 

Did send a dismal sheen : whert'no 

Nor shapes of men nor beasts weii"'"*! 

' thing was 

ken — to be seen. 

The ice was all between. 



The ice was here, the ice was there, 

The ice was all around : 

It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd 

and howl'd. 
Like noises in a swound I 



Till a 
great sea- 
bird call- 



At length did cross an albatross, 

Thorough the fog it came; 

As if it had been a Christian soul, bmross 

came 
through 
the snow. 
I fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality. 



We hail'd it in God's name. 



856 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



And lo! 
the alba- 
tross 

proveth a 
bird of 
good 
omen, 
aud fol- 
loweth 
the ship 
as it re- 
turned 
north- 
ward 
throu^dl 
fog and 
floating 
ice. 



It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 
And round and round it flew. 
The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
The helmsman steer'd us through ! 

And a good south wind sprung up 

behind ; 
The albatross did follow, 
And every day, for food or plaj', 
Came to the mariners' hollo I 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 
It perch'd for vespers nine ; 
Whiles all the night, through fog- 
smoke white, 
Glimmer'd the white moonshine. 



" God save thee, ancient mariner ! 



The an- 
cient 
mariner From the fiends, that plague thee 

inhospi- 

tablvkill- thus! — 

Lioul'i^rdWhylook'st thou so?"-With my 

of good cross-bow 

omen. 

I shot the albatross. 



Past II. 
The Sun now rose upon the right : 
Out of the sea came he. 
Still hid in mist, and on the left 
AVent down into the sea. 

And the good south wind still blew 

behind, 
But no sweet bird did follow. 
Nor any day, for food or play, 
Came to the mariners' hollo I 



His ship- j^jiti I had done an hellish thing, 

mates cry . , , , , , , 

out And it would work era woe : 

"he'an- For all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird 
!^',^^L.- That made the breeze to blow, 
for killing Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to 

the bird •' ' 

of fcood 

luck. 



slay. 
That made the breeze to blow ! 



Biu when Nor dim nor red, like God's own 

tlie fog , , ' 

cleared head 

justify'^ The glorious Sun uprist: 

!uid 111™!' Then all averr'd, I had kill'd the 

make bird 

selves ac-That brought the fog and mist, 
canplices ,rp^,^g ^jgjj^,^ g.,i^j j];^.y^ gygjj ^,ij.^ 

crime. ty gj^y. 

That bring the fog and mist. 



The fair breeze blew, the white foam The fair 

flew, *'"""'' 

The furrow foUow'd free ; 
We were the firj t that ever burst 
Into that silent sea. 
northward, even till it reaches the line. 



contin- 
ues; the 
ship en- 
ters the 
Pacific 
Ocean, 
aud sails 



Down dropt the breeze, the sails The ship 

1 , 1 hath been 

dropt down, suddenly 

'Twas sad as sad could be ; ed™'""' 

And we did speak only to break 

The silence of the sea ! 



All in a hot and copper sky. 

The bloody Sun, at noon. 

Eight up above the mast did 

stand, 
No bigger than the Moon. 

Day after day, day after day, 
We stuck, nor breath nor mo- 
tion ; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

Water, water, everywhere. 
And all the boards did shrink ; 
Water, water, everywhere, 
Nor any drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot : O Christ ! 

That ever this should be I 

Yea, slimy things did crawl with 

legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 

About, about, in reel and rout, 
The death-fires danced at night, 
The water, like a witch's oils. 
Burnt green, and blue, and white. 



And the 
albatross 
begins 
to lie 
avenged. 



And some in dreams assurfed were A spirit 
Of the spirit that plagued us so ; lowed" ' 
Nine fathom deep he had follow'd ^"^^of 

,,a the invis- 

"^ ible in- 

From the land of mist and snow, habitants 

of this 
planet, neither departed nouls nor angels ; concerning 
whom the learned .Tew Josephus, and the Platonic 
Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be con- 
sulted. They are very numerous, and there is no 
climate or element without one or more. 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



857 



And every tongue, through utter 

drought, 
AVas wither'd at the root; 
We could not speak, no more than 

if 
We had been choked with soot. 



The ship- Ah ! well-a-day ! wliat evil looks 

thtir sore Had I from old and young! 

would*'' Instead of the cross, the albatross 

fain About mv neck w;ii hung. 

throw the * ° 

whole guilt on the ancient mariner; in sicn whereof 

they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck. 



Part III. 

There pass'd a weary time. Each 

throat 
Was parch'd, and glazed each 

eye. 
A weary time ! a weary time I 
How glazed each weary eye. 
When looking westward, I beheld 
A something in the sky. 

At first it seem'd a little speck, 

And then it seem'd a mist ; 

It moved and moved, and took at 

last 
A certain shape I wist. 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist; 
And still it near'd and near'd ; 
-As if it dodged a water-sprite. 
It plunged and tack'd and veer'd. 

With throats unslaked, with black 

lips baked, 
We could nor laugh nor wail ; 
Through utter drought all dumb 

wc stood ! 
I bit my arm, I suck'd the blood, 
And cried, A sail I a sail ! 

With throats unslaked, with black 

lips baked. 
Agape they heard mo call ; 
Gramercy ! they for joy did grin, 
And all at once their breath drew 

in. 
As they were drinking all. 



The an- 
cient 
Mi.iriner 
Iteholdeth 
a sign in 
the ele- 
ment 
afar olT 



At its 
nearer ap- 
proach. It 
secrneth 
him to he 
a sliip; 
and at a 
tlear ran- 
som he 
freelh his 
speech 
from the 
bonds of 
thint. 



A flash of 

Joy- 



See! see! (I cried), she tacks no '^'"i, ''»'■■ 

, " ror fol- 

more! 
Hither to work us weal ; 
Without a breeze, without a tide. 
She steadies with upright keel ! 



lows. l''<)r 
can it bo 
asiiiptliut 
conHfs on- 
ward 
without 
wind or 
tide? 



The western wave was all aflame, 
The day was well-nigh done ! 
Almost upon the western wave 
Kested tlie broad bright Sun ; 
AVhen that strange shape drove 

suddenly 
Betwixt us and the Sun. 



And straigiit the Sun was fleck'dit seem- 

-.1 1 eth him 

With bars but the 

(Heaven's Mother send us grace !),of'jJ'''"" 



ip. 



As if through a dungeon-grate he 

peer'd 
With broad and burning face. 

Alas! (thought I, and my heart 

beat loud), 
How fast she nears and nears ! 
Are those her sails that glance in 

the Sun, 
Like restless gossameres ? 

Are those her ribs through which 

the Sun 
Did peer, as through a grate? 
And is that Woman all her crew ? 
Is that a Death? and arc there 

two? 
Is Death that woman's mate ? 

Her lips were red, her looks were 

free. 
Her locks were yellow as gold ; 
Her skill was a-s white as leprosy. 
The night-mare Life-in-Death was 

she, 
Who thicks man's blood with 

cold. 



The naked Inilk alongside came, Peathand 
And the twain were casting dice ; Vieatl"' 
"The game is done! I've won, I'vCj?"^ - 

won !" the ship's 

Quotli she, and whistles thrice. she (ihe 

latter) 
winncth the ancient mariner. 



And Us 
ribs are 
seen as 
bars on 
the face 
of the set- 
ting sun. 
The spec- 
tre wo- 
nutn !U)d 
herdeath- 
niate, and 
no other, 
on boa I'd 
the skele- 
ton-ship. 
Like ves- 
sel, like 
crew. 



858 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



No twi- The Sun's rim dips; tlie stars rush 

within out ; 

of tlie At one stride comes tlie dark ; 
»un. With far-heard whisper, o'er the 
^ sea, 

Off shot the spectre-bark. 

inVof the^^^ listen'd and look'd sideways 

moon, up ! 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup; 

My life-blood seem'd to sip ! 

The stars were dim, and thick the 

night, 
The steersman's face by his lamp 

gleam'd white ; 
From the sails the dew did drip — 
Till clombe above the eastern bar 
The hornfed Moon, with one bright 

star 
■Within the nether tip. 

One after One after one, by the star-dogg'd 

another, ,, ' • °° 

Moon, 

Too quick for groan or sigh. 

Each turn'd his face with a ghastly 

pang, 
And cursed me with his eye. 

His ship- Four times fifty living men 
mates , , , t i, j • i ^ 

drop (And I heard nor sigh nor groan), 

dead"; With heavy thump, a lifeless lump. 

They dropp'd down one by one. 

But Life- The souls did from their bodies 

in-Death 

begins her fly, — 

the an- They fled to bliss or woe 1 
ma?iner. ^^^ ^'^'^''y *°ul> ^* pass'd me by, 
Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! 



Part IV. 
The wed- " I fear thee, ancient mariner ! 
guest I fear thy skinny hand ! 
that\ And thou art long, and lank, and 
fP","; '^ brown, 

tallcing to ' 

biui ; As is the ribb'd sea-sand. 



" I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 

And thy skinny hand so brown." — 

But the Fear not, fear not, thou wedding- 
ancient ' ' ° 
mariner guest ! 

him of his This body dropt not down. 

bodily 

life, and proceedeth to relate his horrible penance. 



Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
Alone on a wide, wide sea ! 
And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 

The many men so beautiftil ! Hedespis- 

And they all dead did lie : creatures 

And a thousand thousand slimy "^im.** 

things 
Lived on ; and so did I. 



I look'd upon the rotting sea, 
And drew my eyes away ; 



And envi- 
eth that 
they 

I look'd upon the rotting deck, uveyilid 

so many 
lie dead. 



And there the dead men lay. 

I look'd to heaven, and tried to 

pray; 
But, or ever a prayer had gusht, 
A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 

I closed my lids, and kept them 

close. 
And the balls like pulses beat ; 
For the sky and the sea, and the 

sea and the sky, 
Lay like a load on my weary eye, 
And the dead were at my feet. 



limbs, 
Nor rot nor reek did they : 



The cold sweat melted from their But the 

curse liv- 
etli for 
him in 
the eye of 

The look with which they look'd "le dead 

men. 
on me 

Had never pass'd away. 

An orphan's curse would drag to 

hell 
A spirit from on high ; 
But oh I more horrible than that 
Is a curse in a dead man's eye ! 
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that 

curse, 
And yet I could not die. 

The moving Moon went up the sky, i° hj? 

,,.,,., 'loneliness 

And nowhere did abide : andfixed- 

c, .., 1 1 ■ ness lie 

Softly she was going up, yearneth 

And a star or two beside— iSIjour- 

neying 
moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move 
onward ; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, 
and is their appointed rest, and their native country, 
and their own natural homes, which they enter unan- 
nounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet 
there is a silent joy at their arrival. 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



859 



Her beams bemock'd the sultry 

main, 
Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
But where the ship's huge shadow 

lay, 
The chanul'd water Iniriit ahvay 
A still and awful red. 



By the Beyond the shadow of the ship, 
the laooo I watch'd the water-snakes : 
holdcih llipy moved in tracks of shining 

God's white, 

creatures 

of the Ana when thev rear d, the emsh 

great r i . 

calm. light 

Fell ofi' in hoary flakes. 

Within the shadow of the ship 
I watch'd their rich attire: 
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 
They coil'd and swam ; and every 

track 
AVas a flash of golden fire. 



Their O ha|)py living tilings ! no tongue 

and their Their beauty might declare: 

ueM^' -^ spring of love gush'd from my 

heart. 
He blew- And I bless'd them unaware : 

eth them .... , . 

In liis Sure mv kind saint took pitv on 

heart. 

me. 

And I bless'd them unaware. 



Tlie spell The selfsame moment I could pray ; 

Ugins to , f 

break. And from my neck so free 

The albatross fell off", and sank 
Like lead into the sea. 

Part V. 

Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 

Beloved from pole to pole ! 

To Mary Queen the praise be giv- 
en ! 

She sent the gentle sleep from 
Heaven, 

That slid into my soul. 

of the The silly buckets on the deck, 
th.r, Ui'^ That had so long remain'd, 
Mariner ^ dreamt tiiat they were fiU'd 
I? re with dew ; 

with rain. And when I awoke, it rain'd. 



He hcar- 
cth 

sounds, 
and st'cth 
stninge 
sights and 
commo- 
tions in 
the sky 
and the 
element. 



My lips were wet, my throat was 

cold. 
My garments all were dank ; 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 

And still my body drank. 

I moved, and could not feel my 

limbs : 
I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep, 
And was a blessed ghost. 

And soon I heard a roaring wind: 

It did not come anear ; 

But with its sound it shook the 

sails. 
That were so thin and sere. 

The upper air burst into life ! 
And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 
To and fro they were hurried about! 
And to and fro, and in and out, 
The wan stars danced between. 

And the coming wind did roar more 

loud. 
And the sails did sigh like sedge; 
And the rain jiour'd down from 

one black cloud ; 
The Moon was at its edge. 

The thick black cloud was cleft, 

and still 
The Moon was at its side : 
Like waters shot from some high 

crag. 
The lightning fell with never a 

jag, 
A river steep and wide. 



The loud wind never reach'd the The bod- 

, . ics of tho 

snip, ship's 

Yet now the ship moved on ! 'iulZml', 

Beneath the lightning and theJJ^jy'"' 
Moon moves on; 

The dead men gave a groan. 

They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all 

uprose. 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
It had been strange, even in a 

dream. 
To have seen those dead men rise. 



860 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



But not 
by the 
soula of 
the men, 
nor by 
dteraons 
of earfh 
or ttiiddle 
air, but 
by a 
blessed 
troop of 
augelic 
spirits, 
sent 

down by 
the invo- 
cation of 
the guar- 
dian 
saint. 



The helmsman steer'd, the ship 

moved on ; 
Yet never a breeze up blew ; 
The mariners all 'gan work the 

ropes, 
Where they were wont to do ; 
They raised their limbs like lifeless 

tools — 
We were a ghastly crew. 

The body of my brother's son 
Stood by me, knee to knee : 
The body and I puU'd at one rope. 
But be said naught to me. 

" I fear thee, ancient mariner !" 
Be calm, thou wedding guest! 
'Twas not those souls that tied in 

pain, 
Which to their corses came again, 
But a troop of spirits blest : 



For when it dawn'd — they dropp'd 

their arms, 
And cluster'd round the mast ; 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through 

their mouths. 
And from their bodies pass'd. 

Around, around, flew each sweet 

sound. 
Then darted to the Sun ; 
Slowly the sounds came back again. 
Now mis'd, now one by one. 

Sometimes a-dropping from the 

sky, 
I heard the skylark sing ; 
Sometimes all little birds that are. 
How they seem'd to fill the sea 

and air 
With their sweet jargoning! 

And now 'twas like all instruments, 
Now like a lonely flute ; 
And now it is an angel's song 
That makes the heavens be mute. 

It ceased ; yet still the sails made 

on 
A pleasant noise till noon, 
A noise like of a hidden brook 
In the leaf}' month of June, 
That to the sleeping woods all night 
Singeth a quiet tune. 



The lone- 
some spir- 
it from 
the soutli 
pole car- 
ries on 
the ship 
as far as 
the line, 
in obedi- 
ence to 
the angel- 
ic troop, 
but still 
requireth 
ven- 
geance. 



Till noon we quietly sail'd on, 
Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
Slowly and smoothly went the 

ship, 
Moved onward from beneath. 

Under the keel nine fathom deep. 
From the land of mi.st and snow, 
The spirit slid : and it was he 
That made the .ship to go. 
The sails at noon left off their 

tune. 
And the ship stood still also. 

The Sun, right up above the mast. 
Had fix'd her to the ocean : 
But in a minute she 'gan stir. 
With a short uneasy motion- 
Backwards and forwards half her 

length 
With a short uneasy motion. 

Then like a pawing horse let go, 
She made a sudden bound : 
It flung the blood into my head 
And I fell down in a swound. 

How long in that same fit I lay, 
I have not to declare ; 
But ere my living life return'd, 
I heard, and in my soul discern'd 
Two voices in the air. 



take part 

" Is it he?" quoth one, " Is this the wrong; 
»>-,nr,9 and two 

m.in / of them 

By Him who died on cross, relate, 

•^ * one to 

With his cruel bow he laid full the other, 

that pen- 
ance long 



The Polar 
Spirit's 
fellow-d de- 
mons, the 
invisible 
inhabit- 
ants of 
the ele- 
ment, 



low 



The harmless albatross. 



and hea- 
vy for the 
ancient 



" The spirit who bideth by himself ^^'•*J',.!jf.f," 



In the land of mist and snow. 



to the Po 

He loved the bird that loved the who re- 

turneth 

man gomh- 

Who shot him with his bow." '^^^'^■ 



The other was a softer voice. 

As soft as honey-dew : 

Quoth he, " The man hath penance 

done. 
And penance more will do." 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



8C1 



The mar- 
iner liath 
been cast 
inio a 
trance : 
for the 
aneellc 
power 
fauselh 
the vesaL'l 
to drive 
north- 
ward. fast- 
er than 
human 
life couW 
endure. 



The su- 
pernatur- 
al motion 
Is retard- 
ed ; the 
mariner 
awaice-^, 
and lii» 
ptmance 
be^io!! 
anew. 



Part VI. 

First Voice. 
But tell me, tell me ! speak again 
Thy soft response renewing — 
What makes that ship drive on so 

fast ■? 
What is the ocean doing ? 

Second Voice. 
Still as a slave before his lord, 
The ocean hath no blast ; 
His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the Moon is cast — 

If he may know which way to go; 
For she guides liim smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see ! Iiow graciously 
She looketh down on him. 

First Voice. 
But why drives on that ship so fast. 
Without or wave or wind? 

Second Voice. 
The air is cut away before. 
And closes from behind. 

Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more 

liigh! 
Or we shall be belated : 
For slow and slow that ship will go. 
When the mariner's trance is abated. 

I woke, and we were sailing on 

As in a gentle weather: 

'Tw.'is night, calm night, the moon 

was high ; 
Tlie dead men stood together. 

All stood together on the deck, 
For a charnel-dungcon fitter: 
All fix'd on me tlieir stony eyes 
That in the Moon did glitter. 



And now this spell wassnapt: once The curse 

*^ '^ Is finally 

more expiated; 

I view'd the ocean green. 

And look'd far forth, yet little 

saw 

Of what had else been seen — 

Like one, that on a lonesome road 
Doth walk in fear and dread. 
And having once turn'd round 

walks on. 
And turns no more his head ; 
Because he knows a frightful fiend 
Doth close beliind him tread. 

But soon there breathed a wind on 

me, 
Xor sound nor motion made: 
Its path wa.s not upon the sea. 
In ripple or in sluide. 

It raised my hair, it fann'd my 

cheek 
Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
It mingled strangely with my fears. 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 
Yet she sail'd softly too : 
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
On me alone it blew. 



Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed And the 
The lightlioase top I see? 



ancient 
mariner 



Is this mine own countree? 

We drifted o'er the harbor-bar. 
And I with soI)s did pray — 
Oh let me be awake, my God ! 
Or let me slee|) alway. 

The harbor-bay was clear as glass. 

So smoothly it was strewn ! 

And on the bay the moonlight 

lay. 
And the shadow of the moon. 



his native 
couutry. 



The pang, the curse, with which The rock shone bright, the kirk no 



they died. 
Had never pa.ss'd away : 
I could not draw my eyes from 

theirs. 
Nor turn them up to pray. 



less. 
That stands above the rock : 
The moonlight steep'd in silent- 

ness 
The steady weathercock. 



862 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



And the bay was white with silent 

light, 
Till rising from the same, 
The an- Full many shapes, that shadows 

pelic spir- 
its leave were, 

bodies'"* In crimson colors came. 

And ap- A. little distance from the prow 

pear m „, . 

tlieir own Those crimson shadows were : 
light! ° I turn'd my eyes upon the deck— 

Christ ! what saw I there ! 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
And by the holy rood ! 
A man all light, a seraph man. 
On every corse there stood. 

This seraph-band, each waved his 

hand: 
It was a heavenly sight ! 
They stood as signals to the land, 
Each one a lovely light ; 

This seraph-band, each waved his 
hand. 

No voice did they impart — 

No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 

Like music on my heart. 

But soon I heard the dash of oars, 

1 heard the pilot's cheer; 

My head was turn'd perforce away, 
And I saw a boat appear. 

The pilot and the pilot's boy, 
I heard them coming fast: 
Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third — I heard his voice : 
It is the hermit good ! 
He singeth loud his godly hymns 
That he makes in the wood. 
He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash 

away 
The albatross's blood. 



Part VII. 
The her- This hermit good lives in that wood 
wood. Which slopes down to the sea. 

How loudly his sweet voice he 

rears ! 
He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far countree. 



He kneels at morn, and noon, and 

eve — 
He hath a cushion plump : 
It is the moss that wholly hides 
The rotted old oak-stump. 

The skiff-boat near'd : I heard 

them talk, 
" Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
Where are those lights so many and 

fair. 
That signal made but now ?" 

"Strange, by my faith!" the her-Ap- 

. . proach- 

mit said— eth the 

"And they answer'd not our cheer ! ^''jPdrr"" 

The planks look'd warp'd ! and see 

those sails 

How thin they are and sere! 

I never saw aught like to them, 

Unless perchance it were 

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 

My forest-brook along ; 

When the ivy-tod is heavy with 

snow. 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf 

below. 
That eats the she-wolf's young." 

" Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish 

look 
(The pilot made reply) — 
I am a-fear'd." — " Push on, push 

on!" 
Said the hermit cheerily. 

The boat came closer to the ship. 

But I nor spake nor stirr'd ; 

The boat came close beneath the 

ship. 
And straight a sound was heard. 

Under the water it rumbled on, The ship 
Still louder and more dread : si'nketh.^ 

It reach'd the ship, it split the bay; 
The ship went down like lead. 

Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful The an- 

j cieotmar- 

sound, iner is 

Which sky and ocean smote, thrpilovs 

Like one that hath been seven days boat. 

drown'd 

My body Lay afloat ; 

But swift as dreams, myself I found 

Within the pilot's boat. 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



863 



Upwii the whirl, where sank the 

ship, 
The boat spun round and round ; 
And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

I moved my lips — the pilot shriek'd 
And fell down in a fit ; 
The holy hermit raised his eyes, 
And pray'd where he did sit. 

I took the oars : the pilot's boy. 
Who now dotli crazy go, 
Laugh'd loud and long, and all the 

while 
His eyes went to and fro. 
" Ha ! ha !" quoth he, " full plain 

I see, 
The Devil knows how to row." 

And now, all in my own countree, 

I stood on the firm land ! 

The hermit stepp'd forth from the 

boat. 
And scarcely he could stand. 



The an- Oh shneve me, shneve me, holy 

clent ,„ 

mariner man ! 

earnestly 
entreat- 
eth the 
hermit to 
shrieve 
him; and 
the pen- 
ance of 
are falls 
on him. 



The hermit cross'd his brow. 
^ " Say quick," quoth he, " I bid thee 

say — 
' What manner of man art thou V 



And ever 
and anon 
through- 
out lii^ fu- 
ture life 
an affony 
constraiii- 
eth him 
to travel 
from land 
to land. 



Forthwith this frame of mine was 

wrench'd 
With a woeful agony, 
Which forced me to begin my tale ; 
And then it left me free. 

Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
That agony returns : 
And till my ghastly tale is told. 
This heart within me burns. 

I pass, like night, from land to land ; 
I have strange power of speech ; 
That moment that his face I see, 
I know the man that must hear 

me; 
To him niv tale I teach. 



What loud uproar bursts from that 

door ! 
The wedding-guests are there : 
But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bride-maids singing are: 
And hark the little vesper-bell. 
Which biddeth me to prayer ! 

wedding-guest! this soul hath 

been 
Alone on a wide wide sea.: 
So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemfed there to be. 

Oh sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
'Tis sweeter far to me. 
To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company I — 

To walk together to the kirk. 

And all together pray. 

While each to his great Father 

bends, 
Old men, and babes, and loving 

friends, 
And youths and maidens gay I 

Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 
To thee, thou wedding-guest ! 
He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man, and bird, and beast. 

He prayeth best, who loveth be.st 
All things both great and small ; 
For the de:ir God who loveth us, 
He made and loveth all. 

The mariner, whose eye is bright. 
Whose beard with age is hoar. 
Is gone; and now the wedding- 
guest 
Tum'd from the bridegroom's door. 



He went like one that hath been 

stunn'd, 
And is of sense forlorn : 
A sadder and a wiser man, 
He rose the morrow morn. 

Sami-el Tatlor Colebidob. 



And to 
teaeh, by 
lii3 own 
example, 
love and 
reverence 
to all 
things 
that God 
made and 
loveth. 



864 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



The Skeleton in Armor. 

" Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still iu rude armor drest, 

Coincst to daunt me ! 
Wrapt uot in Eastern balms, 
But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretch'd, as if asking alms ; 

Why dost thou haunt me?" 

Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seem'd to rise, 
As when the Northern skies 

Gleam in December; 
And, like the water's flow 
Under December's snow, 
Came a dull voice of woe 

From the heart's chamber. 

" I was a Viking old ! 
My deeds, though manifold, 
No Skald in song has told, 

No Saga taught thee ! 
Take heed, that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse, 
Else dread a dead man's curse ; 

For this I sought thee. 

"Far in the Northern land. 
By the wild Baltic's strand, 
I, with my childish hand, 
Tamed the ger-falcon ; 
And, with my skates fast bound, 
Skimm'd the half-frozen sound. 
That the poor whimpering bound 
Trembled to walk on. 

" Oft to his frozen lair 
Track'd I the grisly bear, 
While from my path the hare 

Fled like a shadow; 
Oft through the forest dark 
Follow'd the were-wolfs bark, 
Until the soaring lark 

Sang from the meadow. 

" But when I older grew. 
Joining a corsair's crew, 
O'er the dark sea I flew 

With the marauders. 
Wild was the life we led; 
Many the souls that sped, 
Many the hearts that bled, 

By our stern orders. 



" Many a wassail bout 
Wore the long winter out ; 
Often our midnight shout 

Set the cocks crowing. 
As we the Berserk's tale 
Measured in cups of ale. 
Draining the oaken pail, 

Fill'd to o'erflowing. 

" Once as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea, 
Soft eyes did gaze on me. 

Burning, yet tender ; 
And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine. 
On that dark heart of mine 

Fell their soft splendor 

" I woo'd the blue-eyed maid, 
Yielding, yet half afraid, 
And in the forest's shade 

Our vows were plighted. 
Under its loosen'd vest 
Flutter'd her little breast. 
Like birds within their nest 

By the hawk frighted. 

" Bright in her father's hall 
Shields gleam'd upon the wall, 
Loud sang the minstrels all. 

Chanting his glory ; 
When of old Hildebrand 
I ask'd his daughter's hand. 
Mute did the minstrels stand 

To hear my story. 

" While the brown ale he quaff'd. 
Loud then the champion laugh'd, 
And as the wind-gusts waft 

The sea-foam brightly. 
So the loud laugh of scorn. 
Out of those lips unshorn. 
From the deep drinking-horn 

Blew the foam lightly. 

" She was a prince's child, 
I but a Viking wild, 
And though she blush'd .and smiled, 

I was discarded ! 
Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew's flight? 
Why did they leave thiit night 
Her nest unguarded ? 



1VEIJW AND 


FANTASTIC. 865 


" Scarce had I put to sea, 


" Still grew my bosom then, 


Bearing the uiaitl with me,— 


Still as a stagnant fen ! 


Fairest of all was she 


Hateful to me were men, 


Among the Norsemen ! — 


The sunlight hateful. 


When on the white sea-strand. 


In the vast forest here, 


Waving his armed hand. 


Clad in my warlike gear, 


Saw we old llildebrand, 


Fell I upon my spear, 


With twenty horsemen. 


Oh, death was grateful ! 


" Then launch'd they to the blast, 


" Thus,seam'd with many scars, 


Bent like a reed each mast. 


Bursting these prison-bars, 


Yet we were gaining fast. 


Up to its native stars 


When the wind fail'd us; 


My soul ascended. 


And with a sudden flaw 


There, from the flowing bowl 


Came round the gusty Skaw, 


Deep drinks the warrior's soul, 


So that our foe we saw 


Skoal ! to the Northland ! skoal !" 


Laugh as he hail'd us. 


— Thus the tale ended. 




UENBY WaDSWOETH LOSUFEILOW. 


"And as to catch the gale 


w. 


Round veer'd the flapping sail, 


LA BELLE Dame saa's Merci. 


Death I was the helmsman s hail, 




Death without quarter! 


Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms ! 


Mid-ships with iron keel 


Alone and palely loitering? 


Struck we her rihs of steel ; 


The sedge has wither'd from the lake. 


Down her black hulk did reel 


And no birds sing. 


Through the black water I 


Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms I 


" As with his wings aslant. 


So haggard and so woe-begone? 


Sails the fierce cormorant. 


The squirrel's granary is full, 


Seeking some rocky haunt. 


And the harvest's done. 


With his prey laden, 


I see a lily on thy brow. 


So toward the ojien main. 


With anguish moist and fever dew ; 


Beating to sea again, 


And on thy cheeks a fading rose 


Through the wild hurricane 


Fast withcreth too. 


Bore I the maiden. 






I met a lady in the mead — 


" Three weeks we westward bore. 


Full beautiful, a fairy's child ; 


And when the storm was o'er, 


Her hair was long, her foot was light. 


Cloud-like we saw the shore 


And her eyes were wild. 


Stretching to leeward ; 




There for my lady's bower 


I made a garland for her head, 


Built I the lofty tower. 


And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ; 


Which, to this very hour, 


She look'd at me as she did love, 


Stands looking seaward. 


And made sweet moan. 




I set her on my pacing steed. 


"There lived we many years; 


And nothing else saw all day long ; 


Time dried the maiden's tears; 


For sidelong would she bend, and sing 
A fairy song. 


She had forgot her fears, 
She was a mother ; 


Death closed her mild blue eyes, 


She found me roots of relish sweet, 


Under that tower she lies ; 


And honey wild, and manna dew ; 


Ne'er shall the sun arise 


And sure in language strange she said— 


On such another 1 
Si 


" I love thee true." 



866 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



She took me to her elfin grot, 

And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore ; 
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes 

With kisses four. 

And there she lull'd me asleep ; 

And there I dream'd — Ah I woe betide ! 
The latest dream I ever dream'd 

On the cold hill's side. 

I saw pale kings and princes too — 
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ; 

They cried — " La belle dame sans merci 
Hath thee in thrall !" 

I saw their starved lips in the gloam, 
With horrid warning gaped wide ; 

And I awoke, and found me here. 
On the cold hill's side. 

And this is why I sojourn here. 

Alone and palely loitering. 

Though the sedge is wither'd from the 

lake, 

And no birds sing. 

John Keats. 

The Haunted House. 

A EOMANCE. 

" ' A jolly place,' said he, ' in days of old. 

But something ails it now ; the spot is curst.*" 
Hart-Le.\p Well, by Wokdswokth. 

Part I. 

Some dreams we have are nothing else but 
dreams. 

Unnatural and full of contradictions, 
Yet others of our most romantic schemes 
Are something more than fictions. 

It might be only on enchanted ground, 
It might be merely by a thought's ex- 
pansion. 

But in the spirit, or the flesh, I found 
An old deserted mansion. 

A residence for woman, child, and man, 
A dwelling-place, — and yet no habita- 
tion; 

A house — but under some prodigious ban 
Of excommunication. 

Unhinged the iron gates half open hung, 
Jarr'd by the gusty gales of many win- 
ters, 



That from its crumbled pedestal had flung 
One marble globe in splinters. 

No dog was at the threshold, great or 
small, 
No pigeon on the roof, no household 
creature. 
No cat demurely dozing on the wall — 
Not one domestic feature. 

No human figure stirr'd, to go or come. 
No face luok'd forth from shut or open 
casement. 
No chimney smoked^there was no sign 
of home 
From parapet to basement. 

With shatter'd panes the grassy court was 
starr'd ; 
The time-worn coping-stone had tum- 
bled after. 
And through the ragged roof the sky 
shone, barr'd 
With naked beam and rafter. 

O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear, 
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, 

And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, 
The place is haunted ! 

The flow'r grew wild and rankly as the weed, 
Koses with thistles struggled for espial. 

And vagrant plants of parasitic breed 
Had overgrown the dial. 

But gay or gloomy, steadfast or infirm. 
No heart was there to heed the hour's 
duration ; 
All times and tides were lost in one long 
term 
Of stagnant desolation. 

The wren had built within the porch ; she 
found 
Its quiet loneliness so sure and thor- 
ough; 
And on the lawn, within its turfy mound. 
The rabbit made his burrow. 

The rabbit wild and gray, that flitted 
through 
The shrubby clumps, and frisk'd, and 
sat, and vanish'd. 
But leisurely and bold, as if he knew 
His enemy was banish'd. 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



867 



The wary crow, the pheasant from the 
woods, 
Lull'd by the still and everlasting same- 
ness. 
Close to the mansion, like domestic broods, 
Fed with a " shocking tameness." 

The coot was swimming in the reedy pond, 
Beside tiie water-hen, so soon aftrighted, 

And in the weedy moat the heron, fond 
Of solitude, alighted, — 

The moping heron, motionless and stiff, 
That on a stone, as silently and stilly, 

Stood, an apparent sentinel, as if 
To guard the water-lily. 

No sound was heard except, from far away, 
The ringing of the witwall's shrilly 
laughter. 

Or, now and then, the chatter of the jay. 
That Echo murmur'd after. 

But Echo never mock'd the human tongue; 

Some weighty crime, that Heaven could 
not pardon, 
A secret curse on that old building hung, 

And its deserted garden. 

The beds were all untouch'd by hand or 
tool: 
No footstep mark'd the damp and mossy 
gravel, 
Each walk as green as is the mantled pool. 
For want of human travel. 

The vine unj)ruiied, and the neglected 
peach, 
Droop'd from the wall with which they 
used to grapple ; 
And on the cankcr'd tree, in easy reach, 
Rotted the golden apple. 

But awfully the truant shunn'd the ground, 
The vagrant kept aloof, and daring 
poacher ; 
In spite of gaps that through the fences 
round 
Invited the encroacher. 

For over all there hung a cloud of fear, 
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, 

And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, 
The place is haunted ! 



The pear and quince lay squander'd on 

the grass ; 
The mould was purple with unheeded 

showers 
Of bloomy plums — a wilderness it was 
Of fruits, and weeds, and flowers ! 

The marigold amidst the nettles blew. 
The gourd embraced the rose-bush in 
its ramble. 

The thistle and the stock together grew. 
The hollyhock and bramble. 

The bcarbine with the lilac interlaced. 
The sturdy burdock choked its slender 
neighbor, 

The spicy pink. All tokens were effaced 
Of human care and labor. 

The very yew formality had train'd 
To such a rigid pyramidal stature. 

For want of trimming had almost regain'd 
The raggedness of nature. 

The fountain was a-dry — neglect and 
time 
Had marr'd the work of artisan and 
mason. 
And efts and croaking frogs, begot of 
slime, 
Sprawl'd in the ruin'd basin. 

The statue, fallen from its marble base. 
Amidst the refuse leaves, and herbage 
rotten, 

Lay like the idol of some bygone race. 
Its name and rites forgotten. 

On ev'ry side the aspect was the same, 
.\11 ruin'd, desolate, forlorn, and .savage: 

No hand or foot within the precinct came 
To rectify or ravage. 

For over all there hung a cloud of fear, 
A sen.se of mystery the spirit daunted. 

And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, 
The place is haunted ! 

Part II. 

Oh, very gloomy is the house of Woe, 
Where tears are falling while the bell is 
knelling, 

With all the dark solemnities which show 
That Death is in the dwelling! 



868 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Oh very, very dreary is the room 

Where Love, domestic Love, no longer 
nestles, 
But, smitten by the common stroke of 
doom, 
The corpse lies on the trestles ! 

But House of Woe, and hearse, and sable 
pall, 
The narrow home of the departed 
mortal. 
Ne'er looked so gloomy as that ghostly hall. 
With its deserted portal ! 

The centipede along the threshold crept, 
The cobweb hung across in mazy tangle. 

And in its winding-sheet the maggot slept 
At every nook and angle. 

The keyhole lodged the earwig and her 
brood, 
The emmets of the steps had old posses- 
sion, 
And march'd in search of their diurnal 
food 
In undisturb'd procession, — 

As undisturb'd as the prehensile cell 
Of moth or maggot, or the spider's tissue, 

For never foot upon that threshold fell. 
To enter or to issue. 

O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear, 
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, 

And said, as plain as whisper in the ear. 
The place is haunted ! 

Howbeit, the door I push'd — or so I 
dream'd — 
Which slowly, slowly gaped — the hinges 
creaking 
With such a rusty eloquence, it seem'd 
That Time himself was speaking. 

But Time was dumb within that mansion 
old, 
Or left his tale to the heraldic banners 
That hung from the corroded walls, and 
told 
Of former men and manners, — 

Those tatter'd flags, that with the open'd 
door 
Seem'd the old wave of battle to re- 
member. 



While fallen fragments danced upon the 
floor 
Like dead leaves in December. 

The startled bats flew out — bird after 
bird — 
The screech-owl overhead began to flut- 
ter, 
And seem'd to mock the cry that .she had 
heard 
Some dying victim utter I 

A shriek that echo'd from the joisted roof, 
And up the stair, and further still and 
further, 

Till in some ringing chamber far aloof 
It ceased its tale of murther ! 

Meanwhile the rusty armor rattled round, 
The banner shudder'd, and the ragged 
streamer ; 

All things the horrid tenor of the sound 
Acknowledged with a tremor. 

The antlers, where the helmet hung and 
belt, 
Stirr'd as the tempest stirs the forest 
branches. 
Or as the stag had trembled when he felt 
The bloodhound at his haunches. 

The window jingled in its crumbled frame. 
And through its many gaps of desti- 
tution 

Dolorous moans and hollow sighings came, 
Like those of dissolution. 

The woodlouse dropp'd, and roll'd into a 
ball, 
Touch'd by some impulse occult or me- 
chanic. 
And namekss beetles ran along the wall 
In universal panic. 

The subtle spider, that from overhead 
Hung like a spy on human guilt and 
error, 

Suddenly turn'd, and up its slender thread 
Kan with a nimble terror. 

The very stains and fractures on the wall. 
Assuming features solemn and terrific, 

Hinted some tragedy of that old hall, 
Lock'd up in hieroglyphic, — 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



869 



Some tale that might, perchance, have 
solved the doubt 
Wherefore, amongst those flags so dull 
and livid. 
The banner of the Bloody Hand shone out 
So ominously vivid ; 

Some key to that inscrutable appeal, 
Which made the very frame of Nature 
quiver ; 

And every thrilling nerve and fibre feel 
So ague-like a shiver. 

For over all there hung a cloud of fear, 
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, 

And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, 
The place is haunted ! 

If but a rat had linger'd in the house. 
To lure the thought into a social chan- 
nel ! 

But not a rat remain'd, or tiny mouse. 
To squeak behind the panel. 

Huge drops roll'd down the walls, as if 
they wept; 
And where the cricket used to chirp so 
shrilly. 
The toad was squatting, and the lizard 
crept 
On that damp hearth and chilly. 

For years no cheerful blaze had sparkled 
there, 
Or glanced on coat of buff or knightly 
metal ; 
The slug was crawling on the vacant chair, 
The snail upon the settle. 

The floor was redolent of mould and must, 
Tlic fungus in the rotten seams had quick- 
en'd ; 

While on the oaken table coats of dust 
Perennially had thicken'd. 

No mark of leathern jack or metal can, 
No cup — no horn — no hospitable token, — 

All social ties between that board and man 
Had long ago been broken. 

There was so foul a rumor in the air. 
The shadow of a presence so atrocious ; 

No human creature could have feasted 
there, ' 
Even the most ferocious ! 



For over all there hung a cloud of fear, 
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, 

And said, as plain as whisper in the ear. 
The place is haunted ! 

Part III. 
'Tis hard for human actions to account. 
Whether from reason or from impulse 
only — 
But some internal prompting bade me 
mount 
The gloomy stairs and lonely, — 

Those gloomy stairs, so dark, and damp, 
and cold. 
With odors as from bones and relics 
carnal. 
Deprived of rite, and consecrated mould. 
The chapel vault, or charnel; 

Those dreary stairs, where with the sound- 
ing stress 
Of ev'ry step so many echoes blended, 
The mind, with dark misgivings, fear'd to 
guess 
How many feet ascended. 

The tempest with its spoils had drifted in. 
Till each unwholesome stone was darkly 
spotted. 

As thickly as the leopard's dappled skin. 
With leaves that rankly rotted. 

The air was thick — and in the upper gloom 
The bat — or something in its shape — was 
winging; 

And ou the wall, a.s chilly as a tomb, 
The Death's-head moth was clinging, — 

That mystic moth, which, with a sense pro- 
found 

Of all unholy presence, augurs truly ; 
And with a grim significance flits round 

The taper burning bluely. 

Such omens in the place there seem'd to be, 
At every crooked turn, or on the landing. 

The straining eyeball wiis prepared to see 
Some apparition standing. 

For over all there iiung a cloud of fear. 

A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, 
And said, an plain as whisper in the ear, 

The place is haunted ! 



870 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 


Yet no portentous shape the sight amazed ; 


The Bloody Hand that with a lurid stain 


Each object plain^ and tangible, and valid ; 


Shone on the dusty floor, a dismal token, 


But from their tarnish'd frames dark figures 


Projected from the casement's painted 


gazed, 


pane. 


And faces spectre-pallid. 


Where all beside was broken ; 


Not merely with the mimic life that lies 


The Bloody Hand significant of crime. 


Within the compass of Art's simulation : 


That, glaring on the old heraldic banner, 


Their souls were looking through their 


Had kept its crimson unimpair'd by time, 


painted eyes 


In such a wondrous manner ! 


With awful speculation. 






O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear. 


On every lip a speechless horror dwelt ; 


A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, 


On every brow the burden of affliction; 


And said, as plain as whisper in the ear. 


The old ancestral spirits knew and felt 


The place is haunted ! 


The house's malediction. 






The death-watch tick'd behind the pan- 


Such earnest woe their features overcast, 


ell'd oak. 


1 They might have stirr'd, or sigh'd, or 


Inexplicable tremors shook the arras, 


wept, or spoken; 


And echoes strange and mystical awoke, 


But, save the hollow moaning of the blast, 


The fancy to embarrass. 


The stillness was unbroken. 






Prophetic hints that fill'd the soul with 


No other sound or stir of life was there, 


dread. 


Except my steps in solitary clamber 


But through one gloomy entrance point- 


From flight to flight, from humid stair to 


ing mostly. 


stair. 


The while some secret inspiration said, 


From chamber into chamber. 


That chamber is the ghostly ! 


Deserted rooms of luxury and state. 


Across the door no gossamer festoon 


That old magnificence had richly fur- 


Swung pendulous — no web — no dusty 


nish'd 


fringes. 


With pictures, cabinets of ancient date, 


No silky chrysalis or white cocoon, 


And carvings gilt and burnish'd. 


About its nooks and hinges. 


Rich hangings, storied by the needle's art 


The spider shunn'd the interdicted room. 


With Scripture history, or classic fable ; 


The moth, the beetle, and the fly were 


But all had faded, save one ragged part, 


banish'd. 


Where Cain was slaying Abel. 


And where the sunbeam fell athwart the 




gloom 


The silent waste of mildew and the moth 


The very midge had vanish'd. 


Had marr'd the tissue with a partial 




ravage ; 


One lonely ray that glanced upon a bed, 


But undecaying frown'd upon the cloth 


As if with awful aim direct and certain. 


Each feature stern and savage. 


To show the Bloody Hand in burning 
red 
Embroider'd on the curtain. 


The sky was pale ; the cloud a thing of 


doubt ; 




Some hues were fresh, and some decay'd 


And yet no gory stain was on the quilt — 


and duller; 


The pillow in its place had slowly 


But still the Bloody Hand shone strangely 


rotted : 


out 


The floor alone retain'd tlie'trace of guilt, 


With vehemence of color ! — 


Those boards obscurely spotted, — 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



871 



Obscurely spotted to the door, and thence 
With mazy doubles to the grated ciise- 
meot — 

Oh what a tale llu-y told of fear intense, 
Of hornir and amazement ! 

What liunian creature in the dead of 
night 
Had coursed like hunted hare that cruel 
distance '? 
Had sought the door, the window, in his 
flight, 
Striving for dear existence ? 

What shrieking spirit in that bloody room 
Its mortal frame had violently quitted? — 

Across the sunbeam, with a sudden gloom, 
A ghostly shadow flitted, — 

Across the sunbeam, and along the wall. 
But painted on the air so very dimly, 

It hardly veil'd the tapestry at all. 
Or portrait frowning grimly. 

O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear, 

A sense of mystery the spirit daunted. 

And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, 

The place is haunted ! 

Thomas Hood. 

TffE Haunted Palace. 

In the greenest of our valleys. 

By good angels tenanted, 
Once a fair and stately palace 

(Radiant palace) rear'd its head. 
In the monarch Thought's dominion 

It stood there ! 
Never seraph spread a pinion 

Over fabric half so fair. 

Banners, yellow, glorious, golden, 

On its roof did float and flow 
(This, all this, was in the olden 

Time, long ago) ; 
And every gentle air that dallied 

In that sweet day, 
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

A winged odor went away. 

Wanderers in that happy valley 
Tliruugh two liiniinous windows saw 

Spirits moving musically 
To a lute's wcU-tuued law ; 



I Round about a throne, where, sitting 
(Porphyrogene !) 
In state his glory well befitting. 
The ruler of the realm was seen. 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

Was the fair palace-door. 
Through which came flowing, flowing, 
flowing, 

And sparkling evermore, 
A troop of echoes, whose sweet duty 

Was but to sing, 
In voices of sur[)assing beauty. 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 

Assail'd the monarch's high estate 
(Ah ! let us mourn, for never morrow 

Shall dawn u|)on him, desolate) ; 
And round about his home the glory 

That blusli'd and bloom'd 
Is but a dim-remember'd story 

Of the old time entomb'd. 

And travellers now, within that valley, 

Through the red-litten windows see 
Vast forms that move fantastically 

To a discordant melody ; 
While, like a ghastly, rapid river. 

Through the pale door 
A hideous throng rush out for ever, 

And laugh — but smile no more. 

Edgar Allan Pok. 

ALOxzo THE Brave and the 
Fair Imocine. 

A WARRIOR SO bold, and a virgin so bright. 

Conversed as they sat on the green ; 
They gazed on each other with tender de- 
light ; 
Alonzo the Brave was the name of the 
knight. 
The maiden's, the Fair Imogine. 

" And oh !" said the youth, " since to-mor- 
row I go 
To fight in a far-distant land. 
Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to 

flow. 
Some other will court you, and you will 
bestow 
On a wealthier suitor your hand." 



872 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



" Oh, hush these suspicions," Fair Imo- 
gine said, 
" Offensive to love and to me ; 
For if you be living, or if you be dead, 
I swear by the Virgin that none in your 
stead 
Shall husband of Imogine be. 

" If e'er I, by lust or by wealth led aside, 

Forget my Alonzo the Brave, 
God grant that, to punish my falsehood 

and pride. 
Your ghost at the marriage may sit by my 

side. 
May tax me with perjury, claim me as 
bride. 
And bear me away to the grave !" 

To Palestine hasten'd the hero so bold ; 

His love she lamented him sore. 
But scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, 

when, behold ! 
A baron, all cover'd with jewels and 
gold. 
Arrived at Fair Imogine's door. 

His treasures, his presents, his spacious 
domain, 
Soon made her untrue to her vows ; 
He dazzled her eyes, he bewilder'd her 

brain. 
He caught her affections, so light and so 
vain, 
And carried her home as his spouse. 

And now had the marriage been bless'd 
by the priest. 
The revelry now was begun. 
The tables they groan'd with the weight 

of the feast. 
Nor yet had the laughter and merriment 
ceased. 
When the bell at the castle toll'd one. 

Then first with amazement fair Imogine 
found 
A stranger was placed by her side ; 
His air was terrific, he utter'd no sound. 
He spake not, he moved not, he look'd 
not around. 
But earnestly gazed on the bride. 

His visor was closed, and gigantic his 
height. 
His armor was sable to view ; 



All pleasure and laughter were hush'd at 

his sight ; 
The dogs, as they eyed him, drew back in 

affright ; 
The lights in the chamber burn'd'blue! 

His presence all bosoms appear'd to dismay ; 

The guests sat in silence and fear ; 
At length spake the bride — while she 

trembled — " I pray. 
Sir Knight, that your helmet aside you 
would lay. 
And deign to partake of our cheer." 

The lady is silent ; the stranger complies. 

His visor he slowly unclosed ; 
O God ! what a sight met fair Imogine's eyes ! 
What words can express her dismay and 
surprise 

When a skeleton's head was exposed ! 

All present then utter'd a terrified shout. 
All turn'd with disgust from the scene ;. 
The worms they crept in, and the worms 

they crept out, 
And sported his eyes and his temples 
about. 
While the spectre address'd Imogine. 

" Behold me, thou false one, behold me !" 

he cried, 
" Remember Alonzo the Brave ! 
God grants that, to punish thy falsehood 

and pride. 
My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy 

side. 
Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee 

as bride. 
And bear thee away to the grave !" 

Thus saying, his arms round the lady he 
wound, 
While loudly she shriek'd in dismay ; 
Then sunk with his prey through the wide- 
yawning ground. 
Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found. 
Or the spectre that bore her away. 

Not long lived the baron, and none, since 
that time. 
To inhabit the castle presume. 
For chronicles tell that, by order sublime, 
There Imogine suffers the pain of her 
crime. 
And mourns her deplorable doom. 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



873 



At midnight, four times in each year, does 
her sprite, 
When mortals in slumber are bound, 
Array'd in her bridal apparel of white, 
Appear in the hall with the skeleton 
knight, 
And shriek as he whirls her around. 

While they drink out of skulls newly torn 
from the grave, 
Dancing round them the spectres are 
seen ; 
Their liquor is blood, and this horrible 

stave 
They howl : " To the health of Alonzo the 
Brave, 
And his consort, the Fair Imogine!" 

Matthew Gregory Lewis. 



Taih O'Shanter. 

A Tale. 

"Of brownys and of bogilis full is this buke." — 
Gawin Douglas. 

Whex chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors neebors meet, 
As market-days are wearing late, 
An' folks begin to tak' the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
.\n' gettin' fou and unco happy. 
We think na on tlic lang t^cots miles, 
Tiie mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Where sits our sulky .sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tam O'Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses. 
For honest men and bonny lasses). 
O Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise. 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou w.xs a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, dninkcn blellum; 
That frae Xovcmber till October, 
Ae market-day thou was nac sober ; 
That ilka nielder, wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on. 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirtoii Jean till Monday. 



She prophesy'd, that late or soon, 

Thou would be found deep drown'd in 

Doon ; 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By AUoway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet. 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthen'd sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises I 

But to our tale : — Ae market night, 
Tam had got planted unco riglit ; 
Fa.st by an ingle, bleeziug finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; 
And at his elbow, Souter tlohnny. 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither ! 
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; 
And ay the ale was growing better: 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious ; 
Wi' favors secret, sweet, and j>reciou3 ; 
The Souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus . 
The storm without might rair and rustle — 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 
Care, mad to see a man sac happy. 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ! 
As bees tiee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills of life victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread. 

You seize the flow'r, its bloom is -shed ; 

Or like the snow falls in the river, 

A moment white — then melts for ever ; 

Or like the borealis race, 

That flit ere you can point their place ; 

Or like the rainbow's lovely form 

Evanishing amid the storm. 

Nae man can tether time or tide ; 

The hour ai)iiroaches Tam maun ride ; 

That hour, o' night's black arch the key- 

stane. 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 
And sic a night he taks the road in 
As ne'er poor sinner wiis abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattling sliow'rs rose on the bla.st ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd ; 



That night, a child might understand, 
The De'il had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg. 
Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire. 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots son- 
net; 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares. 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-AUoway was drawing nigh, 
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry. — 
By this time he was cross the foord 
Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; 
A nd past the birks and nieikle stane. 
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn. 
Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. 
Before him Doon pours all his floods; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-AUoway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing ; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 

M'hat dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 

Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 

Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil ! 

The swats sae reani'd in Tammie's noddle, 

Fair play, he cared nae deils a boddle. 

But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 

'Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 

She ventured forward on the light ; 

And, wow ! Tam saw an unco sight! 

Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 

Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels. 

Put life and mettle in their heels : 

A winnock-bunker in the east, 

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 

To gie them music was his charge; 

He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl. 

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 

Coflins stood round, like open presses ; 

That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 



And by some devilish cantrip slight 
Each in its cauld hand held a light — 
By which heroic Tam was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
Twa span-lang, wee unchristen'd bairns ; 
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; 
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft. 
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft : 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfii', 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amazed, and curious. 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they 

cleekit, 
'Till ilka carlin swat and reekit. 
And coost her duddies to the wark. 
And linket at it in her sark ! 

Now Tam, O Tam I had thae been queans 
A' plump and strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen, 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair. 
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdles. 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, 
Lowping an' flinging on a cummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' braw-- 

lie. 
There was a winsome wench and walie. 
That night enlisted in the core 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ; 
For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat. 
And shook baith nieikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country-side in fear). 
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn. 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty. 
It was her best, and she was vauntie.— 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



875 



Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 
Tliat sark she coft for lier wee Nannie, 
W'V twa puud Scots ('twas a' her riches), 
Wad ever graced a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cour ; 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 
To sing how Nannie laj) and flang 
(A souple jade she was and Strang), 
And how Tani stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
And thought his very een enrich'd ; 
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidged fu' fain. 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and 

main : 
'Till first ae caper, syne anither. 
Tarn tint his reason a' thegither. 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark !" 
And in an instant all was dark : 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied. 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 

AVlicn jilunderiiig herds assail their byke ; 

As open pussie's mortal foes. 

When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 

As eager runs the market-crowd. 

When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; 

So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 

Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow. 

Ah, Tarn ! ah. Tarn ! thou'U get thy 

fairin' ! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin' ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy coniin' I 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane of the brig ; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they darcna cross ! 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ac spring brought ofl" her master hale. 
But left bebiiicl her ain gray tail : 
Tlie carlin dauglit her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed : 



Whene'er to drink you are inclined, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think ! ye may buy the joys o'er dear — 
Remember Tam o' Shauter's mare. 

BOIIEBT Bt'BKS. 



THE Bag. 

The hag is astride. 

This night for to ride — 
The devil and she together; 

Through thick and through thin, 

Now out and then in, 
Though ne'er so foul be the weather. 

A thorn or a bur 

She takes for a spur ; 
With a lash of the bramble she rides now; 

Through brakes and through briers. 

O'er ditches and mires, 
She follows the spirit that guides now. 

No beast, for his food. 

Dares now range the wood. 
But husht in his lair he lies lurking ; 

While mischiefs, by these. 

On land and on seas. 
At noon of night are a-working. 

The storm will arise. 

And trouble the skies, 
This night ; and, more the wonder, 

The ghost from the tomb 

Aflrighted shall come, 
Call'd out by the clap of the thunder. 

Robert Hebrick. 



Sister Helen. 

"Why did you melt your waxen man. 

Sister Helen ? 
To-day is the third since you began." 
" The time was long, yet the time ran, 
Littie brother." 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Three days to-day, between hell and 
heaven !) 

" But if you have done your work aright. 

Sister Helen, 
You'll let me play, for you said I might." 
" Be very still in your pl.ay to-night. 

Little brother." 



876 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Third night, to-night, between hell and 
heaven!) 

" You said it must melt ere vesper-bell. 

Sister Helen, 
If now it be molten, all is well." 
" Even so, — nay, peace ! you cannot tell, 

Little brother." 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Oh what is this between hell and heaven?) 

" Oh the waxen knave was plump to-day, 

Sister Helen ; 
How like dead folk he has dropp'd away!" 
" Nay now, of the dead what can you say, 
Little brother ?" 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
What of the dead, between hell and 
heaven?) 

" See, see, the sunken pile of wood, 

Sister Helen, 
Shines through the thinn'd wax red as 

blood !" 
" Nay, now, when look'd you yet on blood. 
Little brother?" 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
How pale she is between hell and heaven !) 

" Now close your eyes, for they're sick and 
sore. 

Sister Helen, 
And I'll play without the gallery door." 
" Ay, let me rest, — I'll lie on the floor. 
Little brother." 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
What rest to-night between hell and 
heaven?) 

" Here high up in the balcony, 
Sister Helen, 
The moon flies face to face with me." 
" Ay, look and say whatever you see, 
Little brother." 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
What sight to-night, between hell and 
heaven?) 

" Outside it's merry in the wind's wake. 

Sister Helen ; 
In the shaken trees the chill stars shake." 
"Hush, heard you a horse-tread as you 
spake. 



Little brother?" 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
What sound to-night, between hell and 
heaven?) 

" I hear a horse-tread, and I see, 

Sister Helen, 
Three horsemen, that ride terribly." 
" Little brother, whence come the three, 
Little brother ?" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Whence should they come, between hell 
and heaven?) 

" They come by the hill-verge from Boyne 
Bar, 

Sister Helen, 
And one draws nigh, but two are afar." 
" Look, look, do you know them who they 
are. 

Little brother?" 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Who should they be between hell and 
heaven?) 

" Oh, it's Keith of Eastholm rides so fast, 

Sister Helen, 
For I know the white mane on the blast." 
"The hour has come, has come at last. 

Little brother." 
(0 Mother, JIary Mother, 
Her hour at last between hell and heaven I) 

" He has made a sign and eall'd, Halloo, 

Sister Helen, 
And he says that he would speak with you." 
" Oh tell him I fear the frozen dew. 
Little brother." 
(0 Mother, Jlary Mother, 
Why laughs she thus between hell and 
heaven ?) 

"The wind is loud, but I hear him cry, 

Sister Helen, 
That Keith of Ewern's like to die." 
"And he and thou, and thou and I, 
Little brother." 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
And they and we between hell and heaven.) 

" For three days now he has lain abed, 

Sister Helen, 
And he prays in torment to be dead." 
" The thing may chance if he have pray'd, 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



877 



Little brother." 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
If he have pray'd between hell and heaven !) 

" But he has not ceased to cry to-day, 

Sister Helen, 
That you should take your curse away." 
" My prayer was heard — he need but pray, 
Little brother." 
(O Mother, JIary Mother, 
Shall God not hear between hell and 
heaven?) 

" But he says, till you take back your ban, 

Sister Helen, 
His soul would pass, yet never can." 
" Nay, then, shall I slay a living man. 

Little brother?" 
(O Mother, Mary Motlier, 
A living soul between hell and heaven !) 

" But he calls for ever on your name, 

Sister Helen, 
And says that he melts before a flame." 
" My heart for his pleasure fared the same, 

Little brother." 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Fire at the heart between hell and heaven !) 

" Here's Keith of Westholm riding fast, 

Sister Helen, 
For I know the white plume on the blast." 
" The hour, the sweet hour, I forecast. 

Little brother." 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Is the hour sweet between hell and heaven ?) 

" He stops to speak, and he stills his horse, 

Sister Helen ; 
But his words are drown'd in the wind's 

course." 
" Nay, hear! nay, hear! you must hear per- 
force. 

Little brother !" 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
A word ill heard between hell and heaven !) 

" Oh, he says that Keith of Ewern's cry, 

Sister Helen, 
Is ever to see you ere he die." 
" He sees me in earth, in moon, and sky. 

Little brother." 



(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Earth, moon, and sky between hell and 
heaven !) 

" He sends a ring and a broken coin. 

Sister Helen, 
And bids you mind the banks of Boyne." 
" What else he broke will he ever join. 

Little brother?" 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Oh never more between hell and heaven !) 

" He yields you these and craves full fain, 

Sister Helen, 
You pardon him in his mortal pain." 
" What else he took will he give again, 
Little brother?" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
No more, no more, between hell and 
heaven!) 

" He calls your name in an agony. 

Sister Helen, 
That even dead Love must weep to see." 
" Hate, born of Love, is blind as he. 
Little brother!" 
(O Mother, Jlary Mother, 
Love turn'd to hate between hell and 
heaven !) 

" Oh, it's Keith of Keith now that rides 
fast. 

Sister Helen, 
For I know the white hair on the blast." 
" The short, short hour will soon be past. 
Little brother." 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Will soon be past, between hell and 
heaven !) 

" He looks at me, and he tries to speak, 

Sister Helen, 
But oh, his voice is sad and weak I" 
" What here should the mighty Baron 
seek. 

Little brother?" 
(O Mother, Man,- Mother, 
Is this the end, between hell and heaven?) 

"Oh, his son still cries if you forgive, 

Sister Helen, 
The body dies, but the soul shall live." 
" Fire shall forgive me as I forgive, 

Little brother." 



878 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



(0 iMother, Mary Mother, 
As she forgives between hell and heaven 1) 

"Oh, lie prays you as his heart would 
rive, 

Sister Helen, 
To save his dear son's soul alive." 
" Nay, flame cannot slay it; it shall thrive, 
Little brother." 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Alas, alas, between hell and heaven !) 

" He cries to you, kneeling in the road. 

Sister Helen, 
To go with him for the love of God !" 
" The way is long, to his son's abode. 
Little brother." 
(O Mother, Mary l\Iother, 
The way is long between hell and heaven!) 

" O Sister Helen, you heard the bell, 

Sister Helen ; 
More loud than the vesper-chime it fell." 
" No vesper-chime, but a dying knell, 

Little brother." 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
His dying knell, between hell and heaven!) 

" Alas, but I fear the heavy sound. 

Sister Helen ; 
Is it in the sky or in the ground ?" 
" Say, have they turn'd their horses round, 
Little brother?" 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
What would she more, between hell and 
heaven?) 

" They have raised the old man from his 
knee, 

Sister Helen, 
And they ride in silence hastily." 
" More fast the naked soul doth flee. 
Little brother." 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
The naked soul, between hell and heaven!) 

" Oh, the wind is sad in the iron chill. 

Sister Helen, 
And weary sad they look by the hill." 
" But Keith of Ewern's sadder still, 
Little brother." 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Most sad of all, between hell and heaven!) 



"See, see, the wax has dropp'd from its 
place, 

Sister Helen, 
And the flames are winning up apace." 
" Yet here they burn but for a space, 
Little brother." 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Here for a space, between hell and 
heaven !) 

" Ah ! what white thing at the door has 
cross'd, 

Sister Helen? 
Ah ! what is this that sighs in the frost ?" 
" A soul that's lost as mine is lost. 
Little brother." 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Lost, lost, all lost, between hell and 

heaven!) 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 



Tjte Abbot M'Kinnon. 

M'Kinnon's tall mast salutes the day. 
And beckons the breeze in lona bay ; 
Plays lightly up in the morning sky. 
And nods to the green wave rolling by ; 
The anchor upheaves, the sails unfurl. 
The pennons of silk in the breezes curl ; 
But not one monk on holy ground 
Knows whither the Abbot M'Kinnon is 
bound. 

Well could that bark o'er the ocean glide, 
Though monks and friars alone must 

guide ; 
For never man of other degree 
On board that sacred ship might be. 
On deck M'Kinnon walk'd soft and slow ; 
The haulers sung from the gilded prow ; 
The hehnsman turn'd his brow to the sky, 
Upraised his cowl and upraised his eye. 
And away shot the bark on the wing of 

the wind. 
Over billow and bay like an image of 

mind. 

Aloft on the turret the monks appear. 

To see where the bark of their abbot 

would bear ; 
They saw her sweep from lona bay, 
And turn her prow to the north away, 
Still lessen to view in the hazy screen, 
And vanish amid the islands green. 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



879 



Then they turiiM their eyes to the female 

dome, 
And thought of the nuns till the abbot 

came home. 

Three times the night with aspeet dull 
Came stealing o'er the moors of Mull ; 
Three times the sea-gull left the deep, 
To doze on the knob of the dizzy steep. 
By the sound of the ocean lull'd to sleep ; 
And still the wateh-liglits sailors see 
On the top of the spire, and the top of 

Dun-ye ; 
And the laugh rings through the sacred 

dome, 
For still the abbot is not come home. 

But the wolf tliat nigiitly swam the sound. 
From Rosa's rude impervious bound, 
On the ravenous burrowing race to feed, 
That loved to haunt tlie home of the dead. 
To him Saint Columb had left in trust 
To guard the bones of the royal and just. 
Of saints and of kings the sacred dust ; 
The savage was scared from his charnel of 

death, 
And swam to his home in hunger and 

wrath. 
For he momently saw, through the night 

so dun, 
The cowering monk, and the veiled nun, 
Whispering, sighing, and stealing away 
By cross dark alley and portal gray. 
01), wise was the founder, and well said he, 
" Where there are women, mischief must 

be." 

No more the watch-Bres gleam to the 

blast, 
M'Kinnon and friends arrive at la.st. 
A stranger youth to the isle they brought. 
Modest of mien and deep of thought, 
In costly sacred robes bedight. 
And he lodged with the abbot by day and 

by night. 

His breast wa.s graceful, and round withal. 
His leg w.as taper, his foot was small, 
And his tread so light that it flung no 

sound 
On listening ear or vault around. 
His eye was the morning's brightest ray, 
And his neck like the swan's in lona bay ; 



His teeth the ivory polish'd new, 

And his lip like the morel when gloss'd 

with dew. 
While under his cowl's embroider'd fold 
Were seen the curls of waving gold. 
This comely youth, of beauty so bright. 
Abode with the abbot by day and by 

night. 

When arm in arm they walk'd the isle, 
Young friars would beckon, and monks 

would smile ; 
But sires, in dread of sins unshriven. 
Would shake their heads and look up to 

heaven. 
Afraid the frown of the saint to see, 
Wlio rear'd their temple amid the sea, 
And plediied his soul to guard the <l()me. 
Till Virtue should liy her western home. 
But now a stranger of hidden degree, 
Too fair, too gentle a man to be — 
This stranger of beauty and step so light 
Abode with the abbot by day and by 

night. 

The months and the days flew lightly by. 
The monks were kind and the nuns were 

shy; 
But the gray-hair'd sires, in trembling 

mood, 
Kneel'd at the altar and kiss'd the rood. 

M'Kinnon he dream'd that the saint of 

the isle 
Stood by his side, and with courteous 

smile, 
Bade him arise from his guilty sleep. 
And pay his respects to the God of the 
j deep, 

] In temple that north in the main appear'd, 
j Which fire from bowels of ocean ha<l 

scar'd, 
I Which the giant builders of heaven had 

rear'd, 
I To rival in grandeur the stately pile 
! Himself had uprear'd in lona's isle ; 
' For round them rose the mountains of 
sand, 
The fisiies h:ul left the coasts of the land. 
And so high ran the waves of the angry 

sea. 
They had drizzled the cross on the top of 
Dun-ye. 



880 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



The cycle was closed and the period run ; 

He had vow'd to the sea, he had vow'd to 
the sun, 

If in that time rose trouble or pain. 

Their homage to pay to the God of the 
main. 

Then he bade him haste and the rites pre- 
pare. 

Named all the monks should with him 
fare. 

And promised again to see him there. 

M'Kinnon awoke from his vision'd sleep, 
He open'd his casement and look'd on the 

deep ; 
He look'd to the mountains, he look'd to 

the shore. 
The vision amazed him and troubled him 

sore. 
He never had heard of the rite before ; 
But all was so plain, he thought meet to 

obey. 
He durst not decline, and he would not 

delay. 

Uprose the abbot, uprose the morn, 
Uprose the sun from the Bens of Lorn ; 
And the bark her course to the northward 

framed, 
With all on board whom the saint had 

named. 

The clouds were journeying east the sky, 
The wind was low and the swell was high. 
And the glossy sea was heaving bright 
Like ridges and hills of liquid light ; 
While far on her lubrick bosom were seen 
The magic dyes of purple and green. 

How joy'd the bark her sides to lave ! 

She lean'd to the lee and she girdled the 
wave ; 

Aloft on the stayless verge she hung, 

Light on the steep wave veer'd and swung, 

And the crests of the billows before her 
flung. 

Loud murinur'd the ocean with downward 
growl, 

The seal swam aloof and the dark sea- 
fowl; 

The pie-duck sought the depth of the 
main, 

A nd rose in the wheel of her wake again ; 



And behind her far to the southward 

shone 
A pathway of snow on the waste alone. 

But now the dreadful strand they gain. 
Where rose the sacred dome of the main ; 
Oft had they seen the place before. 
And kept aloof from the dismal shore, 
But now it rose before their prow. 
And what they beheld they did not know. 
The tall gray forms in close-set file. 
Upholding the roof of that holy pile ; 
The sheets of foam and the clouds of 

spray, 
And the groans that rush'd from the por- 
tals gray, 
Appall'd their hearts and drove them 
away. 

They wheel'd their bark to the east around. 
And moor'd in basin, by rocks imbound ; 
Then, awed to silence, they trode the 

strand 
Where furnaced pillars in order stand. 
All framed of the liquid burning levin, 
And bent like the bow that spans the 

heaven. 
Or upright ranged in horrid array. 
With purfle of green o'er the darksome 

gray. 

Their path was on wondrous pavement of 

old. 
Its blocks all cast in some giant mould, 
Fair hewn and grooved by no mortal hand, 
With countermure guarded by sea and by 

land. 
The watcher Bushella frown'd over their 

way, 
Enrobed in the sea-baize, and hooded with 

gray; 
The warder that stands by that dome of 

the deep. 
With spray-shower and rainbow, the en- 
trance to keep. 
But when they drew nigh to the chancel 

of Ocean, 
And saw her waves rush to their raving 

devotion, 
Astounded and awed to the antes they 

clung, 
And listen'd the hymns in her temple she 

sung. 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



881 



The song of the cliffs, when the winter 

winds blow, 
The thuntler of heaven, the earthquake 

below, 
ConjoiuM, like the voice of a maiden 

would be, 
Compared with the anthcui there sung by 

the sea. 

The solemn rows in that darksome den 
Were dimly seen like the form.s of men. 
Like giant monks in ages agone, 
Whom the God of the ocean had sear'd to 

stone, 
And bound in his temple for ever to lean, 
In sackcloth of gray and visors of green, 
An everlasting worship to keep. 
And the big salt tears eternally weep. 

So rapid the motion, the whirl and the 

■ boil, 
So loud was the tumult, so fierce the tur- 
moil, 
Appall'd from those portals of terror they 

turn, 
On pillar of marble their incense to burn. 
Around the holy flame they pray. 
Then turning their faces all west away. 
On angel pavement each bent his knee. 
And sung this hymn to the God of the 
sea. 

The Monks' Hymx. 

Thou, who makest the ocean to flow. 
Thou, who walkest the channels below ; 
To thee, to thee, this incense we heap. 
Thou, who knowest not slumber nor sleep, 
Great Spirit that mov'st on the face of the 

deep ! 
To thee, to thee, we sing to thee, 
God of the western wind, God of the sea! 

To thee, who bringest with thy right hand 

The little fishes around our land ; 

To thee, who breath'st in the bosom'd sail, 

Rulcst the shark and the rolling whale, 

Flingest the sinner to downward grave. 

Lightest the gleam on tlie mane of the 

wave, 

Bid'st the billows thy reign deform, 

Laugh'st in the whirlwind, sing'st in the 

storm ; 

66 



Or risest like mountain amid the sea. 
Where mountain wiis never, and never 

will be, 
And rearest thy proud ami tliy pale eliap- 

eroon 
'Mid walks of the angels and ways of the 

moon ; 
To thee, to thee, this wine we pour, 
God of the western wind, Go<l of the 

shower ! 

To thee, who bid'st those mountains of 

brine 
Softly sink in the fair moonshine, 
Anil spread'st thy couch of silver light. 
To lure to thy bosom the queen of the 

1 night ; 

i Who weavest the cloud of the ocean dew. 
And the mist that sleeps on her hrea.st so 

j blue; 

: When the murmurs die at the base oft lie li ill, 

I And the shadows lie rock'd and slumber- 
ing still, 

I And the solan's young, and the lines of 
foam, 

I Are scarcely heaved on thy peaceful home, 

I We pour this oil and this wine to thee, 
God of the western wind, God of the sea ! — 
" Greater yet must the offering be." 



The monks gazed round, the abbot grew 

wan, 
For the closing notes were not sung by man. 
They came from the rock, or they came 

from the air. 
From voice they knew not, and knew not 

where ; 
But it sung with a mournful melody, 
" CJreater yet must the offering be." 

In Ixily dread they pass'd away, 

.\nd they walk'd the ridge of that isle so 

gray. 
And saw the white waves toil and fret. 
An hundred fathoms below their feet; 
They look'd to the countless isles that lie 
From Harra to Mull, and from Jura to 

Skye ; 
They look'd to heaven, they look'd to the 

main, 
They look'd at all with a silent pain. 
As on places they were not to see again. 



882 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



A little bay lies hid from sight, 
O'erhuiig by cliffs of dreadful height ; 
When they drew nigh that airy steep, 
They heard a voice rise from the deep. 
And that voice was sweet as voice could be, 
And they fear'd it came from the Maid of 
the Sea. 

M'Kinnon lay stretch'd on the verge of 

the hill, 
And peep'd from the height on the bay so 

still; 
And he saw her sit on a weedy stone, 
Laving her fair breast, and singing alone ; 
And aye she sank the wave within. 
Till it gurgled around her lovely chin. 
Then comb'd her locks of the pale sea- 
green. 
And aye this song was heard between. 

The Mermaid's Song. 

Matilda of Skye 

Alone may lie. 
And list to the wind that whistles by: 

Sad may she be, 

For deep in the sea, 
Deep, deep, deep in the sea. 
This night her lover shall sleep with me. 

She may turn and hide 

From the spirits that glide. 
And the ghost that stands at her bedside : 
But never a kiss the vow shall seal, 
Nor warm embrace her bosom feel ; 
For far, far down in the floors below. 
Moist as this rock-weed, cold as the snow, 
With the eel, and the clam, and the pearl 

of the deep, 
On soft sea-flowers her lover shall sleep ; 
And long and sound shall his slumber be, 
In the coral bowers of the deep with me. 

The trembling sun, far, far away. 
Shall pour on his couch a soften'd ray, 
And his mantle shall wave in the flowing 

tide. 
And the little fishes shall turn aside ; 
But the waves and the tides of the sea 

shall cease, 
Ere wakes her love from his bed of peace. 
No home ! — no kiss ! — No, never ! never ! 
His couch is spread for ever and ever. 



The abbot arose in dumb dismay. 

They turn'd and fled from the height 

away. 
For dark and portentous was the day. 
When they came in view of their rocking 

sail, 
They saw an old man who sat on the wale ; 
His beard was long and silver-gray, 
Like the rime that falls at the break of 

day ; 
His locks like wool and his color wan, 
And he scarcely look'd like an earthly 

man. 

They ask'd his errand, they ask'd his 
name, 

Whereunto bound, and whence he came ; 

But a sullen, thoughtful silence he kept. 

And turn'd his face to the sea and wept. 

Some gave him welcome, and some gave 
him scorn. 

But the abbot stood pale, with terror o'er- 
borne ; 

He tried to be jocund, but trembled the 
more, 

For he thought he had seen the face be- 
fore. 

Away went the ship with her canvas all 

spread. 
So glad to escape from that island of 

dread ; 
And skimm'd the blue wave like a streamer 

of light. 
Till fell the dim veil 'twixt the day and 

the night. 
Then the old man arose and stood up on 

the prow. 
And fix'd his dim eyes on the ocean be- 
low ; 
And they heard him saying, "Oh, woe is 

me ! 
But great as the sin must the sacrifice 

be." 

Oh, mild was his eye, and his manner 

sublime. 
When he look'd unto heaven, and said, 

" Now is the time." 
He look'd to the weather, he look'd to the 

lee. 
He look'd as for something he dreaded to 

see, 



WEIRD AND FANTASTIC. 



883 



Then stretch'd his pale hand, and pointed He sits upon the headlands, 



his eye 
To a gleam on the verge of the eastern 
sky. 

The monks soon beheld, on the lofty Ben- 
More, 
A sight wliich they never had soon before, 
A belt of blue lightning around it was 

driven. 
And its crown was encircled by morion of 

heaven ; 
And they heard a lierald that loud did cry, 
" Prepare the way for the abbot of I !" 

Then a sound arose, they knew not where, 

It came from the sea or it came fi-om the 
air, 

'Twas louder than tempest that ever blew. 

And the sea-fowls scream'd, and in terror 
flew ; 

Some ran to the cords, some kneel'd at the 
shrine. 

But all the wild elements seem'd to com- 
bine ; 

'Twas just but one moment of stir and 
commotion, 

And down went the ship like a bird of the 
ooean I 

This moment she sail'd all stately and 

fair, 
The next, nor ship nor shadow was there. 
But a boil that arose from the deep below; 
A mountain-gurgling column of snow: 
It sunk away with a murmuring moan — 
The sea is calm, and the sinners are gone. 

Ja.\ies Hogo. 

The Neck a If. 

In summer, on the headlands. 

The Baltic 8ea along, 
Sits Xeckan with his harp of gold, 

And sings his plaintive song. 

Green rolls, beneath the headlands. 

Green rolls the Baltic Sea ; 
And there, below the N'eckan's feet, 
. His wife and children be. 

He sings not of the ocean. 

Its shells and roses pale; 
Of earth, of earth the Neckan sings — 

He hath no other tale. 



And sings a mournful stave 

Of all he saw and felt on earth. 

Far from the kind sea- wave. 

Sings how, a knight, ho wander'd 

By castle, field, and town — 
But earthly knights have harder hearts 

Than the sea-children own. 

Sings of his earthly bridal — 
Priest, knights, and ladies gay. 

" — And who art thou," the priest began, 
"Sir Knight, who wedd'st to-day?" — 

" — I am no knight," he answer'd; 

"From the sea-waves I come." — 
The kn ights drew sword, the ladies scream'd, 

The surpliced priest stood dumb. 

He sings how from the chapel 

He vanish'd with his bride. 
And bore her down to the sea-halls. 

Beneath the salt sea-tide. 

He sings how she sits weeping 

'Mid shells that round her lie. 
" — False Xeckan shares my bed," she 
weeps ; 

" No Christian mate have I." — 

He sings how through the billows 

He rose to earth again. 
And sought a priest to sign the cross. 

That Neckan heaven might gain. 

He sings how, on an evening. 

Beneath the birch trees cool. 
He sate and i)lay'd his harp of gold. 

Beside the river-pool. 

Beside the pool sate Neckan — 

Tears fiU'd his mild blue eye. 
On his white mule, across the bridge, 

A cassock'd priest rode by. 

" —Why sitt'st thou there, O Neckan, 
And play"sf thy harp of gold? 

Sooner shall this, my staff, bear leaves, 
Than thou shalt heaven behold." 

But lo, the staff, it budded ! 

It green'd. it branch'd, it waved. 
"—0 ruth of God," the priest cried out, 

"This lost sea-creature saved !" 



884 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



The cassock'd priest rode onward, 
And vanish'd with his mule ; 

But Neckan in the twilight gray 
Wept by the river-pool. 

He wept : " The earth hatii kindness, 

The sea, the starry poles ; 
Earth, sea, and sky, and God above — 

But, ah, not human souls !" 

In summer, on the headlands. 

The Baltic Sea along. 
Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, 

And sings this plaintive song. 

Matthew Arnold. 



HALLO, 3TY Fancy. 

In melancholic fancy. 

Out of myself. 
In the vulcan dancy, 
All the world surveying. 
Nowhere staying. 
Just like a fairy elf; 
Out o'er the tops of highest mountains 

skipping. 
Out o'er the hills, the trees and valleys 

tripping, 
Out o'er the ocean seas, without an oar or 
shipping. 
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? 

Amidst the misty vapors, 

Fain would I know 
What doth cause the tapers; 
Why the clouds benight us. 
And affright us 
While we travel here below. 
Fain would I know what makes the roaring 

thunder, 
And what these lightnings be that rend 

the clouds asunder. 
And what these comets are on which we 
gaze and wonder. 
Hallo, my ftmcy, whither wilt thou go? 

Fain would I know the reason 

Why the little ant. 
All the summer season, 
Layeth up provision. 
On condition 

To know no winter's want : 



And how housewives, that are so good and 

painful. 
Do unto their husbands prove so good and 

gainful, 
And why the lazy drones to them do prove 

disdainful. 
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go ? 

Ships, ships, I will descry you 

Amidst the main ; 
I will come and try you 
What you are protecting, 
And projecting. 

What's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and 

trading. 
Another stays to keep his country from 

invading, 
A third is coming home with rich and 
wealth of lading. 
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? 

When I look before me. 

There I do behold 
There's none that sees or knows me ; 
All the world's a-gadding, 
Running madding. 

None doth his station hold. 
He that is below envieth him that riseth, 
And he that is .above, him that's below 

despiseth, 
So every man his plot and counterplot 
deviseth. 
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go ? 

Look, look, what bustling 

Here I do espy ; 
Each another jostling. 
Every one turmoiling, 
Th' other spoiling. 
As I did pass them by. 
One sitteth musing in a dumpish passion, 
Another hangs his head, because he's out 

of fashion, 
A third is fully bent on sport and recrea- 
tion. 
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go ? 

Amidst the foamy ocean. 

Fain would I know 
What doth cause the motion. 
And returning 
In its journeying, 

And doth so seldom swerve ! 



WEIRD Ai\D FANTASTIC. 



885 



And how these little fishes, that swim 

beneatli suit water. 
Do never blind tlioir cyo ; methinics it is a 

matter 
An inch above the reacli of old Erra 

Pater ! 
i Halli), my fancy, whitlior wilt thou go? 



Fain would I be resolved 
How things art' done ; 
And where the bull was calved 
Of bloody Phalaris, 
And where the tailor is 

That works to the niati i' the 
moon ! 
Fain would I know how Cupid aims so 

rigiitly ; 
And how these little fairies do dance and 

leap so lightly ; 
And where fair Cynthia makes her ambles 
nightly. 
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? 

In conceit like Phaeton, 

ril mount Phoebus' chair, 
Having ne'er a hat on, 
All my hair a-burning 
In my journeying. 
Hurrying through the air. 
Fair would I hear his fiery horses neigh- 
ing. 
And see how they on foamy bits are play- 
ing: 
All the stars and planets I will be survey- 
ing ! 
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? 



Oh, from what ground of nature 

Doth the pelican. 
That self-devouring creature, 
Prove so froward 
And untoward, 

Her vitals for to strain ? 
And why the subtle fox, while in death's 

wounds is lying. 
Doth not lament his jmngs by howling and 

by crying ; 
And why the milk-white swan doth sing 
when she's a-dying. 
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go ? 



Fain wnuld I conclude this, 

At least make essay. 
What similitude is; 
Why fowls of a feather 
Flock and fly together. 
And lambs know beasts of prey : 
How Nature's alchy mists, these small 

laborious creatures. 
Acknowledge still a prince in ordering 

their matters. 
And suffer none to live, who slothing lose 
their features. 
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go ? 

I'm rapt with admiration. 

When I do ruminate. 
Men of an occupation. 
How each one calls him brother, 
Yet each envieth other, 
And yet still intimate! 
Yea, I admire to see some natures farther 

sund'red, 
Than antipodes to us. Is it not to be 

won d' red, 
In myriads ye'll find, of one mind scarce 
a hundred? 
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? 

What multitude of notions 

Doth perturb my pate. 
Considering the motions, 
How the heavens are preserved. 
And this world served 
In moisture, light, and heat ! 
If one spirit sits the outmost circle turning. 
Or one turns another, continuing in jour- 
neying. 
If rapid circles' motion be that which 
they call burning ! 
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? 

Fain also would I prove this, 

By considering 
What tliat, which you call love, is: 
Whether it be a folly 
Or a melancholy. 

Or some heroic thing! 
Fain I'd have it proved, by one whom love 

hath wounded. 
And fully upon one his desire hath founded, 
Whom nothing else could please though 
the world were rounded. 
i Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? 



886 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



To know this world's centre, 

Height, depth, breadth, and 
length. 
Fain would I adventure 
To search the hid attractions 
Of magnetic actions. 
And adamantine strength. 
Fain would I know, if in some lofty moun- 
tain. 
Where the moon sojourns, if there be 

trees or fountain ; 
If there be beasts of prey, or yet be fields 
to hunt in. 
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? 



Fain would I have it tried 

By experiment. 
By nf)ne can be denied ! 
If in thi.s bulk of nature. 
There be voids less or greater, 

Or all remains complete. 



Fain would I know if beasts have any 

reason ; 
If fiilcons killing eagles do commit a 

treason ; 
If fear of winter's want make swallows fly 

the season. 
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? 

Hallo, my fancy, hallo! 

Stay, stay at home with me, 
I can thee no longer follow. 
For thou hast betray'd me, 
And bewray'd me ; 
It is too mucli for thee. 
Stay, stay at home with me ; leave oft' thy 

lofty soaring ; 
Stay thou at home with me, and on thy 

books be poring ; 
For he that goes abroad lays little up in 
storing : 
Thou'rt welcome home, my fancy, wel- 
come home to me. 

William Cleland. 



L 



PART XV. 



HUMOROUS 



AND 



Satirical Poems 



A !'-, 




Humorous axd Satirical. 



The Courtin'. 

God makes sech nights, all white an' still 

Fur'z you can look or listen, 
Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 

All silence an' all glisten. 

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown. 
An' peek'd in thru the winder, 

An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
'Ith no one nigh to hender. 

A fireplace fiU'd the room's one side, 
With half a cord o' wood in — 

There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) 
To bake ye to a puddin'. 

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 
Towards the pootie.st, bless her! 

An" leetle flames danced all about 
The chiny on the dresser. 

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung. 

An' in amongst 'em rusted 
The ole quecn's-arm thet gran'ther Young 

Fetch'd back from Concord busted. 

The very room, coz she was in, 
Secm'd warm from floor to ceilin'. 

An' she look'd full ez rosy agin 
Ez the apples she was peelin'. 

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look 

(Jn sech a blessed crctur, 
A dogrose blu.shin' to a brook 

Ain't modester nor sweeter. 

He wa.s six foot o' man, A, 1, 

Clean grit an' human natur' ; 
None couldn't quicker pitch a ton, 

Nor dror a furrer straigliter. 

He'd spark'd it with full twenty gals, 
Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em. 

Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — 
All is, he couldn't love 'em. 



But long o' her his veins 'ould run 

All crinkly like curl'd maple, 
The side she bresh'd felt full o' sun 

Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing 

Ez hisn in the choir ; 
My ! when he made Olo llunderd ring. 

She know'd tlic Lord was nigher. 

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in jirayer, 
When her new niectin'-bunnet 

Felt somehow thru its crown a pair 
O' blue eyes sot upon it. 

Thet night, I tell ye, she look'd some! 

She seemed to've gut a new soul, 
For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, 

Down to her very shoe-sole. 

She heered a foot, an' know'd it tu, 

A-raspin' on the scraper, — 
All ways to once her feelin's flew 

Like sparks in burnt-up paper, 

He kin' o' I'iter'd on the mat, 

Some donbtfle o' the sekle, 
His heart kcp' goin' pity-pat, 

I$ut hem went pity Zekle. 

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk, 
Ez though -she wish'd him furder, 

An' on her apples kep' to work, 
Parin' away like murder. 

" You want to see my pa, I s'pose ?" 
" Wal .... no .... I come dasign- 
in' "— 

■' To see my ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es 
Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." 

To say why gals acts so or so, 

Or don't, 'ould be presumin' ; 
Mebby to mean yen an' say no 

Comes nateral to women. 

889 



890 



FIRESIBE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



He stood a spell on one foot fust, 

Then stood a spell on t'other, 
An' on which one he felt the wust 

He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. 

Says he, " I'd better call agin ;" 
Says she, " Think likely, mister ;" 

Thet last word prick'd him like a pin. 
An' .... Wal, he up an' kist her. 

When ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez a.shes. 
All kin' o' .smily roun' the lips 

An' teary roun' the lashes. 

For she was jes' the quiet kind 

Whose naturs never vary. 
Like streams that keep a summer miml 

Snow-hid in Jenooary. 

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued 

Too tight for all expressin', 
Tell mother see how matters stood, 

An' gin 'em both her blessin'. 

Then her red come back like the tide 

Down to the Bay o' Fundy, 
An' all I know is they was cried 

In meetin' come nex' Sunday. 

James Kussell Lowell. 



Tbe Laird O' Cockpen. 

The laird o' Cockpen he's proud and he's 

great. 
His mind is ta'en up with the things o' the 

state ; 
He wanted a wife his braw house to keep. 
But favor wi' wooin' was fashions to seek. 

Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, 
At his table-head he thought she'd look 

well ; 
M'Lish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee, 
A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. 

His wig was weel pouther'd, and as gude 

as new ; 
His waistcoat was white, his coat it was 

blue ; 
He ])ut on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat, 
And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' 

that? 



He took the gray mare, and rade cannily — 
And rapp'd at the yett o' Claverse-ha' 

Lee : 
" 'Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily 

ben, 
She's wanted to speak to the Laird o' 

Cockpen." 

Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower 

wine : 
" And what bi'ings the Laird at sic a like 

time ?" 
She put aff her apron, and on her silk 

gown. 
Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' 

down. 

And when she cam' ben, he bow'd fu' low. 
And what was his errand he soon let her 

know ; 
Amazed was the Laird when the lady said 

"Na;" 
And wi' a laigh curtsey she turnfed awa'. 

Dumfounder'd he was — nae sigh did he 

gie; 
He mounted his mare — he rade cannily ; 
And aften he thought, as he gaed through 

the glen. 
She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. 

And now that the Laird his exit had 

made, 
Mistress Jean she reflected on what she 

had said ; 
" Oh ! for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'll 

get ten, 
I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen." 

Next time that the Laird and the lady 

were seen. 
They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on 

the green. 
Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit 

hen— 
But as yet there's nae chickens appear'd at 

Cockpen. 

Lady Carolina Naikne. 



The Whiskers. 

The kings who ruled mankind with haugh- 
ty sway, 
The prouder pope, whom even kings obey — 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



891 



Love, at whose shrine both popes and mon- 

archs fall, 
And e'en self-interest, that controls them 

all- 
Possess a petty power, when all combined, 
Comparid with fashion's inllueuce on man- 
kind : 
For love itself will oft to fashion bow: 
The following story will tvjnvince you how : 

A petit maitre woo'd a fair, 
Of virtue, wealth, and graces rare; 
But vainly had preferr'd his claim, 
The maiden own'd no answering flame; 
At length by doubt and anguish torn. 
Suspense too painful to be borne. 
Low at her feet he humbly kneel'd, 
And thus his ardent flame reveal'd : 

" Pity my grief, angelic fair. 
Behold my anguish and despair; 
For you this heart must ever burn — 
Oh bless me with a kind return ; 
My love no language can express, 
Reward it, then, with happiness; 
Nothing on earth but you I prize, 
All else is trifling in my eyes; 
And cheerfully would I resign 
The wealth of worlds to call you mine. 
But, if another pain your hand, 
Far distant from my native land. 
Far hence from you and hope I'll fly, 
And in some foreign region die." 

The virgin heard, and thus replied : 
" If my consent to be your bride 
Will make you happy, then be blest ; 
But grant me, first, one small request; 
A sacritice I must demand. 
And in return will give my hand." 

"A .sacrifice! Oh speak its name. 
For you I'd forfeit wealth and fame ; 
Take my whole fortune — every cent — " 

" 'Twas something more than wealth I 
meant." 

" Must I the realms of Xeptune trace? 
Oh speak the word — where'er the place, 
For you, the idol of my soul, 
I'd e'en explore the frozen pole; 
Arabia's sandy deserts tread. 
Or trace the Tigris to its head." 



" Oh no, dear sir, I do not ask 
So long a voyage, so hard a task ; 
You must — but ah ! the boon I want, 
I have no hope that you will grant." 

" Shall I, like Bonaparte, aspire 
To be the world's imperial sire"? 
Express the wish, and here I vow. 
To place a crown upon your brow." 

"Sir, these arc trifles," she replied — 
"But, if you wish me for your bride. 
You must — but still I fear to speak — 
Y'ou'U never grant the boon I seek." 

" O say," he cried — " dear angel, say — 
What must I do, and I obey ; 
No longer rack me with suspense. 
Speak your commands, and send me 
hence." 

" Well, then, dear generous youth !" she 
cries, 

" If thus my heart you really prize. 
And wish to link your fate with mine, 
On one condition I am thine ; 
'Twill then become my pleasing duty 
To contemplate a husband's beauty ; 
And, gazing on your manly face, 
His feelings and his wishes trace; 
To banish thence each mark of care. 
And light a smile of pleasure there. 
Oh let me, then, 'tis all I ask. 
Commence at once the pleasing task; 
Oh let me, as becomes my i)lace. 
Cut those huge whiskers from your 
face." 

She said — but oh what strange surprise 

Was pictured in her lover's eyes ! 

Like lightning from the ground he 

sprung. 
While wild amazement tied his tongue; 
A statue, motionless, ho gazed, 
Astonisheil, horror-struek, amazed. 
So look'd the gallant IVrseus, when 
Medusa's visage met his ken ; 
So look'd JIacbeth, whose guilty eye 
Discern'd an " air-drawn dagger" nigh ; 
And so the Prince of Denmark stared. 
When first his father's ghost ap])ear'd. 

At length our hero silence broke. 
And thus in wildest accents spoke: 



892 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



" Cut off my whiskers ! O ye gods ! 
I'd sooner lose my ears by odds ; 
Madam, I'd not be so disgraced, 
So lost to fashion and to taste, 
To win an empress to my arms, 
Though blest with more than mortal 

charms. 
My whiskers! zounds!" He said no 

more, 
But quick retreated through the door, 
And sought a less obdurate fair 
To take the beau with all his hair. 

Samcel Woodworth. 



The Bvmboat Woman's Story. 

I'm old, my dears, and shrivell'd, with age, 

and work, and grief. 
My eyes are gone, and my teeth have been 

drawn by Time, the thief! 
For terrible sights I've seen, and dangers 

great I've run — 
I'm nearly seventy now, and my work is 

almost done ! 

All ! I've been young in my time, and I've 

play'd the deuce with men — 
I'm speaking of ten years past — I was 

barely sixty then : 
My cheeks were mellow and soft, and my 

eyes were large and sweet, 
Poll Pineapple's eyes were the standing 

toast of the Royal Fleet. 

A bumboat woman was I, and I faithfully 

served the ships 
AVith apples and cakes, and fowls and beer, 

and halfpenny dips, 
And beef for the generous mess, where the 

officers dine at nights, 
And fine fresh pepiicrmint drops for the 

rollicking midshipmites. 

Of all the kind commanders who anchor'd 
in Portsmouth Bay, 

By far the sweetest of all was kind Lieu- 
tenant Belaye. 

Lieutenant Belaye commanded the gun- 
boat Hot Cross Bun, 

She was seven-and-thirty feet in length, 
and she carried a gun. 



With the laudable view of enhancing his 
country's naval pride, 

When people inquired her size. Lieutenant 
Belaye replied, 

" Oh, my ship ? my ship is the first of the 
Hundred and seventy-ones !" 

Which meant her tonnage, but people im- 
agined it meant her guns. 

Whenever I went on board he would 

beckon me down below : 
"Come down, Little Buttercup, come!" 

(for he loved to call me so). 
And he'd tell of the fights at sea in which 

he'd taken a part. 
And so Lieutenant Belaye won poor Poll 

Pineapple's heart ! 

But at length his orders came, and he said 

one day, said he, 
" I'm order'd to sail with the Hot Cross 

Bun to the German Sea." 
And the Portsmouth maidens wept when 

they learnt the evil day. 
For every Portsmouth maid loved good 

Lieutenant Belaye. 

And I went to a back, back street, with 
plenty of cheap, cheap shops, 

And I bought an oilskin hat, and a second- 
hand suit of slops. 

And I went to Lieutenant Belaye (and he 
never suspected me), 

And I enter'd myself as a chap as wanted 
to go to sea. 

We sail'd that afternoon at the mystic 

hour of one, — 
Remarkably nice young men were the crew 

of the Hot Cross Bun, 
I'm sorry to say that I've heard that sailors 

sometimes swear, 
But I never yet heard a Bun say anything 

wrong, I declare. 

When Jack Tars meet, they meet with a 

" Messmate, ho ! what cheer?" 
But here, on the Hot Cross Bun ; it was 

" How do you do, my dear?" 
When Jack Tars growl, I believe they 

growl with a big big D — 
But the strongest oath of the Hot Cross 

Buns was a mild " Dear me !" 



Yet, though they were all well-bred, you 

could hardly call them slick : 
Whenever a sea was on, they were all 

extremely sick ; 
And whenever the weather was calm, and 

the wind was light and fair, 
They spent more time than a sailor should 

on his back, back hair. 

They certainly shiver'd and shook when 
order'd aloft to run, 

And theyscream'dwlion Lieutenant Belaye 
discharged his only gun. 

And as he was proud of his gun — such 
pride is hardly wrong — 

The lieutenant was blazing away at inter- 
vals all day long. 

They all agreed very well, though at times 
you heard it said 

That Bill had a way of his own of making 
his lijis look red — 

That Joe look'd quite his age — or some- 
body might declare 

That Barnacle's long pig-tail was never his 
own, own hair. 

Belaye would admit that his men were of 

no great use to him, 
" But then," he would say, " there is little 

to do on a gun -boat trim. 
I can hand, and reef, and steer, and fire my 

big gun too — 
And it is such a treat to sail with a gentle, 

well-bred crew." 

I saw him everj- day ! How tlie happy 

moments sped ! 
Reef top.sails! Make all tauH There's 

dirty weather ahead ! 
(I do not mean that tempests threaten'd 

the Hot Cross Bun : 
In that case I don't know whatever we 

thmild have done !) 

After a fortnight's cruise, we put into port 

one day, 
And off on leave for a week went kind 

Lieutenant Belaye, 
And after a long, long week had pass'd 

(and it seem'd like a life) 
Lieutenant Belaye rcturn'd to his ship 

with a fair vounir wife! 



He up and he says, says he, "O crew of 

the Hot Cross Bun. 
Here is the wife of my heart, for the 

church has made us one." 
And as he uttor'd the word, the crew went 

out of their wits, 
And all fell down in so many separate 

fainting fits. 

And then their hair came down, or off, as 
tlie case might be, 

And lo ! the rest of the crew were simple 
girls, like me, 

Who all had fled from their homes in a 
sailor's blue array. 

To follow the shifting fate of kind Lieuten- 
ant Belaye. 



It's strange to think / should ever have 

loved young men. 
But I'm speaking of ten years past — I was 

barely si.vly then, 
And now my cheeks are furrow'd with 

grief and age, I trow ! 
And poor Poll Pineapple's eyes have lost 

their lustre now I 

WiLLi.vM .S. Gilbert. 



The Sorrows of Werther. 

Wkrther ha<l a love for Charlotte, 
Such as words could never utter ; 

Would you know how first he met her? 
8he was cutting bread and butter. 

Charlotte was a married lady. 
And a moral man was Werther, 

And for all the wealtii of Indies 
Wnuld do nothing for to hurt her. 

So he sigh'd and pined and ogled, 
And his pa.ssion boil'd ami bubbled. 

Till he blew his silly brains out. 
And no more was by it troubled. 

Charlotte, having seen his body 
Borne before her on a shutter, 

Like a well-conducted person. 

Went on cutting bread and butter. 

Wll.l.lAM MAKP.I'F..\rE TllACKERAV. 



894 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



The Irishman. 

There was a lady lived at Leith, 

A lady very stylish, man, 
And yet, in spite of all her teeth, 
She fell in love with an Irishman, — 
A nasty, ugly Irishman, 
A wild, tremendous Irishman, 
A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, 
ramping, roaring Irishman. 

His face was no ways beautiful, 

For with small-pox 'twas scarr'd across, 
And the shoulders of the ugly dog 
Were almost double a yard across. 
Oh, the lump of an Irishman, 
The whiskey-devouring Irishman, 
The great he-rogue, with his wonderful 
brogue, the fighting, rioting Irish- 



One of his eyes was bottle-green. 

And the other eye was out, my dear. 
And the calves of his wicked-looking 
legs 
Were more than two feet about, my dear. 
Oh, the great big Irishman, 
The rattling, battling Irishman, 
The stamping, ramping, swaggering, stag- 
gering, leathering swash of an 
Irishman ! 

He took so much of Lundy-Foot 

That he used to snort and snuffle, oh ! 
And in shape and size the fellow's neck 
Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo. 
Oh, the horrible Irishman, 
The thundering, blundering, Irish- 
man, 
The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, 
thrashing, hashing Irishman ! 

His name was a terrible name indeed, 

Being Timothy Thady Mulligan ; 
And whenever he emptied his tumbler 
of punch 
He'd not rest till he fill'd it full 
again. 
The boozing, bruising Irishman, 
The 'toxicated Irishman, 
The wliisky, frisky, rummy, gummy, 
br.andy, uo-dandy Irishman ! 



This was the lad the lady loved, 

Like all the girls of quality. 
And he broke the skulls of the men of 
Leith, 
Just by the way of jollity. 
Oh, the leathering Irishman, 
The barbarous, savage Irishman ! 
The hearts of the maids, and the gentle- 
men's heads, were bother'd, I'm 
sure, by this Irishman. 

"William Maginn. 

Faithless Nelly Gray. 

A Pathetic Ballad. 

Bex Battle was a soldier bold. 

And used to war's alarms : 
But a cannon-ball took oft' his legs, 
So he laid down his arms ! 

Now as they bore him off the field, 

Said he, " Let others shoot. 
For here I leave my second leg. 

And the Forty-second Foot!" 

The army-surgeons made him limbs : 
Said he, " They're only pegs ; 

But there's as wooden Members quite, 
As represent my legs !" 

Now, Ben he loved a pretty maid, 

Her name was Nelly Gray ; 
So he went to pay her his devours 

When he'd devour'd his pay ! 

But when he called on Nelly Gray, 
She made him quite a scoff; 

And when she saw his wooden legs 
Began to take them ofl'! 

" O Nelly Gray ! O Nelly Gray ! 

Is this your love so warm? 
The love that loves a scarlet coat 

Should be more uniform !" 

Said she, " I loved a soldier once. 
For he was blithe and brave ; 

But I will never have a man 
With both legs in the gravel 

" Before you had those timber toes. 

Your love I did allow ; 
But then, you know, you stand u]>nn 
Another footing now !" 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 895 


"0 Xelly Oray ! No'ly Gray ! 


But as they fetch'd a walk one day, 


For all your jeering speeches, 


They met a press-gang crew ; 


At duty's call, I left my legs, 


And Sally she did faint away. 


In Badajos's breachet!" 


Whilst Ben he was brought to. 


" Why, then," said she, " you've lost the 


The boatswain swore with wicked words. 


feet 


Enough to shock a saint. 


Of legs in war's alarms. 


That though she did seem in a fit. 


And now you cannot wear your shoes 


'Twas nothing but a feint. 


Upon your feats of arms !" 






"Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head. 


" false and fickle Nelly Gray ! 


He'll be as good as me ; 


I know why you refuse : — 


For when your swain is in our boat. 


] Though I've no feet — some other man 


A boatswain he will be." 


Is standing in my shoes! 






So when they'd made their game of her. 


" I wish I ne'er had seen your face ; 


And taken off her elf. 


But now a long farewell ! 


She roused, and found she only was 


For you will be my death ; — alas ! 


A-com|ng to herself 


You will not be my Ndl !" 






"And is he gone? and is he gone?" 


Now when he went from Nelly Gray, 


She cried, and wept outright : 


His heart so heavy got. 


"Then I will to the waterside. 


And life was such a burden grown. 


And see him out of sight." 


It made him take a knot ! 






A waterman came up to her — 


So round his melancholy neck. 


" Now, young woman," said he. 


A rope he did entwine, 


"If you weep on so, you will make 


And, for his second time in life, 


Eye-water in the sea." 


Enlisted in the Line. 






"Alas! they've taken my beau Ben 


One end he tied around a beam. 


To sail with old Benbow ;" 


And then removed his pegs. 


And her woe began to run afresh. 


And, as his legs were off— of course 


As if she'd said, Gee woe! 


He soon was off his legs ! 






Says he, " They've only taken him 


And there he hung, till he was dead 


To the Tender ship, you see." 


As any nail in town, — 


" The Tender ship !" cried Sally Brown, 


For, though distress had cut him up. 


" What a hard-ship that must be ! 


It could not cut him down ! 






" Oh I would I were a mermaid now. 


A dozen men sat on his corpse. 


For then I'd follow him ; 


To find out why he died — 


But oh ! — I'm not a fish-woman, 


And they buried lion in four cross-roads. 


And 80 I cannot swim. 


With a atalx in his inside ! 




Thomas Hood. 


"Alas ! I was not born beneath 




The Virgin and the Scales, 


Faithless Sally BROwy. 


So I must curse my cruel stars, 




-Vml walk about in Wales." 


An Old B.vllad. 




Yous(i Bex he was a nice young man. 


Nosv Ben had sail'd to many a place 


A carpenter by trade ; 


That's undernealh the world. 


And he foil in love with Sally Brown, 


But in two years the ship came home, 


That was a lady's maid. 


And all her sails were furl'd. 



896 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



But when he call'd on Sally Brown, 

To see how she got on, 
He found she'd got another Ben, 

Whose Christian name was John. 

' O Sally Brown ! O Sally Brown ! 

How could you serve me so ? 
I've met with many a breeze before, 
But never such a blow." 

Then reading on his 'bacco-box, 

He heaved a bitter sigh. 
And then began to eye his pipe, 

And then to pipe his eye. 

And then he tried to sing "All's well," 
But could not, though he tried ; 

His head was turn'd, and so he chew'd 
His pigtail till he died. 

His death, which happen'd in his berth, 

At forty-odd befell : 
They went and told the sexton, and 

The sexton toU'd the bell. 

Tho.mas Hood. 



The Well of St. Keyne. 

A WELL there is in the west country, 
And a clearer one never was seen ; 

There is not a wife in the west country 
But has heard of the well of St. Keyne. 

An oak and an elm tree stand beside, 
And behind doth an ash tree grow, 

And a willow from the bank above 
Droops to the water below. 

A traveller came to the well of St. Keyne; 

Joyfully he drew nigh. 
For from cook-crow he had been travelling, 

And there was not a cloud in the sky. 

He drank of the water so cool and clear. 

For thirsty and hot was he ; 
And he sat down upon the bank 

Under the willow tree. 

There came a man from the house hard by 

At the well to fill his pail ; 
On the well-side he rested it. 

And he bade the stranger hail. 



"Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger?" 
quoth he; 
" For an if thou hast a wife. 
The happiest draught thou hast drank this 
day 
That ever thou didst in thy life. 

" Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast. 

Ever here in Cornwall been ? 
For an if she have, I'll venture my life. 

She has drank of the well of St. Keyne." 

"I have left a good woman who never was 
here," 
The stranger he made reply ; 
" But that my draught should be the better 
for that, 
I pray you answer me why." 

" St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, 
" many a time 

Drank of this crystal well ; 
And before the angel summon'd her. 

She laid on the w-ater a spell. 

" If the husband of this gifted well 

Shall drink before his wife, 
A happy man thenceforth is he, 

For he shall be master for life. 

" But if the wife should drink of it first, — 

God help the husband then !" 
The stranger stoopt to the well of St. Keyne, 

And drank of the water again. 

" You drank of the well, I warrant, be- 
times?" 
He to the Cornish-man said ; 
But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger 
spake. 
And sheepishly shook his head. 

" I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was 
done. 
And left my wife in the porch ; 
But i' faith she had been wiser than me. 
For she took a bottle to church." 

Robert Southey. 



Where are you Going, my 
Pretty MAivr 

" Where are you going, my pretty maid ?" 
" I am going a-milking, sir," she said. 




THEN I CAMT MA? 
"nobody ASKEL Yoi 



I r PRETTY MAID- 
bHG SAID 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



897 



' May I go with you, my pretty maid?" 
' You're kiiitlly welcome, sir," she said. 
' What is your father, my pretty maid ?" 
' My father's a farmer, sir," she said. 
' What is your fiprtuiie, my pretty maid?" 
■ My face is my fortune, sir," she said. 
'Then I won't marry you, my pretty 

maid ?" 
' Nobody asked you, sir," she said. 

AuTiioK Unknown. 



The Old Man Dreajis. 

Oh for one hour of youthful joy I 
Give back my twentieth spring I 

I'd rather laugh a bright-hair'd boy 
Than reign a gray-beard king! 

Off with the spoils of wrinkled age ! 

Away with learning's crown ! 
Tear out life's wisdom-written page, 

And da-sh its trophies down ! 

One moment let my life-blood stream 
From boyhood's fount of flame ! 

Give me one gi<ldy, reeling dream 
Of life all love and fanie! 

My listening angel heard the prayer, 
And, calmly smiling, said, 

" If I but touch thy silver'd hair, 
Thy hasty wish hath sped. 

"But is there nothing in thy track 

To bid thee fondly stay. 
While the swift sejisons hurry back 

To find tlie wish'd-for day ?" 

Ah ! truest soul of womankind ! 

Without thee what were life? 
One bliss I cannot leave behind : 

I'll take — my — precious — wife I 

The angel took a sapphire pen 
And wrote in rainbow dew, 

"The man would be a boy again. 
And be a husband, too !" 

"And is there nothing yet unsaid 
Before the change appears? 

Remember, all their gifts have fled 
With those dissolving years !" 

hi 



" Why, yes ; for memory would recall 

Jly fond paternal joys ; 
I could not bear to leave them all : 

I'll take — my — girl — and — boys !" 

The smiling angel dropp'd his pen — 

" Wliy, this will never <1(»; 
The man would be a boy again, 

And be a father, too !" 

And so I laugh'd — my laughter woke 

The household with its noise — 
And wrote my dream, when morning 
broke, 
To please the gray-hair'd boys. 

Olivek Wendei-l Holmes. 



Baucis and rmiEMON. 

In ancient times, as story tells. 
The saints would often leave their cells. 
And stroll about, but liiile their quality. 
To try good pe()i)le's hospitality. 

It happen'd on a winter night. 
As authors of the legend write. 
Two brother hermits, saints by trade, 
Taking their tour in masquerade, 
Disguised in tatter'd habits, went 
To a small village down in Kent ; 
Where, in the strollers' canting strain, 
They begg'd from door to door in vain, 
Tried every tone might pity win ; 
But not a soul would let them in. 

Our wandering saints, in woeful state. 
Treated at this ungodly rate. 
Having through all the village past. 
To a small cottage came at htst 
Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, 
Call'd in the neighborhood Philemon ; 
Who kindly did these saints invite 
In his poor hut to pa.ss the night ; 
And then the hospitable sire 
Bid (ioo<ly Baucis mend the fire ; 
While he from out the chimney took 
A flitch of bacon off the hook, 
And freely from the fattest side 
Cut out large slices to be fried ; 
Then ste|)p'd aside to fetch them drink, 
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink. 
And saw it fairly twice go round ; 
Yet (what was wonderful) they found 
'Twas still replenish'd to the top. 
As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop. 



898 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



The good old couple were amazed, 
And often on each other gazed ; 
For both were f'righten'd to the heart, 
And just began to cry " What ar't?" 
Then softly turn'd aside to view 
Whether the lights were burning blue. 
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware ou't, 
Told tlicm their calling and their errand : 
" Good folks, you need not be afraid, 
We are but saints," the hermits said; 
" No hurt shall come to you or yours : 
But for that pack of churlish boors, 
Not fit to live on Christian ground. 
They and their houses shall be drown'd ; 
Wliile you shall see your cottage rise. 
And grow a church before your eyes." 

They scarce had spoke, when fair and 
soft. 
The roof began to mount aloft ; 
Aloft rose every beam and rafter ; 
The heavy wall climb'd slowly after. 

The chimney widen'd, and grew higher. 
Became a steeple with a spire. 

The kettle to the top was hoist, 
And there stood fasten'd to a joist. 
But with the uj) side down, to show 
Its inclination for below : 
In vain ; for a superior force 
Ajiplied at bottom stops its course : 
Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, 
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. 

A wooden jack, which had almost 
Lost by disuse the art to roast, 
A sudden alteration feels, 
Increased by new intestine wheels ; 
And, what exalts the wonder more. 
The nurnber made the motion slower. 
The flier, though it had leaden feet, 
Turn'd round so quick you scarce could 

see't ; 
But, slacken'd by some secret power. 
Now hardly moves an inch an hour. 
The jack and chimney, near allied, 
Had never left each other's side ; 
The chimney to a steeple grown. 
The jack would not be left alone ; 
But, up against the steeple rear'd. 
Became a clock, and still adhered ; 
And still its love to household cares, 
By a shrill voice at noon, declares. 
Warning the cook-maid not to burn 
That roast meat which it cannot turn. 



The groaning chair began to crawl. 
Like a huge snail, along the wall ; 
There stuck aloft in public view. 
And with small change, a pulpit grew. 

The porringers, that in a row 
Hung high, and made a glittering show, 
To a less noble substance changed. 
Were now but leathern buckets ranged. 

The ballads pasted on the wall. 
Of Joan of France, and English Moll, 
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, 
The little Children in the Wood, 
Now seem'd to look abundance better. 
Improved in picture, size, and letter : 
And, high in order placed, describe 
The heraldry of every tribe. 

A bedstead of the antique mode, 
Compact of timber many a load, 
Such as our ancestors did use. 
Was metamorphosed into pews; 
Which still their ancient nature keep 
By lodging folks disposed to sleep. 

The cottage, by such feats as these, 
Grown to a church by just degrees, 
The hermits then desired their host 
To ask for what he fancied most. 
Philemon, having jjauscd a while, 
Return'd them thanks in homely style ; 
Then said, " My house is grown so fine, 
Methinks, I still would call it mine. 
I'm old; and fain would live at ease ; 
Make me the parson if you please." 

He spoke, and presently he feels 
His grazier's coat fall down his heels : 
He sees, yet hardly can believe, 
About each arm a pudding sleeve ; 
His waistcoat to a cassock grew. 
And both assumed a sable hue ; 
But, being old, continued just 
As threadbare, and as full of dust. 
His talk was now of tithes and dues : 
He smoked his pipe, and read the news ; 
Knew how to preach old sermons next, 
Vamp'd in the preface and the text ; 
At christenings well could act his part. 
And had the service all by heart; 
Wish'd women might have children fast. 
And thought whose sow had farrow'd last ; 
Against dissenters would repine. 
And stood up firm for " right divine;" 
Found his head fiU'd with many a system ; 
But classic authors, — he ne'er miss'd 'em. 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 899 


Thus having furbish'd up a parson, 


Bell my wiffe, who loves noe strife, 


Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. 


Shee sayd unto me quietlye. 


Instead of homespun coifs, were seen 


Rise up, and save cow Cumboekcs litl'e, 


Good pinners edged with colberteen ; 


Man, put thine old cloake about thee. 


Hit petticoat, transform'd apace, 




Became black satin, flounced with lace. 


He. 


" Plain Ctoody " would no longer down, 


Bell, why dost thou flyte "and scorne?" 


'Twas " Madame," in her grogram gown. 


Thou kenst my cloak is very thin : 


Philemon was in great surprise, 


Itt is soe bare and overworne 


And hardly could believe his eyes. 


A crickc he theron cannot renn : 


Amazed to sec her look so prim. 


Then lie no longer borrowe nor lend. 


And she admired as much at him. 


" For once lie new appareld bee. 


Thus happy in their change of life, 


To-morrow He to towne and spend," 


Were several years this man and wife : 


For He have a new cloake about mec. 


When on a day, which proved their last. 




Discoursing o'er old stories pa.^t, 


She. 


They went by chance, amid their talk. 


Cow Cumbocke is a very good cowc. 


To the churchyard to take a walk ; 


Shee ha beene alwaycs true to the payle, 


When Baucis hastily cried out. 


Shee has helpt us to butter and cheese, I 


" Jly dear, I see your forehead sprout !" — 


trow. 


"Sprout!" quoth the man; " What's this 


And other things shee will not faylc ; 


you tell us ? 


I wold be loth to see her pine, 


I hope you don't believe me jealous ! 


Good husband, counccU take of mee. 


But yet, niethinks I feel it true, 


It is not for us to go soe fine. 


And really yours is budding too — 


Man, take thine old cloake about thee. 


Nay, — now I cannot stir my foot ; 




It feels as if 'twere taking root." 


He. 1 

1 


Description would but tire my Muse, 


My cloake it was a very good cloake. 


In short, they both were turn'd to yews. 


Itt hath boon always true to the weare, J 


Old Goodman Dobson of the green 


But now it is not worth a groat ; 


Remembers he the trees has seen ; 


I have had it four and forty yeere ; 


He'll talk of them from noon till night, 


Sometime itt was of cloth in graine, 


And goes with folks to show the sight ; 


'Tis now but a sigh clout as you may see, 


On Sundays after evening prayer. 


It will neither hold out winde nor raine; 


He gathers all the parish there ; 


And He have a new cloake about mee. 


Points out the place of cither yew. 




Here Baucis, there Philemon grew : 


She. 


Till once a parson of our town. 


It is four and fortye yeeres agoc 


To mend his barn, cut Baucis down ; 


Since the one of us the other did ken. 


At which, 'tis hard to be believed 


,\nd we have had betwixt us towe 


How much the other tree was grieved. 


Of children either nine or ten ; 


Grew scrubbed, died a-top, w.^-^ stunted. 


Wee have brought them up to women and 


So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it. 


men ; 


JO.SATIIA.V .'•WIIT. 


In the feare of God I trow they bee; 




And why wilt thou thyselfe miskcn? 


Take thy Old Cloak about 


Man, take thine old cloake about thee. 


THEE. 


He. 


This winters weather itt waxeth cold, 


Bell my wiffe, why dost thon "floute?" 


And frost doth freese on every hill. 


Now is nowe and then was then : 


And Boreas blowes his blasts soe bold, 


Seeke now all the world throughout, 


That all our cattell are like to spill ; 


Thou kenst not clowues from geutlemen. 



900 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



They are clad in blacke, greene, yellow, or 

gray, 
See far above their owne degree : 
Once in my life He " doe as they," 
For He have a new cloake about mee. 

She. 
King Stephen was a worthy peere, 

His breeches cost him but a crowne, 
He held them sixpence all too deere ; 

Therefore he called the taylor Lowne. 
He was a wight of high renowne, 

And thouse but of a low degree : 
Itt's pride that putts this countrye downe, 

Man, take thine old cloake about thee. 

He. 
"Bell my wife she loves not strife. 
Yet she will lead me if she can ; 
And oft, to live a quiet life, 

I am forced to yield, though Ime good- 
man ;" 
Itt's not for a man with a woman to threape, 

Unlesse he first gave oer the plea : 
As wee began wee now will leave, 

And He take mine old cloake about mee. 
Author Unknown. 



TME BACHELOR'S DREAM. 

My pipe is lit, my grog is mix'd, 

My curtains drawn and all is snug; 
Old Puss is in her elbow-chair. 

And Tray is sitting on the rug. 
Last night I had a curious dream. 

Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mog — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

She look'd so fair, she sang so well, 

I could but woo, and .she was won ; 
Myself in blue, the bride in white. 

The ring was placed, the deed was done ! 
Away we went in chaise-and-four. 

As fast as grinning boys could flog — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat, 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

What loving /S(e-d-fStes to come ! 

But iete-a-tetes must still defer ! 
When Susan came to live with me, 

Her mother came to live with her ! 



With Sister Belle she couldn't part. 
But all my ties had leave to jog — 

What d'ye think of that, my cat? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

The mother brought a pretty Poll — 

A monkey, too, what work he made I 
The sister introduced a beau, 

My Susan brought a favorite maid. 
She had a tabby of her own, — 

A snappish mongrel christen'd Gog, — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

The monkey bit, the parrot scream'd. 

All day the sister strumm'd and sung; 
The petted maid was such a scold ! 

My Susan learn'd to use her tongue ; 
Her mother had such wretched health, 

She sate and croak'd like any frog — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat ? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

No longer Deary, Duck, and Love, 

I soon came down to simple " M !" 
The very servants cross'd my wish, 

My Susan let me down to them. 
The poker hardly seem'd my own, 

I might as well have been a log — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

My clothes they were the queerest shape I 

Such coats and hats she never met ! 
My ways they were the oddest ways 1 

My friends were such a vulgar set ! 
Poor Tompkinson was snubb'd and huff'd, 

She could not bear that Mister Blogg — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

At times we had a spar, and then 

Mamma must mingle in the song — 
The sister took a sister's part — 

The maid declared her master wrong — 
The p.irrot learn'd to call me " Fool !" 

My life was like a London fog — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog ? 

My Susan's taste was superfine, 

As proved by bills that had no end ; 

/ never had a decent coat — 
/never had a coin to spend ! 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 901 


She forced me to resign my club, 


" Lullaby, 0, lullaby ! 


Lay down my pipe, retrtMicli my grog — 


Two such nights and I shall die I 


What d'ye think of tliat, my cat? 


Lullaby, 0, lullaby ! 


What d'ye think of that, my dog ? 


He'll be bruised, and so shall I — 




How can I from bedposts keep, 


Each Sunday night we gave a rout 


When I'm walking in my sleep?" 


To fops and flirts, a pretty list ; 




And when I tried to steal away. 


" Lullaby, 0, lullaby ! 


I found my study full of whist ! 


Sleep his very looks deny — 


Then, first to come and last to go. 


Lullaby, 0, lullaby ! 


There always was a Captain Hogg — 


Nature soon will stupefy — 


What d'ye think of that, my cat ? 


My nerves relax — my eyes grow dim — 


What d'ye think of that, my dog? 


Who's that fallen — me or him ?" 




Thomas Hood. 


Now was not that an awful dream 


*Ol 


For one who single is and snug, 


Ode to 31 y Little Sour. 


With Pussy in the elbow-chair. 


Tilou happy, happy elf! 


And Tray reposing on the rug? — 
If I must totter down the hill, 


(But stop— first let me kiss away that 
tear) 


'Tis safest done without a clog — 
What d'ye think of tliat, my cat? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

Thomas Hood. 


Thou tiny image of myself! 
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) 
Thou merry, laughing sprite! 
With spirits feather-light. 




Untouch'd by sorrow, and uusoil'd by sin — 


A Serenade. 


(Good heavens ! the child is swallowing a 
pin!) 


"Lullaby, 0, lullaby!" 


Thus I heard a father cry. 


Thou little tricksy Puck ! 


" Lullaby, O, lullaby I 


With antic toys so funnily bestuck. 


The brat will never shut an eye ; 


Light as the singing bird that wings the 


Hither come, some power divine I 


air — 


Close his lids, or open mine !" 


(The door! the door! he'll tumble down 




the stair!) 


" Lullaby, 0, lullaby ! 


Thou darling of thy sire ! 


What the devil makes him cry? 


(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) 


Lullaby, 0, lullaby! 


Thou imp of mirth and joy ! 


Still he stares — I wonder why, 


In Love's dear chain so strong and bright 


Why are not the sons of earth 


a link, 


Blind, like puppies, from their birth?" 


Thou idol of thy parents— (Drat the boy ! 


"Lullaby, 0, lullaby!" 


There goes my ink !) 


Thus I beard the father cry ; 


Thou cherub— but of earth ; 


" Lullaby, 0, lullaby ! 


Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight 


Mary, you must come and try ! — 


pale. 


Hush, oh, hush, for mercy's sake — 


In harmless sport and mirth — 


The more I sing, the more you wake !" 


(That dog will bite bini if he pulls its tail !) 




Thou human humming-bee, extracting 


" Lullaby, 0, lullaby ! 


honey 


Fie, you little creature, fie ! 


From every blossom in the world that 


Lullaby, O, lullaby ! 


blows. 


Is no poppy-syrup nigh? 


Singing in youth's elysium ever sunny — 


Give him some, or give him all, 


(Another tumble! — that's his precious 


I am nodding to his fall !" 


nose!) 



902 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Thy father's pride and hope ! 
(He'll break the ^uirror with that skipping- 
rope ! ) 
With pure heart newly stamp'd from 

Nature's mint — 
(Where did he learn that squint?) 

Thou young domestic dove ! 
(He'll have that jug oft', with another 
shove!) 
Dear nursling of the Hymeneal nest! 
(Are those torn clothes his best?) 
Little epitome of man ! 
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his 

plan !) 
Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawn- 
ing life — 
(He's got a knife!) 

Thou enviable being ! 
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky fore- 
seeing, 
Play on, play on. 
My elfln John ! 
Toss the light ball — bestride the stick — 
(I knew so many cakes would make him 

sick!) 
With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down. 
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic 
brisk, 
With many a lamb-like frisk— 
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your 
gown!) 

Thou pretty opening rose ! 
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your 

nose ! ) 
Balmy and breathing music like the south — 
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!) 
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its 

star — 
(I wish that window had an iron bar !) 
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove — 

(I'll tell you what, my love, 
I cannot write, unless he's sent above !) 

Thomas Hood. 



The Lost Heir. 

" oh where, and oh where, 
Is my bonny laddie gone?" — Old Song. 

One day, as I was going by 

That part of Holborn christen'd High, 

I heard a loud and sudden cry 



That chill'd my very blood ; 

And lo ! from out a dirty alley. 

Where pigs and Irish wont to rally, 

I saw a crazy woman sally, 

Bedaub'd with grease and mud. 

She turn'd her east, she turn'd her west, 

Staring like Pythoness possest, 

With streaming hair and heaving breast, 

As one stark mad with grief 

This way and that she wildly ran. 

Jostling with woman and with man — 

Her right hand held a frying-pan, 

The left a lump of beef 

At last her frenzy seem'd to reach 

A point just capable of speech, 

And with a tone almost a screech. 

As wild as ocean birds. 

Or female Ranter moved to preach. 

She gave her " sorrow words :" 

" O Lord ! O dear ! my heart will break, I 
shall go stick stark staring wild ! 

Has ever a one seen anything about the 
streets like a crying lost-looking 
child ? 

Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, 
or to run, if I only knew which way — • 

A Child as is lost about London streets, 
and especially Seven Dials, is a 
needle in a bottle of hay. 

I am all in a quiver — get out of my sight, 
do, you wretch, you little Kitty 
JI'Nab ! 

You promised to have half an eye to him, 
you know you did, you dirty deceit- 
ful young drab. 

The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, 
was with my own blessed Jlotherly 
eyes. 

Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a- 
playing at making little dirt jjies. 

I wonder he left the court where he was bet- 
ter off than all the other young boys. 

With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster- 
shells, and a dead kitten by way of 
toys. 

When his Father comes home — and he 
always comes home as sure as ever 
the clock strikes one — 

He'll be rampant, he will, at his child be- 
ing lost; and the beef and the 
ingruns not done ! 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



903 



l.a bless you, good folks, mind your own 

consarns, and don't be making a 

mob in the street ; 
O Sergeant M'Farland I you have not come 

across my poor little boy, have you 

ill your beat ? 
Do, good people, move on ! don't stand 

staring at me like a parcel of stupid 

stuck pigs ; 
Saints forbid ! but he's p'r'aps been in- 

viggled away up a court for the sake 

of his clothes by the prigs ; 
He'd a very good jacket, tor cirtain, for I 

bought it myself for a shilling one 

day in Hag Fair, 
And his trowsers considering not very 

much patch'd, and red plush, they 

was once his Father's best pair. 
His shirt, it's very lucky I'd got washing 

in the tub, or that might have gone 

with the rest ; 
But he'd got on a very good pinafore with 

only two si its and a burn on the breast. 
He'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown 

was sew'd in, and not quite so much 

jagg'd at the brim. 
With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a 

boot, and not a fit, and you'll know 

by that if it's him. 
Except being so well dress'd, my mind 

would misgive, some old beggar 

woman, in want of an orphan. 
Had borrow'd the child to go a-begging 

with, but I'll rather see him laid 

out in his coffin ! ' 

Do, good people, move on, such a rabble , 

of boys ! I'll break every bone of I 

'em I come near, 
Go home — you're spilling the porter — go 

home — Tommy Jones, go along 

home with your beer. 
This day is the sorrowfullest day of my 

life, ever since my name was Betty 

Morgan, 
Them vile Savoyards ! they lost him once 

before all along of following a 

Monkey and an Organ : 
O my Billy — my head will turn right 

round — if he's got kiddynapp'd with 

them Italians, 
They'll make him a plaster parish image 

boy, they will, the outlandish tat- 
terdemalions. 



Billy — where are you, Billy ? — I'm as hoarse 
as a crow with screaming for ye, you 
young sorrow ! 

And sha'n't have half a voice, no more I 
sha'n't, for crying fresh herrings to- 
morrow. 

Billy, you're bursting my heart in two, 

andmy life won't be of no more vally. 
If I'm to see other folks' darlins, and none 

of mine, playing like angels in our 

alley ; 
And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, 

when I looks at the old three-legged 

chair 
As Billy used to make coach and horses of, 

and there ain't no Billy there? 

1 would run all the wide world over to find 

him, if I only kiiow'd where to run. 
Little Murphy, now I remember, was once 

lost for a month through stealing a 

penny bun, — 
The Lord forbid of any child of mine! I 

think it would kill me rally 
To find my Bill holdin' up his little inno- 
cent hand at the Old Bailey. 
For though I say it as oughtn't, yet I will 

say, you may search for miles and 

mi Uses 
And not find one better brought up, and 

more [iretty behaved, from one end 

to t'other of St. (illes's. 
And if I call'd him a beauty, it's no lie, 

but only as a mother ought to speak ; 
You never set eyes on a more handsomer 

face, only it hasn't been wash'd for 

a week ; 
As for hair, tho' it's red, it's the most nicest 

hair when I've time to just show it 

the comb ; 
I'll owe 'em five pounds, and a blessing 

besides, as will only bring him safe 

and sound home. 
He's blue eyes, and not to be call'd a squint, 

though a little cast he's certainly got ; 
And his nose is still a good un, tho' the 

bridge is broke by his falling on a 

pewter j)int pot; 

He's got the most elegant wide mouth in the 
world, and very large teeth for his age; 

And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson's child 
to play Cupid on the Drury Lane 
stage. 



904 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



And then he has got such clear winning 

ways — but oh I never, never shall 

see him no more ! 
Oh dear! to think of losing hira just after 

nussing him back from death's door ! 
Only the very last month when the windfalls, 

hang 'em, was at twenty a penny ! 
And the threepence he'd got by grottoing 

was spent in plums, and sixty for a 

child is too many. 
And the Cholera man came and white- 

wash'd us all, and, drat him, made 

a seize of our hog. — 
It's no use to send the Crier to cry him 

about, he's such a blunderin' drunk- 
en old dog ; 
The last time he was fetch'd to find a lost 

child, he was guzzling with his bell 

at the Crown, 
And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, 

for a distracted mother and father 

about town. 
Billy — where are you, Billy, I say? come, 

Billy, come home, to your best of 

mothers ! 
I'm scared when I think of them C'abroleys, 

they drive so, they'd run over their 

own sisters and brothers. 
Or may be he's stole by some chimbly- 

sweeping wretch, to stick fast in 

narrow flues, and what not, 
And be poked up behind with a pick'd 

pointed pole, when the soot has 

ketch'd, and the chimbly's red hot. 
Oh I'd give the whole wide world, if the 

world was mine, to clap my two 

longin' eyes on his face. 
For he's my darliu of darlins, and if he 

don't soon come back, you'll see 

me drop stone dead on the place. 
I only wish I'd got him safe in these two 

Motherly arms, and wouldn't I hug 

him and kiss him ! 
Lauk ! I never knew what a precious he 

was — but a child don't not feel like 

a child till you miss him. 
Why, there he is ! Punch and Judy hunt- 
ing, the young wretch, it's that Billy 

as sartin as sin ! 
But let me get him home, with a good grip 

of his hair, and I'm blest if he shall 

have a whole bone in his skin ! 

Thomas Hood. 



The Twins. 

In form and feature, face and limb, 

I grew so like my brother. 
That folks got taking me for him, 

And each for one another. 
It puzzled all our kith and kin, 

It reach'd a fearful pitch ; 
For one of us was born a twin. 

And not a soul knew whicli. 

One day, to make the matter worse. 

Before our names were fix'd. 
As we were being wash'd by nurse, 

We got completely mix'd ; 
And thus, you see, by Fate's decree, 

Or rather nurse's whim. 
My brother John got christen'd me, 

And I got christen'd him. 

This fatal likeness ever dogg'd 

My footsteps when at school. 
And I was always getting flogg'd 

When John turn'd out a fool. 
I put this question, fruitlessly, 

To every one I knew, 
" What would you do, if you were me, 

To prove that you were you '?" 

Our close resemblance turned the tide 

Of my domestic life, 
For somehow, my intended bride 

Became my brother's wife. 
In fact, year after year the same 

Absurd mistakes went on. 
And when I died, the neighbors came 

And buried brother John. 

Henry S. Leigh. 

The Kjng of Brentford's Tes- 
tament. 

The noble king of Brentford 

Was old and very sick ; 
He summon'd his physicians 

To wait upon him quick ; 
They stepp'd into their coache-s. 

And brought their best jihysic. 

They cramm'd their gracious master 

With potion and with pill ; 
They drench'd him and they bled him: 

They could not cure his ill. 
" Go fetch," says he, " my lawyer ; 

I'd better make mv will." 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



905 



The monarch's royal mandate 

The hiwycr did obey ; 
The thought of six-and-t-ightpence 
Did make his heart full gay. 
" What is't," says he, " Your Majesty 
Would wish of me to-day?" 

" The doctors have belabor'd me 
With potion and with pill : 
My hours of life are counted, 

man of tape and quill ! 

Sit down and mend a pen or two, 

1 want to make my will. 

" O'er all the land of Brentford 
I'm lord, and eke of Kew : 

I've three per cents, and five per cents. ; 
My debts are but a few ; 

And to inherit after me 
I have but children two. 

" Prince Thomas is my eldest son, 

A sober prince is he ; 
And from the day we breech'd him. 

Till now he's twenty-three. 
He never caused disquiet 

To his poor mamma or me. 

" At school they never flogg'd him ; 

At college, though not fast. 
Yet his little go and great go 

He creditably pass'd, 
And made his year's allowance 

For eighteen months to last. 

" He never owed a shilling, 

Went never drunk to bed. 
He has not two ideas 

Within his honest head ; 
In all respects he differs 

From my second son, Prince Ned. 

" When Tom has half his income 
Laid by at the year's end, 
Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver 

That rightly he may spend. 
But sponges on a tradesman, 
Or borrows from a friend. 

" While Tom his legal studies 

Most soberly pursues. 
Poor Ned must pass his mornings 

A-dawdling with the Muse; 
While Tom frequents his banker. 

Young Ned frequents the Jews. 



" Ned drives about in buggies, 
Tom sometimes takes a 'bus ; 

Ah, cruel Fate! wliy made you 
My children differ thus? 

Why make of Tom a dullard, 
And Ned a genius?" 

" You'll cut him with a shilling," 
Exclaim'd the man of wits: 

"I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford, 
" Sir Lawyer, as befits, 
And portion both their fortunes 
Unto their several wits." 

" Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said, 
" On your commands I wait." 

" Be silent, sir," says Brentford ; 
" A plague upon your prate ! 
Come, take your pen and paper, 
And write as I dictate." 

The will, as Brentford spoke it, 
Was writ, anil sign'd, and closed ; 

He bade the lawyer leave him. 
And turn'd him round and dozed ; 

And next week in the churchyard 
The good old king reposed. 

Tom, dress'd in crape and hatband, 
Of mourners was the chief; 

In bitter self-upbraidings 

Poor Edward show'il his grief; 

Tom hid his fat, white countenance 
In his pocket handkerchief. 

Ned's eyes were full of weeping. 

He falter'd in his walk ; 
Tom never shed a tear. 

But onward he did stalk. 
As pompous, black, and solemn 

As any catafalque. 

And when the bones of Brentford — 

That gentle king and just — 
With bell, and book, and candle 

Were duly laid in dust, 
"Now, gentlemen," says Thomas, 

" Let business be discuss'd. 

" When late our sire beloved. 

Was taken deadly ill, 
Sir Lawyer, you attended him 

(I mean to tax your bill) ; 
And, as you sign'd ami wrote it, 

I prithee read the will." 



90G 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



The lawyer wiped his spectacles, 
And drew the parchment out ; 

And all the Brentford I'aniily 
Sat eager round about: 

Poor Ned was somewhat anxious, 
But Tom had ne'er a doubt. 

" My son, as I make ready 
To seek my last long home. 

Some cares I have for Neddy, 
But none for thee, my Tom : 

Sobriety and order 

You ne'er departed from. 

" Ned hath a brilliant genius. 
And thou a plodding brain ; 
On thee I think with pleasure, 
On him with doubt and pain." 

(" You see, good Ned," says Thomas, 
" What he thought about us twain.") 

" Though small was your allowance. 

You saved a little store; 
And those who save a little 

Shall get a plenty more." 
As the lawyer read this compliment, 

Tom's eyes were running o'er. 

" The tortoise and the hare, Tom, 

Set out, at each his pace ; 
The hare it was the fleeter, 

The tortoise won the race ; 
And since the world's beginning 

This ever was the case. 

" Ned's genius, blithe and singing, 
Steps gayly o'er the ground ; 

As steadily you trudge it, 
He clears it with a bound ; 

But dulness has stout legs, Tom, 
And wind that's wondrous sound. 

" O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom, 
You pass with plodding feet ; 

You heed not one nor t'other. 
But onward go your beat. 

While Genius stops to loiter 
With all that he may meet ; 

" And ever, as he wanders. 

Will have a pretext fine 
For sleeping in the morning. 

Or loitering to dine, 
Or dozing in the shade, 

Or basking in the shine. 



" Your little steady eyes, Tom, 
Though not so bright as those 

That restless round about him 
His flashing genius throws. 

Are excellently suited 
To look before your nose. 

"Thank Heaven, then, for the blinkers 
It placed before your eyes ; 

The stupidest are weakest. 
The witty are not wise ; 

Oh bless your good stupidity. 
It is your dearest prize ! 

" And though my lands are wide. 

And plenty is my gold. 
Still better gifts from Nature, 

My Thomas, do you hold — 
A brain that's thick and heavy, 

A heart that's dull and cold ; 

" Too dull to feel depression, 

Too hard to heed distress, 
Too cold to yield to passion 

Or silly tenderness. 
March on — your road is open 

To wealth, Tom, and success. 

" Ned sinneth in extravagance, 

And you in greedy lust." 
" r faith," says Ned, " our father 

Is less polite than just." 
" In you, son Tom, I've confidence, 

But Ned I cannot trust. 

" Wherefore, my lease and copyholds. 

My lands and tenements. 
My parks, my farms, and orchards. 

My houses and my rents, 
My Dutch stock, and my Spanish stock. 

My five and three per cents., 

" I leave to you, my Thomas " — 

("What, all?" poor Edward said ; 
" Well, well, I should have spent them. 

And Tom's a prudent head") — 
" I leave to you, my Thomas,— 

To you, IN TEUST for Ned." 

The wrath and consternation 

Wliat poet e'er could trace 
That at this fatal passage 

Came o'er Prince Tom his face; 
The wonder of the company. 

And honest Ned's amaze ! 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



907 



" 'Tla surely some mistake," 

Good-uaturedly cries Ned ; 
The lawyer answer'd gravely, 

" 'Tis eveu as I said ; 
'TwiLS thus His Gracious Majesty 

Ordaiu'd on his deathbed. 

"See, here the will is witness'd, 

And here's his autograph." 
"In truth, our father's writing," 

Says Edward, with a laugh ; 
" But thou shalt not be a loser, Tom, 

We'll share it half and half." 

" Alas I my kind young gentleman, 

This sharing cannot be ; 
'Tis written in the testament 

That Brentford spoke to me, 
' I do forbid I'rince Ned to give 

Prince Tom a halfpenny. 

" ' He hath a store of money, 

But ne'er was known to lend it; 

He never hel]>'d his brother; 
The poor he ne'er befriended ; 

He hath no need of property 
Who knows not how to spend it. 

" ' Poor Edward knows but how to spend, 

And thrifty Tom to hoard ; 
Let Thomas be tlie steward then, 

And Edward be the lord ; 
And as the honest laborer 

Is worthy his reward, 

" ' I pray Prince Ned, my second son. 
And my successor dear. 
To pay to iiis intendant 

Five liundred pounds a year; 
And to think of his old fatlier, 
And live and make good cheer.' " 

Such was old Brentford's honest testa- 
ment; 
He did devise his moneys for the best. 
And lies in Brentford church in peace- 
ful re-st. 
Prince Edward lived, and money made 
and spent ; 
But his good sire was wrong, it is con- 
fess'd. 
To say his son, young Thomas, never lent. 
He did. Young Thonuis lent at interest. 
And nobly took his twenty-five i)er cent. 



Long time the famous reign of Ned endured 
O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Put- 
ney, Kew ; 
But of extravagance he ne'er was cured ; 
And when both died, as mortal men will 
do, 
'Twas commonly reported that the steward 
Was very much the richer of tlie two. 
William Makepeace Thackeray. 



Little Billee. 

There were three sailors of Bristol City 
Who took a boat and went to sea. 

But first with beef and captain's biscuits 
And pickled pork they loaded she. 

There was gorging Jack and guzzling.Iimmy, 
And the youngest he was little Billee ; 

Now when they'd got as far as the Equator 
They'd nothing left but one split pea. 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 

" I am extremely hungaree." 
To gorging Jack says guzzling .Tinxmy, 

" We've nothing left, us must eat we."' 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 
" With one another we shouldn't agree ! 

There's little Bill, he's young and tender, 
We're old and tough, so let's eat he." 

"0 Billy! we're going to kill and cat you. 
So undo the button of your chemie." 

When Bill received this information, 
He used his pocket-handkerchie. 

"First let me say my catechism 

Which my poor mammy taught to me." 

" Make haste ! make haste !" says guzzling 
Jimmy, * 

While Jack pull'd out his snickersnee. 

So Billy went up to the main-top-gallant 
ma.st. 
And down he fell on his bended knee ; 
He scarce had come to the twelfth com- 
mandment, 
When up he jumps — "There's land I see I 

" Jerusalem and Madagascar 

And North and South .\merikee ; 

There's the British flag a-riding at aochor. 
With Admiral Napier, K. C. B." 



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FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPjEDIA OF POETRY. 



So when they got aboard of the Admiral's, 
He hang'd fat Jack and flogg'd Jimmee, 

But as for little Bill, he made him 
The captain of a Seventy-three. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



TSE Yarn of the " Nancy Bell." 

'TwAS on the shores that round our coast 
From Deal to Ramsgate span. 

That I found alone, on a piece of stone. 
An elderly naval man. 

His hair was weedy, his beard was long, 

And weedy and long was he ; 
And I heard this wight on the shore 
recite, 

In a singular minor key : — 

" Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, 
And the mate of the Nancy brig. 

And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite. 
And the crew of the captain's gig." 

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair, 

Till I really felt afraid. 
For I couldn't help thinking the man had 
been drinking. 

And so I simply said : — 

" elderly man, it's little I know 
Of the duties of men of the sea, 

And I'll eat my hand if I understand 
How ever you can be 

" At once a cook and a captain bold, 
And the mate of the Nancy brig, 

And a bo'.sun tight, and a midshipmite, 
And the crew of the captain's gig !" 

Then he gave a hitch to his trowsers, which 

Is a trick all seamen larn, 
And having got rid of a thumping quid. 

He spun this painful yarn : — 

" 'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell 
That we sail'd to the Indian sea. 

And there on a reef we come to grief, 
Which has often occurr'd to me. 

" And pretty nigh all o' the crew was 
drown'd 

(There was seventy-seven o' soul) ; 
And only ten of the Nancy's men 

Said ' Here !' to the muster-roll. 



" There was me, and the cook, and the 
captain bold. 
And the mate of the Nancy brig, 
And the bo'sun tight and a midshipmite. 

And the crew of the captain's gig. 

" For a month we'd neither wittles nor 
drink. 

Till a-hungry we did feel, 
So we draw'd a lot, and, atcordin', shot 

The captain for our meal. 

" The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate, 

And a delicate dish he made ; 
Then our appetite with the midshipmite 

We seven survivors stay'd. 

" And then we murder'd the bo'sun tight. 

And he much resembled pig; 
Then we wittled free, did the cook and me. 

On the crew of the captain's gig. 

" Then only the cook and me was left. 
And the delicate question, ' Which 

Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose, 
And we argued it out as sich. 

" For I loved that cook as a brother, I did. 
And the cook he worshipp'd me; 

But we'd both be blow'd if we'd either be 
stow'd 
In the other chap's hold, you see. 

" ' I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says 
Tom. 

'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be. 
I'm boil'd if I die, my friend,' quoth I; 

And 'Exactly so,' quoth he. 

" Says he : ' Dear James, to murder me 

Were a foolish thing to do. 
For don't you see that you can't cook me, 

While I can — and will — cook youV 

" So he boils the water, and takes the salt 
And the pepper in portions true 

(Which he never forgot), and some chopp'd 
shalot, 
And some sage and parsley too. 

" ' Come here,' says he, with a proper pride. 
Which his smiling features tell ; 

' 'Twill soothing be if I let you see 
How extremely nice you'll smell.' 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



Wd 



" And he stirr'd it round and round and 
round. 
And he sniff 'd at the foaming froth ; 
When I ups with his heels, and smothers 
his squeals 
In the scum of the boiling broth. 

" And I eat that cook iu a week or less, 

And as I eating be 
The last of his chops, why I almost drops, 

For a wessel in sight I see. 

****** 

" And I never larf, and I never smile, 

And I never lark nor play ; 
But I sit and croak, and a single joke 

I have — which is to say : 

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, 
And the mate of the Nancy brig, 

And a bo 'sun tight, and a midshipniite, 
And the crew of the captain's gig I'' 

WiLLiAU S. Gilbert. 

Quince. 

Xear a small village in the West, 

Where many very worthy people 
Eat, drink, play whist, and do their best 

To guard from evil church and steeple. 
There stood — alas ! it stands no more ! — 

A tenement of brick and plaster. 
Of which, for forty years and four. 

My good friend Quince was lord and 
master. 

Welcome was he in hut and hall 

To maids and matrons, peers aud peas- 
ants ; 
He won the sympathie-s of all 

By making puns and making presents. 
Though all the parish were at strife. 

He kept his counsel and his carriage, 
.\nd laugh'd, and loved a quiet life. 

And shrank from chancery suits and 
marriage. 

Sound was his claret — and his head; 

Warm was his double ale — and feelings; 
His partners at the whist-club said 

That he wa.s faultless in his dealings: 
He went to church but once a week ; 

Yet Dr. Poundtext always found him 
An upright man who studied Greek, 

And liked to see his friends around him. 



Asylums, hospitals, and schools. 

He used to swear were made to cozen ; 
All who subscribed to them were fools, — 

And he subscribed to half a dozen: 
It was his doctrine that the poor 

Were always able, never willing ; 
And so the beggar at his door 

Had first abuse, and then a shilling. 

Some public principles he had. 

But was no flatterer nor fretter ; 
He rapp'd his box when things were bad. 

And said, " I cannot make them better!" 
And much he loathed the patriot's snort, 

And much he scorn'd the placeman's 
snuliie; 
And cut the fiercest quarrels short 

With " Patience, gentlemen, and shuflle!" 

For full ten years his pointer Speed 

Had couch'd beneath her ma.ster's ta- 
ble ; 
For twice ten years his old white steed 

Had fotten'd in his master's stable; 
Old Quince averr'd, upon his troth, 

They were the ugliest beasts in Devon ; 
And none knew why he fed them both 

With his own hands six days in seven. 

Whene'er they heard his ring or knock. 

Quicker than thought the village slat- 
terns 
Flung down the novel, smoothed the frock. 

And took up Mrs. Glasse and patterns ; 
Adine was studying baker's bills ; 

Louisa look'd the queen of knitters ; 
Jane happen'd to be hemming frills. 

And Bell by chance was making fritters. 

But all was vain ; and while decay 

Came like a tranquil moonlight o'er him. 
And found him gouty still and gay, 

With no fair nurse to bless or bore him, 
His rugged smile and easy-chair. 

His dread of matrimonial lectures. 
His wig, his stick, his powder'd hair, 

Were themes for very strange conjec- 
tures. 

Some sages thought the stars above 

Had crazed him with excess of know- 
ledge ; 

Some heard he bad been crost in love 
Before he came away from college ; 



910 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



Some darkly hinted that His Grace 

Did nothing great or small without him ; 

Some whisper'd with a solemn face 

That there was "something odd about 
him!" 

I found him, at threescore and ten, 

A single man, but bent quite double ; 
Sickness was coming on him then, 

To take him from a world of trouble : 
He prosed of slipping down the hill, 

Discover'd he grew older daily : 
One frosty day he made his will. 

The next he sent for Doctor Dailey. 

And so he lived, and so he died ! — 

When last I sat beside his pillow. 
He shook my hand, and "Ah !" lie cried, 

" Penelope must wear the willow. 
Tell her I hugg'd her rosy chain 

While life was flickering in the socket; 
And say that when I call again, 

I'll bring a license in my pocket. 

" I've left my house and grounds to Fag, 

I hope his master's shoes will suit him ; 
And I've bequeathed to you my nag, 

To feed him for my sake, or shoot him. 
The vicar's wife will take old Fox, 

She'll find him an uncommon mouser; 
And let her husband have my box, 

My Bible, and my Assmanshauser. 

" Whether I ought to die or not, 

My doctors cannot quite determine ; 
It's only clear that I shall rot. 

And be like Priam food for vermin. 
My debts are paid ; but Nature's debt 

Almost escaped my recollection : 
Tom ! we shall meet again ; and yet 

I cannot leave you my direction." 

WiNTHROP MaCKWORTH PRAED. 



An Elegy on that Glory of 
HER Sex, 3Irs. Mary blaize. 

Good people all, with one accord 

Lament for Madame Blaize, 
Who never wanted a good word — 

From those who spoke her praise. 



The needy seldom pass'd her door. 
And always found her kind ; 

She freely lent to all the poor — 
Who left a pledge behind. 

She strove the neighborhood to please 
With manners wondrous winning ; 

And never follow'd wicked ways — 
Unless when she was sinning. 

At church, in silks and satins new, 
With hoop of monstrous size, 

She never slumber'd in her pew — 
But when she shut her eyes. 

Her love was sought, I do aver 

By twenty beaux and more ; 
The king himself has follow'd her — 

When she has walk'd before. 

But now, her wealth and finery fled. 
Her hangers-on cut short all. 

The doctors found when she was dead— 
Her last disorder mortal. 

Let us lament in sorrow sore, 
For Kent street well may say, 

That had she lived a twelvemonth more, 
She had not died to-day. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



Old Grimes. 

Old Grimes is dead ; that good old man ;- 
We ne'er shall see him more : 

He used to wear a long black coat. 
All button'd down before. 

His heart was open as the day, 

His feelings all were true ; 
His hair was some inclined to gray, 

He wore it in a queue. 

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, 

His breast with pity burn'd ; 
The large, round head upon his cane 

From ivory was turn'd. 

Kind words he ever had for all ; 

He knew no base design : 
His eyes were dark and rather small, 

His nose was aquiline. 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



yii 



He lived at peace with all mankind, 

In friendship lie was true: 
His coat had pocket-holes behind, 

His pantaloons were blue. 

Unharni'd, the sin which earth pollutes 

He pass'd securely o'er ; 
And never wore a pair of boots 

For thirty years or more. 

But good old Grimes is now at rest, 
Xor fears misfortune's frown ; 

He wore a double-breasted vest ; 
The stripes ran up and down. 

He modest merit sought to find, 

And pay it its desert ; 
He had no malice in his mind. 

No ruffles on his shirt. 

His neighbors he did not abuse. 

Was sociable and gay ; 
He wore large buckles on his shoes. 

And changed them every day. 

His knowledge, hid from public gaze. 

He did not bring to view — 
Nor make a noise town-meeting days. 

As many people do. 

His worldly goods he never threw 
In trust to Fortune's chances ; 

But lived (as all his brothers do) 
In easy circumstances. 

Thus, undisturb'd by anxious cares, 

His peaceful moments ran ; 
And everj'body said he was 

A fine old gentleman. 

Albkrt G. Gbbexe. 



Till-: Vicar. 

Some years ago, ere time and taste 

Had turn'd our parish topsy-turvy. 
When Darnel P;irk was Darnel Waste, 

And roads as little known as scurvy, 
The man who lo^t his way between 

St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket 
Was always shown across the green. 

And guided to the parson's wicket. 



Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ; 

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtic. 
Led the lorn traveller up the path, 

Throujrh clean-clipp'd rows of box and 
myrtle ; 
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, 

L'pon the parlor steps collected, 
Wagg'd all their tails, and seem'd to say, 

" Our master knows you ; you're ex- 
pected." 

Up rose the reverend Doctor Brown, 

Up rose the doctor's " winsome marrow ;" 
The lady laid her knitting down. 

Her husband clasp'd his ponderous 
Barrow. 
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed. 

Pundit or pai)ist, saint or sinner. 
He found a stable for his steed. 

And welcome for himself, and dinner. 

If, when he rcacird his journey's end. 

And warm'd himself in court or college. 
He had not gain'd an honest friend, 

And twenty curious scraps of know- 
ledge ; 
If he departed as he came. 

With no new light on love or liquor. 
Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, 

And not the vicariige nor the vicar. 

His talk was like a stream which runs 

With rapid change from rocks to roses; 
It slipp'd from politics to puns. 

It pass'd from Mahomet to Moses, 
Beginning with the laws which keep 

The planets in their radiant courses. 
And ending with some precept deep 

For dressing eels or shoeing horses. 

He was a shrewd and sound divine. 
Of loud dissent the mortal terror. 

And when, by dint of page and line. 
He 'stablish'd truth or startled error. 

The Baptist found him far too deep, 
The Deist sigh'd with saving sorrow, 

And the lean Levite went to sleep, 

-Vnd dream'd of tasting pork to-morrow. 

His sermons never said or show'd 
That earth is foul, that heaven is gracious, 

Without refreshment on the road, 
From Jerome or from Athanasius; 



912 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


And sure a righteous zeal inspired 


Sit in the vicar's seat ; you'll hear 


The hand and head that penn'd and 


The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, 


plann'd them, 


Whose hand is white, whose tone is 


For all who understood admired, 


clear. 


And some who did not understand 


Whose phrase is very Ciceronian. 


them. 


Where is the old man laid ? Look down 




And construe on the slab before you — • 


He wrote too, in a quiet way. 


"Hie jacef Gvlie/mvs Broivn, 


Small treatises, and smaller verses, 


Vir nulld non donandus kuiru." 


And sage remarks on chalk and clay. 


WiNTHROP MaOKWORTH PrAED. 


And hints to noble lords and nurses ; 




True histories of last year's ghost ; 


•o* 


Lines to a ringlet or a turban, 




And trifles for the " Morning Post," 


The Vicar of Bray. 


And nothings for Sylvanus Urban. 


In good King Charles's golden days, 




When loyalty no harm meant, 


He did not think all mischief fair, 


A zealous high-churchman was I, 


Although he had a knack of joking ; 


And so I got preferment. 


He did not make himself a bear. 


To teach my flock I never miss'd : 


Although he had a taste for smoking ; 


Kings were by God appointed. 


And when religious sects ran mad. 


And lost are those that dare resist 


He held, in spite of all his learning. 


Or touch the Lord's anointed. 


That if a man's belief is bad. 


And this is law that I'll maintain 


It will not be improved by burning. 


Until my dying day, sir, 




That whatsoever king shall reign, 


And he was kind, and loved to sit 


Still I'll be the vicar of Bray, sir. 


In the low hut or garnish'd cottage, 




And praise the farmer's homely wit. 


When royal James possess'd the crown, 


And share the widow's homelier pot- 


And popery grew in fashion. 


tage. 


The penal laws I hooted down, 


At his approach complaint grew mild, 


And read the declaration ; 


And when his hand unbarr'd the shutter, 


The Church of Rome I found would fit 


The clammy lips of fever smiled 


Full well my constitution ; 


The welcome which they could not utter. 


And 1 had been a Jesuit, 




But for the revolution. 


He always had a tale for me 


And this is law that I'll maintain 


Of Julius Caesar or of Venus ; 


Until my dying day, sir, 


From him I learnt the rule of three, 


That whatsoever king shall reign. 


Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quce genua. 


Still I'll be the vicar of Bray, sir. 


I used to singe his powder'd wig. 




To steal the staff he put such trust in, 


When William was our king declared, 


And make the puppy dance a jig 


To ease the nation's grievance; 


When he began to quote Augustine. 


With this new wind about I steer'd, 




And swore to him allegiance ; 


Alack, the change ! In vain I look 


Old principles I did revoke, 


For haunts in which my boyhood trifled. 


Set conscience at a dLstance ; 


The level lawn, the trickling brook. 


Passive obedience was a joke. 


The trees I climb'd, the beds I rifled ! 


A jest was non-resistance. 


The church is larger than before. 


And this is law that I'll maintain 


You reach it by a carriage entry ; 


Until my dying day, sir, 


It holds three hundred people more, 


That wh.atsoever king shall reign, 


And pews are fitted up for gentry. 


Still I'll be the vicar of Bray, sir. 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 913 


When royal Anne liccame our queen, 


Have open'd their jaws. 


The ChurL-h of Knglaml's glory, 


Eager for each clause. 


j Another face of things wjis seen, 


No sermon beside 


And I became a Tory ; 


Had the carps so edified. 


1 Occasional conformists base, 




! I blamed their moderation ; 


Sharp-snouted pikes, 


And thought the Church in danger was 


Who keep fighting like tikes, 


^ 


Now swam up harmonious 


By such prevarication. 
And this is law that I'll maintain 


To hear St. Antonius. 




No sermon beside 


Until my dying day, sir, 
That whatsoever king shall reign. 


Had the pikes so edified. 


Still I'll be the vicar of Bray, sir. 


And that very odd fish. 




Who loves fast days, the cod-fish, — 


When George in pudding-time came o'er. 


The stock-fish, I mean, — 


And moderate men look'd big, sir, 






At the sermon was seen. 


My principles I changed once more. 


No sermon beside 


And so became a Whig, sir; 


Had the cods so edified. 


And thus preferment I procured 




From our new Fftith's defender, 


Good eels and sturgeon, 


And almost every day abjured 


Which aldermen gorge on, 


The pope and the Pretender. 


Went out of their way 


And this is law that I'll maintain 


To hear preaching that day. 


Until my dying day, sir, 


No sermon beside 


That whatsoever king shall reign. 


Had the eels so edified. 


Still I'll be the vicar of Bray, sir. 






Crabs and turtles also, 


Th' illustrious house of Hanover 


Who always move slow. 


And Protestant succession, 


Made haste from the bottom, 


To these I do allegiance swear — 


As if the devil hiid got 'em. 


While they can keep possession : 


No sermon beside 


For in my faith and loyalty 


Had the crabs so edified. 


I never more will falter, 




And George my lawful king shall be — 


Fish great and fish small, 


Until the times do alter. 


Lords, lackeys, and all, 


And this is law that I'll maintain 


Each look'd at the i)rcacher 


Until my dying day, sir, 


Like a reasonable creature : 


That whatsoever king shall reign, 


At God's word, 


Still I'll be the vicar of Bray, sir. 


They Anthony heard. 


AVTIIOU VXKNONITS. 






The sermon now ended, 


.0. 


Each turncfl and descended ; 


St. ANTHONY'S SERSfON TO THE 


The pikes went on stealing, 


FISHES. 


The eels went on oeling ; 




Much delighted were they, 


St. An'thosy at church 


But preferr'd the old way. 


Was left in the lurch, 




So he went to the ditches 


The crabs are backsliders. 


And preached to the fishes; 


The stock-fish thick-siders, 


They wriggled their tails, 


The carps are sharp-set, 


In the sun glanced their scales. 


All the sermon forget ; 




Much delighted were they. 


The carps, with their spawn. 


But preferr'd the old way. 


Are all hither drawn ; 
58 


ACTllOll I'.XKNOW.N-. 



914 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



The JESTER'S Sermon. 

The Jester shook his hood and bells, and 

leap'd upon a chair, 
The pages laugh'd, the women scream'd, 

and toss'd their scented hair ; 
The 'falcon whistled, staghonnds bay'd, 

the lapdog bark'd without, 
The scullion dropp'd the pitcher brown, 

the cook rail'd at the lout ; 
The steward, counting out his gold, let 

pouch and money fall, 
And why ? because the Jester rose to say 

grace in the hall ! 

The page play'd with the heron's plume, 

the steward with his chain. 
The butler drumm'd upon the board, a:id 

laugh'd with might and main ; 
The grooms beat on their metal cans, and 

roar'd till they were red. 
But still the Jester shut his eyes and 

roU'd his witty head ; 
And when they grew a little still, read 

half a yard of text, 
And, waving hand, struck on the desk, 

then frown'd like one perplox'd. 

" Dear sinners all," the Fool began, "man's 

life is but a jest, 
A dream, a shadow, bubble, air, a vapor 

at the best. 
In a thousand pounds of law I find not a 

single ounce of love ; 
A blind man kill'd the parson's cow in 

shooting at the dove ; 
The fool that eats till he is sick must fast 

till he is well ; 
The wooer who can flatter most will bear 

away the belle. 

"Let no man halloo he "is safe till he is 

thi'ough the wood ; 
He who will not when he may, must 

tarry when he should ; 
He who laughs at crooked men should 

need walk very straight ; 
Oh, he who once has won a name may lie 

abed till eight! 
Make haste to purchase house and land, 

' be very slow to wed ; 
True coral needs no painter's brush, nor 

need be daub'd with red. 



" The friar, preaching, cursed the thief (the 

pudding in his sleeve), 
To fish for sprats with golden hooks is 

foolish, by your leave, — 
To travel well — an ass's ears, ape's face, 

hog's mouth, and ostrich legs, 
He does not care a pin for thieves who 

limps about and begs. 
Be always first man at a feast and last man 

at a fray ; 
The short way round, in spite of all, is 

still the longest way. 
When the hungry curate licks the knife, 

there's not much for the clerk ; 
When the pilot, turning pale and sick, 

looks up, — the storm grows dark." 

Then loud they laugh'd, the fat cook's 

tears ran down into the pan : 
The steward shook, that he was forced 

to drop the brimming can ; 
And then again the women scream'd, and 

every staghound bay'd, — 
And why ? because the motley Fool so wise 

a sermon made. 

George Walter Thornbury. 



I AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 

I AM a friar of orders gray. 
And down in the valleys I take my way ; 
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip — 
Good store of venison fills my scrip ; 
My long bead-roll I merrily chant; 
Wliere'er I walk no money I want ; 
And why I'm so plump the reason I tell — 
Who leads a good life is sure to live well. 

What baron or squire. 

Or knight of the shire. 
Lives half so well as a holy friar? 

After supper, of heaven I dream. 
But that is a pullet and clouted cream ; 
Myself, by denial, I mortify — 
With a dainty bit of a warden pie; 
I'm clothed in sackcloth for my sin — 
With old sack wine I'm lined within ; 
A chirping cup is my matin song, 
And the vesper'sbell is my bowl, ding dong. 
What baron or squire. 
Or knight of the shire. 
Lives half so well as a holy friar? 

John O'Keepe. 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



915 



THE DEVIL'S Thoughts. 

From his brimstone bed at break of day 

A-walkiug the Devil is gone, 
To visit his snug little farm the Earth, 

And see how his stock goes on. 

Over the hill and over the dale, 

And he went over the plain, 
And backward and forward he switch'd 
his long tail, 

As a gentleman switches his cane. 

And how then was the Devil drcst? 

Oh I he wa-s in his Sunday's best : 

His jacket was red and his breeches were 

blue, 
And there was a hole where the tail came 

through. 

He saw a Lawyer killing a viper 
On a dunghill hard by his own stable ; 

And the Devil sniik'd, forit putliim in mind 
Of Cain and his brother, Abel. 

He saw an Apothecary on a white horse 

Ride by on his vocations. 
And the Devil thought of his old friend 

Death in the Revelations. 

He saw a cottage with a double coach-house, 

A cottage of gentility; 
And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin 

Is pride that apes humility. 

He peep'd into a rich bookseller's shop ; 

Quoth he, " We are both of one college ! 
For I sate myself like a cormorant, once. 

Hard by the tree of knowledge." 

Down the river did glide, with wind and 
tide, 
A pig with vast celerity, 
And the Devil look'd wise as he saw how, 

the while. 
It cut its own throat. "There!" quoth he 
with a smile, 
"Goes England's commercial prosper- 
ity." 

As he went through Coldbath Fields he 
saw 
A solitary cell ; 
And the Devil was plea.sed, for it gave him 
a hint 
For improving his prisons in Hell 



He saw a Turnkey in a trice 

Fetter a troublesome blade ; 
" Nimbly," quoth he, " do the fingers 
move 

If a man be but used to his trade." 

He saw the same Turnkey unfetter a man 

With but little expedition ; 
Which put him in mind of the long 
debate 

On the Slave-trade abolition. 

He saw an old acquaintance 

As he pass'd by a Methodist meeting; 
She holds a consecrated key, 

And the Devil nods her a greeting. 

She turn'd up her nose, arid said, 
" Avaunt ! — my name's Religion I" 

And she look'd to Mr. , 

And leer'd like a love-sick pigeon. 

He saw a certain minister, 

A minister to his mind. 
Go up into a certain House, 

With a majority behind ; 

The Devil quoted Genesis, 

Like a very learned clerk, 
How " Noah and his creeping things 

Went up into the Ark." 

He took from the poor. 

And he gave to tlie rich. 
And he shook hands with a Scotchman, 

For he was not afraid of the . 



General 



-'s burning face 



He saw with consternation, 
And back to Hell his way did he take — 
For the Devil thought by a slight mistake 

It was a general conflagration. 

Samuel T.^ylor Colebidt.e. 



Jolly Good ale axd Old. 

I CANXOT eat but little meat — 

My stomach is not good ; 
But sure I think that I can drink 

With him that wears a hood. 
Though I go bare, take ye no care ; 

I am nothing a-cold, 
I stutl' my skin so full within 

Of jolly good ale and old. 



916 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Back and side go bare, go bare ; 


A bag for his oatmeal, • 


Both foot and hand go cold ; 


Another for his salt. 


But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, 


And a long pair of crutches. 


Whether it be new or old ! 


To show that he can halt. 




And a-begging we will go, 


I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, 


Will go, will go. 
And a-begging we will go. 


And a crab laid in the fire; 


And little bread shall do me stead — 


Much bread I nought desire. 


A bag for his wheat. 


No frost, no snow, no wind, I trow, 


Another for his rye, 


Can hurt me if I wold — 


And a little bottle by his side, 


I am so wrapt, and thorowly lapt 


To drink when he's a-dry. 


Of jolly good ale and old. 


And a-begging we will go, 


Back and side go bare, go bare ; 


Will go, will go. 


Both foot and hand go cold ; 


And a-begging we will go. 


But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, 


Seven years I begg'd 


Whether it be new or old ! 


For my old master Wilde, 


And Tyb, my wife, that as her life 


He taught me how to beg 


Loveth well good ale to seek. 


When I was but a child. 


Full oft drinks she, till you may see 


And a-begging we will go, 
Will go, will go. 


The tears run down her cheek ; 


Then doth she trowl to me the bowl. 


And a-begging we will go. 


Even as a malt-worm shold ; 


I begg'd for my master. 


And saith "Sweetheart, I took my part 


And got him store of pelf. 


Of this jolly good ale and old." 


But, Goodness now be praised, 


Back and side go bare, go bare; 


I'm begging for myself. 


Both foot and hand go cold ; 


And a-bogging we will go. 


But, belly, God send thee good ale enough. 


W^ill go, will go. 


Whether it be new or old ! 


And a-begging we will go. 


Now let them drink till they nod and wink. 


In a hollow tree 


Even as good fellows should do ; 


I live, and pay no rent. 


They shall not miss to have the bliss 


Providence provides for me. 


Good ale doth bring men to ; 


And I am well content. 


And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls. 


And a-begging w-e will go. 


Or have them lustily trowl'd. 


Will go, will go. 


God save the lives of them and their wives. 


And a-begging we will go. 


Whether they be young or old ! 


Of all the occupations. 


Back and side go bare, go bare ; 


A beggar's is the best. 


Both foot and hand go cold ; 


For whenever he's a-weary. 


But, belly, God send thee good ale enough. 


He can lay him down to rest. 


Whether it be new or old ! 


And a-begging we will go, 


John Still. 


Will go, will go. 


- — •<>• • 


And a-begging we will go. 


The Jovial Beggar. 






I fear no plots against me. 


There was a jovial beggar. 


I live in open cell ; 


He had a wooden leg. 


Then who would be a king, lads, 


Lame from his cradle. 


When the beggar lives so well? 


And forced for to beg. 


And a-begging we will go. 


And a-begging we will go, 


Will go, will go, 


Will go, will go. 


And a-begging we will go. 


And a-begging we will go. 


Author Unknown. 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



917 



A Farewell to Tobacco. 

May the Babylonish curse 

Straight confouiul my stammering verse, 

If I can a piissage see 

In this word-perplexity, 

Or a tit expression find. 

Or a language to my mind 

(Still the phrase is wide or scant). 

To take leave of thee, Great Plant ! 

Or in any terms relate 

Half my love, or half my hate: 

For I hate, yet love thee so, 

That whichever thing I show. 

The plain truth will seem to be 

A const rain'd hyperbole. 

And the passion to proceed 

More from a mistress than a weed. 

Sooty retainer to the vine, 
Bacchus' black servant, negro fine ; 
Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon 
Thy begrimed complexion. 
And, for thy pernicious sake. 
More and greater oaths to break 
Than reclaimed lovers take 
'Gainst women : thou thy siege dost lay 
Much too in the female way. 
While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath 
Faster than kisses, or than death. 

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us 
That our worst foes cannot find us, 
And ill-fortune, that would thwart us. 
Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; 
While each man, through thy height'ning 

steam, 
Does like a smoking Etna seem, 
And all about us docs express 
(Fancy and wit in richest dress) 

A Sicilian fruitfulness. 

Thou through such a mist dost show us. 
That our best friends do not know us, 
And for those allowfed features, 
Due to reasonable creatures, , 
Liken'st us to fell chimeras. 
Monsters that, who see us, fear us ; 
Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, 
Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion. 

Bacchus we know, and we allow 
His tipsy rites. But what art thou, 



That but by reflex canst show 
What his deity can do. 
As llie false Egyptian spell 
Aped the true Hebrew miracle? 
Some few vapors thou may'st raise. 
The weak brain may serve to amaze, 
But to the reins and nobler heart 
Canst nor life nor heat impart. 

Brother of Bacchus, later born, 
The old world was sure forlorn. 
Wanting thee, that aidest more 
The god's victories than before 
All his panthers, and the brawls 
Of his piping Bacchanals. 
These, as stale, we disallow. 
Or judge of thee meant: only thou 
His true Indian conquest art; 
And for ivy round his dart. 
The reformed god now weaves 
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. 

Scent to match thy rich perfume 
Chemic art did ne'er presume 
Through her quaint alembic strain, 
None so sov'reign to the brain: 
Nature, that did in thee excel, 
Framed again no second smell. 
Roses, violets, but toys 
For the smaller sort of boys ; 
Or for greener damsels meant ; 
Thou art the only manly scent. 

Stinking'st of the stinking kind. 
Filth of the mouth, and fog of the mind, 
Africa, that brags her foison. 
Breeds no such prodigious poison ; 
Henbane, nightshade, both together. 

Hemlock, aconite 

Nay, rather. 
Plant divine, of rarest virtue ; 
Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. 
'Twas but in a sort 1 blamed thee ; 
None e'er prosper d who defamed thee; 
Irony all, and feign'd abuse, 
Sudi lus perjdex'd lovers use 
At a need, wlicn in despair, 
To paint forth their fairest fair. 
Or in part but to express 
That exceeding comeline» 
Which their fancies doth so strike, 
They borrow language of disULw; 



918 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



And, instead of Dearest Miss, 
Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, 
And those forms of old admiring, 
Call her Cockatrice and Siren, 
Basilisk, and all that's evil, 
Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, 
Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, 
Monkey, Ape, and twenty more ; 
Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe — 
Not that she is truly so. 
But no other way they know 
A contentment to express, 
Borders so upon excess, 
That they do not rightly wot 
Whether it be pain or not. 

Or as men, constraiu'd to part 
With what's nearest to their heart, 
While their sorrow's at the height, 
Lose discrimination quite, 
And their hasty wrath let fall. 
To appease their frantic gall 
On the darling thing whatever 
Whence they feel it death to sever, 
Though it be, as they, perforce. 
Guiltless of the sad divorce. 
For I must (nor let it grieve thee, 
Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. 
For thy sake, Tobacco, I 
Would do anything but die. 
And but seek to extend my days 
Long enough to sing thy praise. 
But as she, who once hath been 
A king's consort, is a queen 
Ever after, nor w-ill bate 
Any tittle of her state. 
Though a widow, or divorced, 
So I, from thy converse forced, 
The old name and style retain, 
A right Katherine of Spain ; 
And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys 
Of the blest Tobacco Boys ; 
Where, tliough I, by sour physician, 
Am debarr'd the full fruition 
Of thy favors, I may catch 
Some collateral sweets, and snatch 
Sidelong odors, that give life 
Like glances from a neighbor's wife ; 
And still live in the by-places 
And the suburbs of thy graces; 
And in thy borders take delight, 
An unconquer'd Canaanite. 

CHAKLiis Lamb. 



The Briefless Barrister. 

An Attorney was taking a turn. 
In shabby habiliments dress'd ; 

His coat it was shockingly worn. 
And the rust had invested his vest. 

His breeches had sufler'd a breach. 
His linen and worsted were worse ; 

He had scarce a whole crown in his hat. 
And not half a crown in his purse. 

And thus as he wander'd along, 
A cheerless and comfortless elf. 

He sought for relief in a song. 

Or complainingly talk'd to himself: — 

" Unfortunate man that I am ! 

I've never a client but grief : 
The case is, I've no case at all, 

And in brief, I've ne'er had a brief! 

" I've waited and waited in vain, 
Exjiecting an ' opening ' to find. 

Where an honest young lawyer might gain 
Some reward for toil of his mind. 

" 'Tis not that I'm wanting in law. 

Or lack an intelligent face. 
That others have cases to plead. 

While I have to plead for a case. 

" Oh, how can a modest young man 

E'er hope for the smallest progression — 

The profession's already so full 
Of lawyers so full of profession !" 

While thus he was strolling around. 

His eye accidentally fell 
On a very deep hole in the ground. 

And he sigh'd to hiniself, " It is well !" 

To curb his emotions, he sat 

On the curbstone the space of a minute, 
Then cried, " Here's an opening at last !" 

And in less than a jifly was in it! 

Next morning twelve citizens came 
('Twas the coroner bade them attend). 

To the end that it might be determined 
How the man had determined his end! 

" The man was a lawyer, I hear," 

Quoth the foreman who sat on the corse. 

" A lawyer ? Alas !" said another, 
'■ Undoubtedly died of remorse !" 



A tliird said, " He knew the deceased, 
An iittorriey well versed in the laws, 

And as to the cause of his death, 

' Twas no doubt for the want of a 
cause." 

The jury decided at length, 

After solemnly weighing the matter, 
" That the lawyer was drownt/ed, because 
He could not keep bis head above 
water !" 

John G. Saxk. 



Monody ox the Death of ax 
OXLY Cliest. 

Oh ! take away my wig and gown. 
Their sight is mockery now to me : 

I pace my chambers up and down, 
Reiterating, " Where is hef" 

Alas! wild Echo, with a moan, 
Murmurs above my feeble head : 

In the wide world I am alone ; 
Ha ! ha ! my only client's — dead ! 

In vain the robing-room I seek ; 

The very waiters scarcely bow ; 
Their looks contemptuously speak, 

" He's lost his only client now." 

E'en the mild usher, who, of yore. 
Would hasten when his name I said, 

To hand in motions, comes no more; 
He knows my only client's dead. 

Ne'er shall I, rising up in court, 
Open the pleadings of a suit : 

Ne'er shall ihejudges cut me short 
While moving them for a compute. 

No more with a consenting brief 
Shall I politely bow my head; 

Where shall I run to hide my grief? 
Alas! my only client's dead. 

Imagination's magic power 

Brings back, iis clear as clear can be. 
The spot, the day, the very hour. 

When first I sign'd my maiden plea. 

In the Exchequer's hindmost row 

I sat, and some one tcmch'd my head ; 

He tender'd ten-aiid-si.x, but oh ! 
That only client now is dead. 



In vain I try to sing — I'm hoarse : 
In vain I try to play the flute; 

A phantom seems to flit across — 
It is the ghost of a compute. 

I try to read, — but all in vain ; 

My chamber listlessly I tread; 
Be still, my heart ; throb less, my brain ; 

Ho! ho! my only client's dead. 

I think I hear a double knock : 

I did — alas ! it is a dun. 
Tailor — avaunt ! my sense you shock ; 

lie's dead! you know I had but one. 

What's this they thrust into my hand ? 

A bill return'd! — ten pounds for bread ! 
My butcher's got a large demand ; 

I'm mad ! my only client's dead. 

LONDOS Puscu. 



The CANDIDATE'S CREED. 

I DVJ believe in Freedom's cause, 

Ez fur away cz Payris is ; 
I love to see her stick her claws 

In them infarnal Phayrisees; 
It's wal enough agin a king 

To dror resolves an' triggers, — 
But libbaty's a kind o' thing 

Thet don't agree with niggers. 

I du believe the peo])le want 

A tax on teas an' coflTees, 
Thet nothin' ain't extravygunt, — 

Purvidin' I'm in office ; 
For I hev loved my country sence 

My eye-teeth fill'd their sockets, 
An' Uncle !>ani I reverence, 

Partic'larly his pockets. 

I du believe in any plan 

O' levyin' the taxes, 
Ez long ez, like a lumberman, 

I git jest wut I axes: 
I go free-trade thru thick an' thin, 

Because it kind o' rouses 
The folks to vote, and keeps us in 

Our quiet custom-houses. 

I du believe it's wise an' good 
To sen' out furrin missions, 

Thet is, on sartin understood 
An' orthydox conditions ; — 



I mean nine thousan' dolls per ann., 
Nine thousan' more fer outfit, 

An' me to recommend a man 
The place 'ould jest about fit. 

I du believe in special ways 

0' prayin' an' convartin' ; 
The bread comes back in many days, 

An' butter'd, tu, fer sartin ; — 
I mean in preyin' till one busts 

On wut the party chooses, 
An' in convartin' public trusts 

To very privit uses. 

I du believe hard coin the stuff 

Fer 'lectioneers to spout on ; 
The people's oilers soft enough 

To make hard money out on ; 
Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his, 

An' gives a good-sized junk to all — 
I don't care hmo hard money is, 

Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal. 

I du believe with all my soul 

In the gret Press's freedom, 
To pint the people to the goal 

An' in the traces lead 'em ; 
Palsied the arm that forges yokes 

At my fat contracts squintin'. 
An' withcr'd be the nose thet pokes 

Inter the gov'ment printin' 1 

I du believe thet I should give 

Wut's his'n unto Cajsar, 
Fer it's by him I move an' live, 

Frum him my bread an' cheese air ; 
I du believe thet all o' me 

Doth bear his superscription, — 
Will, conscience, honor, honesty, 

An' things o' thet description. 

I du believe in prayer an' praise 

To him thet hez the grantin' 
O' jobs, — in every thin' thet pays. 

But most of all in Cantin' ; 
This doth my cup with marcies fill. 

This lays all thought o' sin to rest ; 
I don't believe in princerple, 

But, oh, I du in interest. 

I du believe in bein' this 

Or thet, ez it may happen 
One way or t'other hendiest is, 

To ketch the people nappin' ; 



It ain't by princerples nor men 
My preudunt course is steadied, — 

I scent which pays the best, an' then 
Go into it baldheaded. 

I du believe thet holdin' slaves 

Comes nat'ral to a Presidunt, 
Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves 

To hev a wal-broke precedunt ; 
Fer any office, small or gret, 

I couldn't ax with no face 
Without I'd ben, thru dry an' wet, 

Th' unrizzest kind o' doughface. 

I du believe wutever trash 

'11 keep the people in blindness, — 
Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash 

Right inter brotherly kindness, — 
Thet bumshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ball 

Air good-will's strongest magnets, 
Thet peace, to make it stick at all, 

Must be druv in with bagnets. 

In short, I firmly do believe 

In Humbug generally, 
Fer it's a thing thet I perceive 

To hev a solid vally ; 
This heth my faithful shepherd ben. 

In pasturs sweet heth led me. 
An' this'll keep the people green 

To feed ez they hev fed me. 

Jasies Russell Lowell. 



What Mh. Robinson Thinks. 

GuvENEB B. is a sensible man ; 

He stays to his home an' looks arter his 
folks ; 
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can. 
An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes ; 
But John P. 
Robinson, he 
Sez he wun't vote fer Guvener B. 

My ! ain't it terrible ! Wut shall we du ? 
We can't never choose him, o' course, — • 
thet's flat ; 
Guess we shall hev to come round (don't 
you?) 
An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all 
that ; 

Fer John P. 
Robinson, he 
Sez he wun't vote fer Guvener B. 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



021 



Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man : 
He's ben on all sides thet give places 
or pelf; 
But consistency still wuz a part of his 
plan, — 
He's ben true to one party, — an' thet is 
himself; — 

So John P. 
Robinson, he 
Sez he shall vote fcr Gineral C. 

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; 

He don't vally principle more'n an old 
cud ; 
WutdidGod make us raytional creeturs fer, 
But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' 
blood? 

So John P. 
Robinson, he 
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 

We were gittin' on nicely up here to our 
vilhige, 
With good old idees o' wut's right an' 
wut ain't, 
AVe kind o' thought Christ went agin war 
an' pillage, 
An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark 
of a saint ; 

But John P. 
Robinson, he 
Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded 
idee. 

The side of our country must oilers be 
took, 
An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is 
our country. 
An' the angel thet writes all our sin ijj a 
book. 
Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per 
contry ; 

An' John P. 
Robinson, he 
Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. 

Parson Wilbur he calls all these arginiunte 
lies; 
Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, 
faw, fum : 
An' thet all this big talk of our destinies 
Is half on it ign'ance, an' t'other half 
rum ; 



But John P. 

Robinson, he 
Sez it ain't no sech thing ; an', of 
course, so must we. 

Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his 
life 
Thet th' apostles rigg'd out in their 
swallcr-tail coats. 
An' manh'd round in front of a drum an' 
a fife. 
To git some on 'em office, an' some on 
'em votes ; 

But John P. 
Robinson, he 
Sez they didu't know everythin' down 
in Judee. 

Wal, it's a marey we've gut folks to tell us 
The rights and the wrongs o' these mat- 
ters, I vow, — 
God sends country lawyers, an' other wise 
fellers. 
To start the world's team when it gits in 
a slough ; 

Fer John P. 
Robinson, he 
Sez the world'll go right ef he hollers 
out Gee I 

James Russell Lowell. 



TiTE A^EW Tale of a Tub. 

The Orient day was fresh and fair, 
A breeze sang soft in the ambient air. 
Men almost wonder'd to find it there. 

Blowing so near Bengal, 
Where waters bubble as boil'd in a pot. 
And the gold of the sun spreads melting 

hot, 
And there's hardly a breath of wind to be 
got 

At any price at all. 
Unless, indeed, when the great Simoom 
Greta up from its bed with the voice of 
doom, 

And deserts no rains e'er drench 
Rise up and roar with a dreadful gust, 
Pillars of sand and clouds iif dust 
Rushing on drifted, and rapid to burst, 
And filling all India's throat with thirst 

That its Ganges couldn't (juench. 



No great Simoom rose up to-day, 

But only a gentle breeze, 
And that of such silent and voiceless 
play 

That a lady's bustle 
Had made more rustle 
Than it did among the trees. 
'Twas not like the breath of a British vale, 
Where each green acre is bless'd with a 
gale 
Whenever the natives please ; 
But it was of that soft, inviting sort 
That it tempted to revel in picnic sport 
A couple of Bengalese. 

Two Bengalese 
Resolved to seize 
The balmy chance of that cool-wing'd 

weather, 
To revel in Bengal ease together. 

One was tall, the other was stout, 
They were natives both of the glorious 

Ea.st, 
And both so fond of a rural feast 
That off they roam'd to a country plain, 
Where the breeze roved free about, 
That during its visits brief, at least. 
If it never were able to blow again, 
It might blow upon their blow-out. 

The country plain gave a view as small 

As ever man clapp'd his eyes on. 
Where the sense of sight did easily pall. 
For it kept on seeing nothing at all 

As far as the far horizon. 
Nothing at all ! — oh, what do I say ? — 
Something certainly stood in the way 
(Though it had neither cloth nor tray, 

With its "titfin" I wouldn't quarrel). 
It was a sort of hermaphrodite thing 
(It might have been fill'd with sugar or 

ling, 
But is very unfit for a muse to sing). 

Betwixt a tub and a barrel. 

It stood in the midst of that Indian plain. 
Burning with sunshine, pining for rain, 
A parenthesis balanced 'twixt pleasure and 
pain, 

And as stiff as if it were starching, — • 
When up to it, over the brown and green 
Of that Indian soil, were suddenly seen 

Two gentlemen anxiously marching. 



Those two gentlemen were, if you please, 
The aforesaid couple of Bengalese, 

And the tub or barrel that stood be- 
yond — • 
For short we will call it a tub — 
Contain'd with pride. 
In its .jolly inside. 
The prize of which they were doatingly 
fond, 
The aforesaid gentlemen's grub. 

" Leave us alone — come man or come 

beast," 
Said the eldest, " we'll soon have a shy at 

the feast." 

They are now at their picnic w-ith might 

and with main. 
But what do we see in the front of the 
plain? 
A jungle, a thicket of bush, weed, and 

grass. 
And in it reposing — eh? — no, not an 

ass — 
Not an ass, not an ass, — that could not 
come to pass ; 
No donkey, no donkey, no donkey at all, 
But, superb in his slumber, a Koyal Ben- 
gal. 

Though royal, he wasn't a king — 
No such thing ! 
He didn't rule lands from the Thames to 
the Niger, 

But he did hold a reign 
O'er that jungle and plain. 
And besides was a very magnificent tiger. 

There he lay, in his skin so gay. 
His passions at rest, and his appetites 
curb'd ; 

A Minister Prime, 
In his proudest time, 
Asleep, was never more undisturb'd ; 

For who would come to shake him? 
Oh, it's certain sure, in his dream demure, 

That none would dare to wake him. 
Only the royal snore may creep 
Over the dreams of a tiger's sleep. 

The Bengalese, in cool apparel. 
Meanwhile have reach'd their picnic bar- 
rel; 
In other words, they have toss'd the grub 
Out of their great provision-tub, 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 923 


And, standing it up for shelter, 


But simply bow on that beautiful plain, 


Sit guzzling umlenieatli its shade, 


And offer Sir Tiger a glass of cham- 


With a glorious dinner ready-made, 


pagne. 


Wliich they're eating helter-skelter. 


"From my jungle it true is 


Ham and chicken, and bread and cheese. 


They woke me, I think, 


They make u pass to spread on the 


So the least they can do is 


grass. 


To give me some drink." 


They sit at ease, with their plates on their 




knees, 


Gently Tiger crouches along. 


And now their hungry jaws they appease, 


Humming a kind of animal song, 


And now they turn to the glass ; 


A sweet subdued familiar lay 


For Hodgson's ale 


As ever was warbled by beast of prey ; 


Is genuine pale, 


And all so softly, tunefully done. 


And the bright champagne 


That it made no more sound 


Flows not in vain. 


Than his shade on the ground; 


The most convivial souls to please 


So the Bengalese heard it, never a one I 


Of these very thirsty Bengalese. 




Ha ! one of the two has relinquish'd his 


Gently Tiger steals along. 


fork 


" Mild as a moonbeam," meek as a lamb: 


And wakes up the tiger by drawing a cork. 


What so suddenly changes his song 




From a tune to a growl ? 


Blurting and spurting! 


" Och ! by my sowl. 


List ! oh, list ! 


Nothing on earth but the smell of the 


Perhaps the tiger thinks he is 


ham !" 


hiss'd. 


He quickens his pace, 


Effervescing ami wliizzM and i)liizz'dl 


The illigant baste, 


Perhaps His Majesty thinks he is quizz'd, 


And he's running a race 


Or haply deems, 


With himself for a taste. 


As he's roused from his dreams, 


And he's taken to roaring, and given up 


Tluit his visions have come to a thirsty 


humming. 


stop. 


Just to let the two Bengalese know he is 


And resolves to moisten his throat with a 


coming. 


drop. 


What terrors seize 




The Bengalese ! 


At all events, with body and soul, 


As the roar of the tiger reaches the 


He gives in his jungle a stretch and a roll, 


ear. 


Then regally rises to go for a stroll. 


Their hair is standing on end with 


With a temperate mind. 


fear. 


For a beast of his kind, 


Short-and-stout, with hk hair all gray. 


And a tail uncommonly long be- 


Has a rattling note iu his jolly old 


hind. 


throat ; 


He knows of no water, 


If choking his laugh with a truss of 


By field or by flood ; 


hay. 


He does not seek slaughter, 


He couldn't more surely have stifled the 


He does not scent blood. 


ga.v- 


No ! the utmost scope 


While Tall-and-thin, with his hair all car- 


Of his limited hope 


rotty, 


Is that these 


Looks thrice as red with fright as his 


Bengalese, 


head. 


When they find he arrives, 


And his face bounds plump, at a single 


May not rise from their picnic and run for 


jump, 


their lives, 


Into horror, and out of hilarity. 



924 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


All they can hear, in their terrible fear, 


The while they shine, 


Behind and before, is the tiger's roar ; 


" If I mean to dine, 


Again and again, o'er the plain, 


I had better begin." 


Clearer and clearer, nearer and nearer. 


And then, with a grin, 


Into the tub now its way it has found, 


And a voice the loudest that ever was 


Where its echoes keep rolling round and 


heard. 


round. 


He roars, " Never trust to a tiger's word, 


Till out of the bunghole they bursting 


If this dodge shall last much longer ! 


come, 


No, no, no, no, — it shall be no go ! 


Like a regiment of thunders escaped from 


There's a way of disturbing this tub's re- 


a drum. 


pose; 




So down on your knees, 


If an earthquake had shatter'd a thousand 


You Bengalese, 


kegs. 


And prepare to be eaten up, if 


The terrified Bengalese couldn't, i' fegs, 


you please. 


Have leapt more rapidly on to their legs. 


Here goes ! 


He's at 'em, he's on 'em, the jungle 


Here goes ! here goes !" and he gave a 


guest I 


spring. 


When a man's life by peril is prest. 


The gentlemen, looking for no such thing. 


His wits will sometimes be at their best. 


Might have fallen a prey to the tiger's 


So the presence of Tiger, I find. 


fling ; 


Inspires our heroes with presence of mind. 


But a certain interference. 


There's no time to be lost — 


Which bursts from their most intelligent 


Down the glasses are toss'd, 


tub, 


The Bengalese have abandon'd their grub. 


May enable them to return to their grub 


And they're dodging their gentleman 


On the selfsame plain a year hence. 


round the tub. 


The tub, though empty of roll and ration. 


Active and earnest, they nowhere lodge, 


Is full of a certain preservation, 


And he can't get at them, because of their 


Of which — though it does not follow 


dodge. 


In every case of argumentation — 


Short-and-stout and Tall-and-tliin 


It is full because it is hollow. 


Never before such a scrape were in. 


For, not having a top, and no inside 


Nor ever yet used — can you well have a 


things, 


doubt of it?— 


It turns top-heavy when tiger springs. 


So uncommonly artful a dodge to get out 


And, making a kind of balancing pause. 


of it. 


Keeps holding the animal up by his 


Tiger keeps prowling. 


claws. 


Howling, and growling : 


In a manner that seems to fret it. 


He feels himself that their dodge is 


While Short-and-stout, in a state of 


clever ; 


doubt, 


But the quick fresh blood of the Ben- 


Keeps on his belly a sharp lookout. 


galese 


And Tall-and-thin, with an impudent 


Nicer and nicer he snuffs on the breeze. 


grin. 


The more they practise their dodge re- 


Exults in his way. 


citals. 


As much as to say. 


The more he longs to dine on their vitals. 


" I only wish you may get it ! 


His passion is up, his hunger is keen. 


But much as I may respect your ability. 


His jaws are ready, his teeth are clean. 


I don't see at present the great proba- 


And sharpen'd their limbs to sever. 


bility." 


The fire is flashing in light from his 




eyes ; 


The tiger has leapt up, heart and soul. 


In his own peculiar manner he cries, 


It's clear he meant to go the whole 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



925 



Hog, in his hungry efforts to seize 
The two defiancefiil Bengalese. 
But the tub ! the tub ! 
Ay, there's the rub ! 
At present he's balanced atop of 

the tub, 
His fore legs inside. 
And the rest of his hide, 
Not weighing so much as his head and his 
legs. 

And having no hand in 
A pure understandin' 
Of the just equilibrium of casks and of 
kegs. 
Not bred up in attics, 
Nor tauglit mathematics, 
To work out the problems of Euclid with 

pegs,— 
He has plunged with the impetus wild of 

a lover. 
And the tub has loom'd large, balanced, 
paused, and turii'd over. 

The tiger at first had a hobby-horse ride, 
But now he is decently quarter'd inside; 
And the question is next, long as fortune 

may frown on him, I 

Huw the two Bengalese are to keep the 
tub down on him. 
'Bout this there's no blunder, 
The tiger is under 

The tub ! 
My verse need not run 

To the length of a sonnet. 
To tell how the Bengalese 

Both jump'd upon it, 
While the beautiful barrel 
Keeps acting as bonnet 
To the tiger inside. 
Who no more in his pride 
Can roam over jungle and plain, 
But, shelter'd alike from the sun and the 
rain, | 

Around its interior his sides deigns to 

rub 
With a fearful hubbub, 
And longs for his freedom again. 

The two Bengalese, 
Not at all at their ease, 
Hear him roar. 
And deplore 
Their prospects as sore, 



Forgetting both picnic and flask ; 
Each, wondering, dumb, 
What of both will become. 
Helps the other to press on the cask ; 
Resign'd to their fate. 
But increasing their weight 
By action of muscle and sinew. 
In order that forcibly you, Mr. Tub, 
Whom their niggers this morning 
Roll'd here with their grub. 
May still keep the tiger within you. 
On the top of the tub. 
In the warmest of shirts. 

The thin man stands. 
While the fat by his skirts 
Holds, an.xiously putting and blowing; 
And the thin peers over the top of the 
cask, 
" Is there any hope for us?" 

As much as to ask. 
With a countenance cunning and know- 
ing; 
And just as he mournfully 'gins to bewail, 
In a grief-song that ought to be sung 
whole. 
He twigs the long end of the old tiger's 
tail 
As it twists itself out of the bunghole. 
Then, sharp on the watch, 
He gives it a catch. 
And shouts to the tiger, 
" You've now got your match ; 
You may rush and may riot, may wriggle 

and roar. 
But I'm blest if I'll let your tail go any 

more I" 
It's as safe as a young roasted pig in a 

larder. 
And no two Bengalese could hold on by it 

harder. 
With the tiger's tail clench'd fast in his 

fist, ' 

And his own coat-tail grasp'd fast to assist, 
Stands Tall-and-thin with Short-and-stout, 
Both on the top of the tub to scout. 
Tiger within and they without, 

And bolli in a pretty i>ickle. 
Tlie tiger begins by giving a bound ; 
The tub's half turn'd. but the men are 

found 
To have very carefully jump'd to the 
ground — 



926 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



At trifles they must not stickle. 
It's no use quaking and turning pale, 
Pluck and patience must now prevail, 
They must keep a hold on the tiger's tail, 

And neither one be fickle. 
There they must pull, if they pull for 

weeks. 
Straining their stomachs and bursting their 

cheeks, 
While Tiger alternately roars and squeaks, 

Trying to break away from 'em ; 
They must keep the tub turn'd over his 

back. 
And never let his long tail get slack. 

For fear he should win the day from 
'em. 
Yes, j'es, they must hold him tight, 
From night till morning, from morn till 

night,— 
Mustn't stop to eat, mustn't stop to weep. 
Mustn't stop to drink, mustn't stop to 

sleep, — 
No cry, no laugh, no rest, no grub. 
Till they starve the tiger under the tub. 
Till the animal dies, 
To his own surprise. 
With two Bengalese in a deadly quarrel, 
And his tale thrust through the hole of a 
barrel. 

Oh dear ! oh dear ! it's very clear 

They can't live so, but they daren't let 

go- 
Fate for a pitying world to wail, 
Starving behind a tiger's tail. 
If Invention be Necessity's son. 
Now let him tell them what's to be done. 
What's to be done? Ha ! I see a grin 
Of joy on the face of Tall-and-thin, 
Some new device he has hit in a trice, 
The which he is telling all about 
To the gratified gentleman, Short-and 

stout. 
What's to be done ? what precious fun ! 
Haven't they found out what's to be done? 
See ! see ! what glorious glee ! 
Note ! mark ! what a capital lark ! 
Tiger and tub, and bunghole and all. 
Baffled by what is about to befall. 
Excellent ! marvellous ! beautiful ! oh ! 
Isn't it now an original go? 
What, stop 1 I'm ready to drop. 



Hold ! stay ! I'm fainting away. 
Laughter I'm certain will kill me to-day; 
And Short-and-stout is bursting his skin. 
And almost in fits is Tall-and-thrn, 
And Tiger is free, yet they do not quail. 
Though temper has all gone wrong 
with him. 
No ! they've tied a knot in the tiger's tail, 
And he's carried the tub along with 
him; 
He's a freehold for life, with a tail out of 

joint. 
And has made his last climax a true knotty 

point. 

Frederick W. N. Bayley. 

COLOGJVE. 

In Ktiln, a town of monks and bones. 
And pavements fang'd with murderous 

stones. 
And rags and hags and hideous wenches^ 
I counted two-and-seventy stenches, 
All well-defined and several stinks I 
Ye nymphs that reign o'er sewers and 

sinks ! 
The river Rhine, it is well known, 
Doth wash your city of Cologne ; 
But tell me, nymphs ! what power divine 
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine ? 
Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



Elegy o.v the Death of a 
Mad Bog. 

Good people all, of every sort, 

Give ear unto my song ; 
And if you find it wond'rous short 

It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man, 
Of whom the world might say 

That still a godly race he ran 
Whene'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 

To comfort friends and foes ; 
The naked every day he clad 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found. 

As many dogs there be. 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound. 

And curs of low degree. 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



927 



This dog and man at first were friends : 

But when a piciue began, 
The dog, to gain some private ends. 

Went mad, and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighboring streets 
The wondering neighbors ran. 

And swore the dog liad lost his wits, 
To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad 

To every Christian eye : 
And while they swore the dog was mad, 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 

That show'il the rogues they lied : 

The man recover'd of the bite, 

The dog it was that died. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



The Diverting History of John 
Gilpin. 

Showing how he west fakther than he 
ujtended, and came safe home again. 

John" Oii.pix was a citizen 

Of credit and renown ; 
A trainband captain eke was he 

Of famous London town. 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear — 
"Tho' wedded we have been 

These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
No holiday have seen. 

"To-morrow is our wedding-day, 

And we will then repair 
L'nto the Bell at Eilmonton 

All in a chaise and pair. 

" My sister and my sister's child. 

Myself and children three, 
Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride 

Ou horseback after we." 

He soon replied, " I do admire 

Of womankind but one, 
.\nd you are she, my dearest dear : 

Therefore it shall be done. 

"I am a linendraper bold. 
As all the world doth know ; 

.\nd my good friend, the calender, 
Will lend his horse to go. " 



Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; 

And, for that wine is dear. 
We will be furnish'd with our own. 

Which is both bright and clear." 

John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife ; 

O'erjoy'd was he to find 
That, though on pleasure she was bent. 

She liad a frugal mind. 

The morning came, the chaise was brought, 

But yet was not allow'd 
To drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, 

Where they did all get in — 
Si.x precious souls, and all agog 

To dash through thick and thin. 

Smack went the whip, round went the 
wheel — 

Were never folks so glad ; 
The stones did rattle underneath. 

As if Cheapside were mad. 

John Gilpin at his horse's side 

Seized fast the flowing mane. 
And up he got, in haste to ride — 

But soon came down again : 

For saddletree scarce reach'd had he, 

His journey to begin, 
When, turning round his head, he saw 

Three customers come in. 

So down he came . for loss of time, 

Although it grieved him sore. 
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, 

Would trouble him much more. 

'Twas long before the customers 

Were suited to their mind ; 
When Betty, screaming, came down stairs — 

" The wine is left behind !" 

" Good lack !" quoth he — " yet bring it me. 

My leathern belt likewise. 
In which I bear my trusty sword 

When I do e.'cercise." 

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul !) 

Had two stone bottles found, 
To hold tlie liquor that she loved. 

And keep it safe and sound. 



928 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Each bottle had a curling ear, 
Through which the belt he drew, 

And hung a bottle on each side, 
To make his balance true. 

Then over all, that he might be 

Equipp'd from top to toe, 
His long red cloak, well brush 'd and neat. 

He manfully did throw. 

Now see him mounted once again 

Upon his nimble steed. 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones. 

With caution and good heed. 

But finding soon a smoother road 

Beneath his well-shod feet, 
The snorting beast began to trot. 

Which gall'd him in his seat. 

So, " Fair and softly," John he cried, 

But John he cried in vain ; 
That trot became a gallop soon. 

In spite of curb and rein. 

So stooping down, as needs he must 

Who cannot sit upright. 
He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, 

And eke with all his might. 

His horse, who never in that sort 

Had handled been before. 
What thing upon his back had got 

Did wonder more and more. 

Away went Gilpin, neck or naught ; 

Away went hat and wig ; 
He little dreamt, when he set out. 

Of running such a rig. 

The wind did blow — the cloak did fly. 

Like streamer long and gay ; 
Till, loop and button failing both. 

At last it flew away. 

Then might all people well discern 

The bottles he had slung — 
A bottle swinging at each side, 

As hath been said or sung. 

The dogs did bark, the children scream'd. 

Up flew the windows all ; 
And every soul cried out, " Well done !" 

As loud as he could bawl. 



Away went Gilpin — who but he ? 

His fame soon spread around — 
" He carries weight ! he rides a race ! 

'Tis for a thousand pound !" 

And still as fast as he drew near, 

'Twas wonderful to view 
How in a trice the turnpike-men 

Their gates wide open threw. 

And now, as he went bowing down 

His reeking head full low. 
The bottles twain behind his back 

Were shatter'd at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road. 

Most piteous to be seen. 
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke 

As they had basted been. 

But still he seem'd to carry weight, 

With leathern girdle braced ; 
For all might see the bottle-necks 

Still dangling at his waist. 

Thus all through merry Islington 

These gambols he did play. 
Until he came unto the Wash 

Of Edmonton so gay ; 

And there he threw the wash about 

On both sides of the way. 
Just like unto a trundling mop. 

Or a wild goose at play. 

At Edmonton his loving wife 

From the balcony spied 
Her tender husband, wondering much 

To see how he did ride. 

" Stop, stop, John Gilpin ! here's the 
house," 

They all at once did cry ; 
" The dinner waits, and we are tired :" 

Said Gilpin— "So am I!" 

But yet his horse was not a whit 

Inclined to tarry there ; 
For why ? — his owner had a house 

Full ten miles off, at Ware. 

So like an arrow swift he flew. 

Shot by an archer strong ; 
So did he fly — which brings me to 

The middle of my song. 



HUMOROUS AXD SATIRICAL. 929 


Away went Gilpin out of breath, 


Ah, luckless speech and bootless boast, 


And sore against his will, 


For which he paid full dear ! 


Till at his friend's the calender's 


For, while he si)akc, a braying ass 


His horse at last stood still. 


Did sing most loud and clear ; 


The calender, amazed to see 


Whereat his horse did snort, as he 


His neighbor in such trim, 


Had heard a lion roar. 


Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 


And gallop'd off with all his might. 


And thus accosted him : 


As he had done before. 


"What news? what news? your tidings 


Away went Gilpin, and away 


tell ; 


Went Gilpin's hat and wig: 


Tell me you must and shall — 


He lost them sooner than at first. 


Say why bareheaded you are come. 


For why ? — they were too big. 


Or why you come at all ?" 




Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 


Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 


Her husband posting down 


And loved a timely joke ; 


Into the country far away. 


And thus unto the calender 


She pull'd out h-alf a crown ; 


In merry guise he spoke : 






And thus unto the youth she said 


" I came because your horse would come ; 


That drove them to the Bell, 


And, if I well forbode. 


"This shall be yours when you bring 


My hat and wig will soon be here. 


back 


They are upon the road." 


My husband safe and well." 


The calender, right glad to find 


The youth did ride, and soon did meet 


His friend in merry pin, 


John coming back amain — 


Return'd him not a single word. 


Whom in a trice he tried to stop, 


But to the house went in ; 


By catching at his rein; 


Whence straight he came with hat and 
wig 
A wig that flow'd behind, 
A hat not much the worse for wear — 


But not performing what he meant. 


And gladly would have done, 
The frighted steed he frighted more, 


E^ch comely in its kind. 


And made him faster run. 


He held them up, and in his turn 


Away went Gilpin, and aw.iy 


Thus show'd his ready wit — 


Went post-boy at his heels, 


" My head is twice as big as yours, 


The post-boy's horse right glad to miss 


They therefore needs must fit. 


The lumbering of the wheels. 


" But let me scrape the dirt away 


Six gentlemen upon the road, 


That hangs upon your face ; 


Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 


And stop and eat, for well you may 


With post-boy scampering in the rear. 


Be in a hungrj' case." 


They raised the hue and cry : 


Said John, " It is my wedding-day, 


"Stop thief! stop thief!— a highwayman !'' 


And all the world would stare 


Not one of them was mute ; 


If wife should dine at Edmonton, 


And all and each that pass'd that w.iy 


And I should dine at Ware." 


Did join in the pursuit. 


So turning to his horse, he said, 


And now the turnpike-gates again 


" I am in haste to dine ; 


Flew open in short sj)ace : 


'Twas for your pleasure you came here — 


The toll-iiii^n thinking as before, 


You shall go back for mine." 

59 


That Gilpin rode a race. 



930 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



And so he did, and won it too, 

For he got first to town ; 
Nor stopp'd till where he had got up 

He did again get down. 

Now let us sing. Long live the king! 

And Gilpin, long live he ; 
And when he next doth ride abroad, 

May I be there to see ! 

William Cowper. 

The DEACON'S Masterpiece, or 
THE Wonderful "Onehoss 
Shay." 

A Logical Story. 

Have you he.Trd of the wonderful one- 
boss shay; 
That was built in such a logical way, 
It ran a hundred years to a day, 
And then, of a sudden, it — Ah, but stay, 
I'll tell you what happen'd without delay, 
Scaring the parson into fits, 
Frightening peoi^le out of their wits. 
Have you ever heard of that, I say? 

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. 
Georgins Secundus was then alive, — 
Snuffy old drone from the German hive. 
That was the year when Lisbon-town 
Saw the earth open and gulp her down, 
And Braddock's army was done so brown, 
Left without a scalp to its crown. 
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day 
. That the Deacon finish'd the one-boss shay. 

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what. 
There is always somewhere a weakest spot, — 
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill. 
In panel, or cross-bar, or floor, or sill. 
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — lurking 

still 
Find it somewhere you must and will, — 
Above, or below, or within or without, — 
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt. 
That a chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear 

out. 

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, 
With an " I dew vum," or an " I tell yeoii ") 
He would build one shay to beat the taown 
'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun' ; 
It should be so built that it couldn't break 
daown : 



"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty 

plain 
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the 

strain ; 
'N' the wayt' fix it, uz I maintain, 

Is only jest 
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest." 

So the Deacon inquired of the village 

folk 
Where he could find the strongest oak, 
That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke, — 
That was for spokes and floor and sills; 
He sent for lancewood to m.ake the thills ; 
The cross-bars were ash, from the straight- 

est trees ; 
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like 

cheese. 
But lasts like iron for things like these ; 
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's 

ellum," — 
Last of its timber — they couldn't sell 'em. 
Never an axe had seen their chips, 
And the wedges flew from between their lips, 
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips ; 
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, 
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too. 
Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; 
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; 
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide 
Found in the pit when the tanner died. 
That was the way he " put her through." — 
" There !" said the Deacon, " naow she'll 

dew." 

Do ! I tell you, I rather guess 
She was a wonder, and nothing less ! 
Colts grew horses, beards turn'd gray. 
Deacon and deaconess dropp'd away. 
Children and grandchildren — where were 

they? 
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay, 
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 

Eighteen Hundred ; — it came and found 
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and 

sound. 
Eighteen hundred increased by ten ; 
" Hahnsum kerridge " they call'd it theu. 
Eighteen hundred and twenty came ; — 
Running as usual ; much the same. 
Thirty and forty at last arrive. 
And then come fifty, and fifty-five. 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



931 



Little of all we value here 
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year 
Without both feeling and looking queer. 
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its 

youth, 
So far as I know, but a tree and truth. 
(This is a moral that runs at large ; 
Take it. — You're welcome. — No extra 

charge.) 

First of November, — the Earthquake- 
day,— 
There are traces of age in the one-hoss 

shay, 
A general flavor of mild decay, — 
But nothing local, as one may say. 
There couldn't be, — for the Deacon's art 
Had made it so like in every part 
That there wasn't a chance for one to 

start. 
For the wheels were just as strong as the 

thills, 
And the floor was just as strong as the 

sills. 
And the panels just as strong as the floor, 
And the whippletree neither less nor 

more. 
And the back crossbar as strong as the 

fore, 
And spring and axle and hub encore. 
And yet, <u a whole, it is pasta doubt. 
In another hour it will be worn out ! 

First of November, 'Fifty-five ! 
This morning the parson takes a drive. 
Now, small boys, get out of the way ! 
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, 
Drawn by a rat-tail'd, ewe-ncck'd bay. 
" Huddup !" said the parson.— Off went 
they. 

The parson was working hisSunday's text, — 
Had got to fifthly, and stopp'd perplcx'd 
At what the — Moses — was coming next. 
.\11 at once the horse stood still. 
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. 
—First a shiver, and then a thrill, 
Then something decidedly like a spill, — 
And the parson was sitting upon a rock. 
At half-pa-st nine by the meet'n'-house 

clock, — 
Just the hour of the earthquake shock ! 



What do you think the parson found 
When he got up and stared around? 
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound. 
As if it had been to the mill and ground! 
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, 
How it went to pieces all at once, — 
All at once, and nothing lirst, — 
Just as bubbles do when they burst. — 

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. 
Logic is logic. That's all I say. 

Olivkk Wendell Uolues. 



Plain Language FROM Truthful 
James. 

Which I wish to remark, — 

And my language is phiin, — 
That for ways that are dark, 
And for tricks that are vain, 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar. 
Which the same I would rise to explain. 

Ah Sin was his name; 

And I sliall not deny 
In regard to the same 
What that name might imply, 
But his smile it was pensive and child- 
like, 
As I frequent remark'd to Bill Nye. 

It was August the third. 

And quite soft was the skies ; 
Which it might be inferr'd 
That Ah Sin was likewise ; 
Yet he play'd it that day upon William 
And me in a way I despise. 

Which we had a small game. 
And Ah Sin took a hand : 
It was euchre. The same 
He did not understand ; 
But he smiled as he sat by the table, 
With a smile that was child-like and 
bland. 

Yet the cards they wore stock'd 

In a way that I grieve. 
And my feelings were shock'd 
At tlie state of Nye's sleeve, 
Which wiis stufT'd full of aces and bowers. 
And the same with intent to deceive. 



932 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 


But the hands that were play'd 


They were all he had 


By that heathen Chinee, 


To back him in ta battle ; 


And the points that he made, 


All the rest had gone 


Were quite frightful to see, — ■ 


Off to drive ta cattle. 


Till at last he put down a right bower, 




Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 


" Fery coot !" cried Fhairshon — 




" So my clan disgraced is ; 


Then I look'd up at Nye, 


Lads, we'll need to fight 


And he gazed upon me ; 


Pefore we touch the peasties. 


And he rose with a sigh. 


Here's Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 


And said, " Can this be? 


Coming wi' his fassals — 


We are ruin'd by Chinese cheap labor;" 


Gillies seventy-three. 


And he went for that heathen Chinee. 


And sixty Dhuinewassails !" 


In the scene that ensued 


" Coot tay to you, sir ! 


I did not take a hand, 


Are not you ta Fhairshon ? 


But the floor it was strew'd 


Was you coming here 


Like the leaves on the strand 


To visit any person ? 


With the cards that Ah Sin had been 


You are a plackguard, sir ! 


hiding. 
In the game he " did not understand." 


It is now six hundred 


Coot long years, and more. 




Since my glen was plunder'd." 


In his sleeves, which were long, 




He had twenty-four packs, — 


" Fat is tat you say ? 


Which was coming it strong. 


Dar you cock your peaver? 


Yet I state but the facts ; 


I will teach you, sir, 


And we found on his nails, which were 


Fat is coot pehavior ! 


taper, 
What is frequent in tapers,— that's wax. 


You shall not exist 


For another day more ; 




I will shot you, sir, 


Which is why I remark, — 


Or stap you with my claymore !" 


And my language is plain, — 


" I am fery glad 


That for ways that are dark, 


To learn what you mention, 


And for tricks that are vain. 


Since I can prevent 


The heathen Chinee is peculiar, — 


Any such intention." 


Which the same I am free to maintain. 


So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 


Francis Bket Harte. 


Gave some warlike howls, , 


*o* 


Trew his skhian-dhu. 


Massacre of the Macpherson. 


An' stuck it in his powels. 


Fhaieshon swore a feud 


In this fery way 


Against the clan M'Tavish — 


Tied ta faliant Fhairshon, 


March'd into their land 


Who was always thought 


To murder and to rafish ; 


A superior person. 


For he did resolve 


Fhairshon had a son, 


To extirpate the vipers, 


Who married Noah's daughter, 


With four-and-twenty men. 


And nearly spoil'd ta flood 


And five-and-thirty pipers. 


By trinking up ta water— 


But when he had gone 


Which he would have done. 


Half-way down Strath-Canaan, 


I at least believe it. 


Of his fighting tail 


Had ta mixture peen 


Just three were remainin'. 


Only half Glenlivet. 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



933 



This is all my tale : 
Sirs, I hope 'tis new t'ye ' 

Here's your fery good healths, 
And tamn ta whusky tuty ! 

William EnuoNDSTOL'NE AvTOiTt. 



Tffi: Friend of IIujianity and 
THE Knife-grinder. 

FRIEND OF HUMANITY. 

"Needy knife-grinder, whither are you 

going? 
Rough is the road, your wheel is out of 

order — 
Bleak blows the blast, your hat has got a 

hole in't. 

So have your breeches ! 

"Wear}' knife-grinder, little tliink the 

proud ones, 
Who in their coaches roll along the turn- 
pike- 
Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day 
' Knives and 

Scissors to grind, oh !' 

" Tell me, knife-grinder, how came you to 

grind knives? 
Did some rich man tyrannically use you ? 
AVas it the squire? or parson of the parish? 
Or the attorney ? 

" Was it the squire, for killing of liis 

game, or 
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining? 
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your 

little 

All in a lawsuit ? 

"(Have you not read the Rights of Man, 
by Tom Paine?) 

Drops of compassion tremble on my eye- 
lids. 

Ready to fall, as soon as you have told 
your 

Pitiful story." 

KSIFE-GRIXDER. 

"Story! God bless you, I have none to 

tell, sir; 
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers, 
This poor old hat and breeches, as you 

see, were 

Torn in a scuffle. 



" Constables came up, for to take me into 
Custody ; they took me before the justice; 
Justice Oldiui.xoii put me in the parish 
Stocks for a vagrant. 

" I should be glad to drink your honor's 
health in 

A pot of beer, if you will give me six- 
pence ; 

But for my part, I never love to meddle 
With politics, sir." 

FRIEND OF HUMANITY. 

"/ give thee si.\pencel I will see the 

damn'd first — 
Wretch ! whom no sense of wrongs can 

rouse to vengeance — 
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, 
Spiritless outcast!" 

[Kicks the knife^griuder, overturns his wheel, and 
exit io a transport nf republicaa enthusiasm and 
universal philanthropy.] 

Geobob Canning. 



Song. 

Sung by Rogero in the Burlesque Play 
OF "The Rover." 

Whene'er with hagsurd eyes I view 

This dungeon tliat I'm rotting in, 
I think of those companions true 
Who studied with me at the U- 

— niversity of Gottingen — 
— niversity of Gottingen. 

[Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he 
wipes his eyes ; gazing tenderly at it, bo proceeds—] 

Sweet kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue, 
Wliich once my love sat knotting in ! — 
Alas ! Matilda (hen was true ! 
At Icaat I tliouglit so at the II- 

— niversity of fJottingen — 
— niversity of Gottingen. 

[At the repetition of tills line Rogero clanks his chains 
in cadence.] 

Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew 
Her neat post-wagoa trotting in ! 

Ye bore Matilda from my view; 

Forlorn I languished at the U- 

— niversity of Gottingen — 
— niversity of Gottingen. 



934 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



This faded form ! this pallid hue ! 
This blood my veins is clotting in, 

My years are many — they were few 

When first I entered at the U- 

— niversity of Gottingen — 
— niversity of Gottingen. 

There first for thee my passion grew, 

Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottiugen ! 
Thou wast the daughter of my tu- 
— tor, law professor at the U- 

— niversity of Gottingen — 
— niversity of Gottingen. 

Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu, 
That kings and priests are plotting in ; 

Here doom'd to starve on water gru- 

— el, never sliall I see the U- 

— niversity of Gottingen — • 
— niversity of Gottingen. 

[During the last stanza iSofireT-o clashes his head repeat- 
edly against the walls of his prison, and, finally, so 
hard as to produce a visible contusion ; he then 
throws himself on the floor in an agony. The 
curtain drops, the music still continuing to play 
till it is wholly fallen.] 

Geobgk Canning. 



A Tale of Drury Lane. 

[To be spoken by Mr. Kemble. in a suit of the Black 
Prince's Armor, borrowed from the Tower.] 

Survey this shield, all bossy bright — 

These cuisses twin behold ! 
Look on my form in armor dight 

Of steel inlaid with gold ; 
My knees are stiff in iron buckles, 
Stiif spikes of steel protect my knuckles. 
These once belonged to sable prince, 
AVho never did in battle wince ; 
With valor tart as pungent quince, 

He slew the vaunting Gaul. 
Rest there a while, my bearded lance, 
While from green curtain I advance 
To yon footlights, no trivial dance. 
And tell the town what sad mischance 

Did Drury Lane befall. 

THE XIGIIT. 

On fair Augusta's towers and trees 
Flitter'd the silent midnight breeze. 
Curling the foliage as it past, 
Which from the moon-tiiip'd plumage cast 



A spangled light, like dancing spray, 

Then rea.ssumed its still array ; 

When, as night's lamp unclouded hung, 

And down its full effulgenoe flung. 

It shed such soft and balmy power 

That cot and castle, hall and bower, 

And spire and dome, and turret height, 

Ap])car'd to slumber in the light. 

From Henry's Chapel, Rufus' Hall, 

To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul, 

From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden 

Town, 
To Redriff, Shadwell, Horsleydown, 
No voice was heard, no eye unclosed, 
But all in deepest sleep reposed. 
They might have thought, who gazed 

around 
Amid a silence so profound, 

It made the senses thrill. 
That 'twas no place inhabited,- 
But some vast city of the dead — 

All wa.s so hush'd and still. 

THE BURNING. 

As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom. 
Had slept in everlasting gleom, 
Started with terror and surprise 
When light first flash'd upon her eyes — 
So London's sons in night-cap woke, 

In bed-gown woke her dames ; 
For shouts were heard 'mid fire and 

smoke, 
And twice ten hundred voices spoke — 
" The playhouse is in flames !" 
And lo ! where Catharine street extends, 
A fiery tail its lustre lends 

To every window-pane ; 
Blushes each spout in JIartlet Court, 
And Barbican, moth-eaten fort. 
And Covent Garden kennels sport 

A bright ensanguined drain ; 
Meux's new brewhouse shows the light, 
Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height 

Where patent shot they sell. 
The Tennis-Court, so fair and tall, 
Partakes the ray with Surgeons' Hall, 
The ticket-porters' house of call, 
Old Bedlam, close by London Wall, 
Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal, 

And Richardson's Hotel. 
Nor these alone, but for and wide. 
Across red Thames's gleaming tide. 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



935 



To distant fields •the blaze was borne, 
And daisy wliite and hoary thorn 
In borrow'd lustre seemed to sham 
The rose of red sweet Wil-li-ani. 
To those who on the hills around 
Beheld the flames from Drury's mound, 

As from a lofty altar rise, 
It seem'd that nations did conspire 
To offer to the god of fire 

Some vast stupendous sacrifice ! 
The summon'd firemen woke at call, 
And hied them to their stations all : 
Starting from short and broken snooze, 
Each sought his pond'rous hobnail'd shoes, 
But first his worsted hosen plied, 
Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed. 

His nether bulk embraced ; 
Then jacket thick, of red or blue, 
Whose massy shoulder gave to view 
The badge of each respective crew, 

In tin or copper traced. 
The engines thunder'd through the street, 
Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete, 
And torches glared, and clattering feet 

Along the pavement paced. 
And one, the leader of the band. 
From Charing Cross along the Strand, 
Lik(istag by beagles hunted hard, 
Ran till he stopp'd at Vin'gar Yard. 
The burning badge his shoulder bore, 
The belt and oil-skin hat he wore, 
The cane he had, his men to bang, 
Show'd foreman of the British gang — 
His nanif was Higginbottom. Now 
'Tis meet that I should tell you how 

The otliers came in view : 
The Hand-in-Hand the race begun. 
Then came the Pha?nix and the Sun, 
Th' Exchange, w^here old insurers run, 

The Eagle, where the new ; 
With these came Eumford, Bumford, Cole, 
Robins from Hockley-in-the-Hole, 
Lawson and Dawson, check by jowl. 

Crump from St. Giles's Pound ; 
Whitford and Mitford join'd the train, 
Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane, 
And Cluttcrbuck, who got a sprain 

Before tlie plug w.is found. 
Hohson and Jobson did not sleep. 
But ah I no trophy could they reap, 
For both were in the Donjon Keep 

Of Bridewell's gloomy mound ! 



E'en Higginbottom now was posed. 

For sadder scene was ne'er disclosed. 
Without, within, in hideous show. 
Devouring flames resistless glow. 
And blazing rafters downward go, 
And never halloo " Heads below !" 

Nor notice give at all. 
The firomen, terrified, are slow 
To bid tlie pumping torrent flow, 

For fear the roof would fall. 
Back, Robins, back ! Crump, stand aloof ! 

Whitford, keep near the walls! 
Huggins, regard your own behoof. 
For lo ! the blazing, rocking roof 

Down, down, in thunder falls ! 
An awful pause succeeds the stroke, 
And o'er the ruins vulumed smoke. 
Rolling around its pitchy shroud, 
Conceal'd them from th' astonish'd crowd. 
At length the mist a while was clear'd, 
When, lo ! amid the wreck uprear'd, 
Gradually a moving head appear'd. 

And Eagle firemen knew 
'Twas Joseph JIuggins, name revered. 

The foreman of their crew. 
Loud shouted all in signs of woe, 
" A Muggins ! to the rescue, ho !" 

And pour'd the hissing tide : 
Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain, 
And strove and struggled all in vain. 
For, rallying but to fall again, 

He totter'd, sunk, and died ! 



Did none attempt, before he fell, 
To succor one they loved so well? 
Yes, Higginbottom did aspire 
(His fireman's soul was all on fire) 

His brother chief to save ; 
But ah ! his reckless generous ire 

Served but to share his grave ! 
'Mill blazing beams and scalding streams, 
Througli fire and smoke he dauntless 
broke, 

Where .Muggins broke before. 
But sulphury stench and boiling drench, 
Destroying sight, o'erwhelm'd him quite, 

He sunk to ri.se no more. 
Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved, 
His whizzing water-pipe he waved ; 
" Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps, 
You, Clutlerbuck, come, stir your stumps, 



936 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Why are you in such doleful dumps ? 
A fireman and afraid of bumps ! — 
What are they fear'd on ? fools ! 'od rot 

'em!" 
Were the last words of Higginbottom. 

THE REVIVAL. 

Peace to his soul ! new prospects bloom, 
And toil rebuilds what fires consume ! 
Eat we, and drink we, be our ditty, 
" Joy to the managing committee !" 
Eat we and drink we, join to rum 
Koast beef and pudding of the plum ; 
Forth from thy nook, John Horner, 

come, 
With bread of ginger brown thy thumb, 

For this is Drury's gay day : 
Eoll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops. 
And buy, to glad thy smiling chops. 
Crisp parliament with lollypops, 

And fingers of the Lady. 
Didst mark how toil'd the busy train 
From morn to eve, till Drury Lane 
Leap'd like a roebuck from the plain ? 
Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again, 

And nimble workmen trod ; 
To realize bold Wyatt's plan 
Eush'd many a howling Irishman ; 
Loud clatter'd many a jiorter-can, 
And many a ragamuffin clan, 

With trowel and with hod. 
Drury revives ! her rounded pate 
Is blue, is heavenly blue, with slate ; 
She "wings the midway air," elate 

As magpie, crow, or chough ; 
AVhite paint her modish visage smears, 
Yellow and pointed are her ears. 
No pendent portico appears 
Dangling beneath, for Whitbread's shears 

Have cut the bauble off. 
Yes, she exalts her stately head ; 
And, but that solid bulk outspread 
Opposed you on your onward tread, 
And posts and pillars warranted 
That all was true that Wyatt said. 
You might have deem'd her walls so thick 
Were not composed of stone or brick, 
But all a phantom, all a trick. 
Of brain disturb'd and fancy-sick, 
So high she soars, so vast, so quick ! 

Horace Smith. 



The Theatre. 

Interior of a Theatre liescribed.— Pit gradually fills.— 
The Check-taker.— Pit full.— The Orchestra tuned.— 
One Fiddle rather dilatory. — Is reproved, and re- 
pents..— Evolutions of a Play-bill. — Its final Settle- 
ment on the Spikes.— The Gods taken to task— and 
why.— Motley Group of Play-goers. — Holywell 
street, St. Pancras. — Emanuel Jennings binds his 
Son apprentice — not in London — and why. — Episode 
of the Hat. 

'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to 

six. 
Our long wax-candles, with short cotton 

wicks, 
Touch'd by the lamplighter's Promethean 

art. 
Start into light, and make the lighter 

start ; 
To see red Phcebus through the gallery- 
pane 
Tinge with his beams the beams of Drury 

Lane; 
While gradual parties fill our widen'd 

pit. 
And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they 

sit. 

At first, while vacant seats give choice 

and ease. 
Distant or near, they settle where -they 

please ; 
But when the multitude contracts the 

span. 
And seats are rare, they settle where they 

can. 

Now the full benches to late comers 
doom 
No room for standing, miscall'd standing- 
room. 

Hark ! the check-taker moody silence 

breaks, 
And bawling " Pit full !" gives the checks 

he takes ; 
Yet onward .still the gathering numbers 

cram. 
Contending crowders shout the frequent 

damn. 
And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, 

and jam. 

See, to their desks Apollo's sons re- 
pair — • 
Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair ! 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



937 



In unison their various tones to tune, 
Murmurs tlie hautboy, growls the coarse 

bassoon ; 
In soft vibration sighs the whispering 

lute. 
Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the 

flute, 
Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle 

sharp, 
Winds the French horn, and twangs the 

tingling harp ; 
Till, like great Jove, the leader, fingeringin, 
Attunes to order the chaotic din. 
Now all seems hush'd — but, no, one fiddle 

will 
Give, half ashamed, a tiny flourish still. 
Foil'd in his clash, the leader of the clan 
Reproves with frowns the dilatory man : 
Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow, 
Nods a new signal, and away they go. 

Perchance, while pit and gallery cry 

"Hats off"!" 
And awed Consumption checks his chided 

cough. 
Some giggling daughter of the Queen of 

Love 
Drops, 'reft of pin, her play-bill from 

above : 
Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap, 
Soars, ducks, and dive.s in air the printed 

scrap ; 
But, wiser far than he, combustion fears, 
And, as it flies, elude.s the chandeliers ; 
Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl. 
It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl ; 
Who from his powder'd pate the intruder 

strikes, 
And, for mere malice, sticks it on the 

spikes. 

Say, why these Babel strains from Babel 

tongues ? 
Who's that calls "Silence!" with such 

leathern lungs? 
He who, in quest of quiet, " Silence !" 

hoots, 
Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes. 

^Vhat various swains our motley walls 
contain ! 
Fashion from Moorfields, honor from Chick 
Lane ; 



Bankers from Paper Buildings here re- 
sort, 

Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches 
court ; 

From the Hay market canting rogues in 
grain. 

Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water 
Lane ; 

The lottery cormorant, the auction shark, 

The full-price master, and the half-price 
clerk ; 

Boys who long linger at the gallery- 
door, 

With pence twice five — they want but two- 
pence more ; 

Till some Samaritan the twopence spares, 

And sends them jumping up the gallery- 
stairs. 

Critics we boast who ne'er their malice 

balk. 
But talk their minds : we wish they'd mind 

their talk : 
Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live — 
Who give the lie, and tell the lie they 

give; 
Jews from St. Mary's Axe, for jobs so 

wary 
That for old clothes they'd even a.x St. 

Mary ; 
And bucks with pockets empty as their 

pate, 
Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait ; 
Who oft, when we our house lock up, 

carouse 
With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up 

house. 

Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy 
bestow, 
Where scowling fortune seem'd to threaten 
woe. 

John Richard William Alexander 
Dwyer 

Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Es- 
quire ; 

But when John Dwyer 'listed in the 
Blues, 

Emanuel Jennings polish'd Stubbs's shoes. 

Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest 
boy 

Up as a corn-cutter — a safe employ ; 



938 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



In Holywell street, St. Pancras, he was 

bred 
(At number twenty-seven, it is said), 
Facing the pump, and near the Granby's 

Head : 
He would have bound him to some shop 

in town. 
But with a premium he could not come 

down. 
Pat was the urchin's name — a red-hair'd 

youth. 
Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than 

truth. 

Silence, ye gods ! to keep your tongue 
in awe, 
The Muse shall tell an accident she saw. 

Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat. 

But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his 
hat: 

Down from the gallery the beaver flew. 

And spurn'd the one to settle in the two. 

How shall he act? Pay at the gallery- 
door 

Two shillings for what cost, when new, 
but four ? 

Or till half-price, to save his shilling, 
wait. 

And gain his hat again at half-past eight ? 

Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, 

John Mullins whispers, " Take my hand- 
kerchief." 

" Thank you," cries Pat ; " but one won't 
make a line." 

" Take mine," cries Wilson ; and cries 
Stokes, " Take mine." 

A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties. 

Where Spitalfields with real India vies. 

Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted 
clew, 

Starr'd, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, 
and blue. 

Old calico, torn silk and muslin new. 

George Green below, with palpitating 
hand 

Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's 
band — 

Up soars the prize ! The youth with joy 
unfeign'd, 

Kegain'd the felt, and felt the prize re- 
gain'd ; 



While to the applauding galleries grateful 

Pat 
Made a low bow, and touch'd the ran- 

som'd hat. 

James Smith. 



The BABY'S D£bvt. 

[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl of 
eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in 
a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's por- 
ter.] 

My brother Jack was nine in May, 
And I was eight on New Year's day ; 

So in Kate Wilson's shop 
Papa (he's my papa and Jack's) 
Bought me, last week, a doll of wax. 

And brother Jack a top. 
Jack's in the pouts, and this it is — 
He thinks mine came to more than his ; 

So to my drawer he goes. 
Takes out the doll, and, oh, my stars ! 
He pokes her head between the bars. 

And melts off half her nose ! 

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg. 
And tie it to his peg-top's peg, 

And bang, with might and main, 
Its head against the parlor-door : 
Off flies the head, and hits the floor. 

And breaks a window-pane. 

This made him cry with rage and spite ; 
Well, let him cry, it serves him right. 

A pretty thing, forsooth ! 
If he's to melt, all scalding hot. 
Half my doll's nose, and I am not 

To draw his peg-top's tooth ! 

Aunt Hannah heard the window break, 
And cried, " O naughty Nancy Lake, 

Thus to distress your aunt ! 
No Drury Lane for you to-day !" 
And while papa said, " Pooh, she may !" 

Mamma said, " No, .she sha'n't !" 

Well, after many a sad reproach. 
They got into a hackney-coach. 

And trotted down the street. 
I saw them go : one horse was blind. 
The tails of both hung down behind, 

Their shoes were on their feet. 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



939 



The chaise in which poor brother Bill 
Used to be drawn to Pentonville, 

Stood in the lumber-room : 
I wiped the dust from ofl'the top, 
While MoUie mopp'd it with a mop, 

And brush 'd it with a broom. 

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, 
Came in at six to black the shoes 

(I always talk to Sam) : 
So what does he, but takes, and drags 
Me in the chaise along the flags. 

And leaves me where I am ? 

My father's walls are made of brick, 
But not so tall and not so thick 

As these ; and, goodness me ! 
My father's beams are marie of wood. 
But never, never half so good 

As those that now I see. 

What a large floor ! 'tis like a town ! 
The carpet, when they lay it down, 

Won't hide it, I'll be bound ; 
And there's a row of lamps I — my eye ! 
How they do blaze ! I wonder why 

They keep them on the ground "? 

At first I caught hold of the wing, 
And kept away ; but Mr. Thing- 
umbob, the prompter-man, 
Gave with his hand my chaise a shove. 
And said, "Go on, my pretty love; 
Speak to 'em, little Xan. 

"You've only got to curtsy, whisp- 
er, hold your cliin up, laugh and lisp. 

And then you're sure to take : 
I've known the day when brats, not 

quite 
Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night; 
Then why not Nancy Lake ?" 

But while I'm speaking, where's papa? 
And where's my aunt ? and where's 
mamma'? 

Where's Jack ? Oh there they sit ! 
They smile, they nod ; I'll go my ways, 
And order round poor Billy's chaise, 

To join them in the pit. 

And now, good gentlefolks, I go 
To join mamma, and sec the show ; 



So, bidding you adieu, 
I curt.sy like a pretty miss, 
And if you'll blow to me a kiss, 

I'll blow a kiss to you. 

[Blows a kiss, and exit.] 
James Smith. 

TffE Execution. 

My Lord Tomnoddy got up one day ; 

It was half after two ; he had nothing to 

do. 
So his lordship rang for his cabriolet. 

Tiger Tim was clean of limb. 

His boots were polish'd, his jacket wa-s 

trim ; 
With a very smart tie in his smart cravat. 
And a smart cockade ou the top of his 

hat; 
Tallest of boys, or shortest of men. 
He stood in his stockings just four foot 

ten, 
And he ask'd, as he held the door on the 

swing, 
"Pray, did your lordship please to ring?" 

My Lord Tomnoddy he raised his head, 

And thus to Tiger Tim he said : 

" Jlalibran's dead, Duvernay's fled, 
Taglioni has not yet arrived in her stead ; 
Tiger Tim, come tell me true. 
What may a nobleman find to do?" 

Tim look'd up, and Tim look'd down, 
He paused, and he put on a thoughtful 

frown. 
And he held up his hat, and he peep'd in 

the crown ; 
He bit his lip, and he scratch'd his head. 
He let go the handle, and thus he said, 
As the door, released, behind him bang'd : 
" An't please you, my lord, there's a man 

to be hang'd." 

My Lord Tomnoddy jump'd up at the 
news : 
" Run to M'Fuze and Lieutenant Tre- 
gooze. 
And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks of the 
Blues. 
Rope-dancers a score I've seen before — 
Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master 
Blackmore ; 



940 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



But to see a man swing at the end of a 

string, 
Witli liis neck in a noose, will be quite a 

new tiling. 

My Lord Tomnoddy stepp'd into his cab- 
Dark rifle green, with a lining of drab ; 
Through street and through square, 
His high-trotting mare, 
Like one of Ducrow's, goes pawing the 

air. 
Adown Piccadilly and Waterloo Place 
Went the high-trotting mare at a very 
quick pace ; 
She produced some alarm, but did no 
great harm. 
Save frightening a nurse with a child on 
her arm, 
Spattering with clay two urchins at 

play, 

Knocking down — very much to the sweep- 
er's dismay — 
An old woman who wouldn't get out of 
the way. 
And upsetting a stall near Exeter Hall, 
Which made all the pious church-mission 
folks squall. 
But eastward afar, through Temple Bar, 
My Lord Tomnoddy directs his car. 
Never heeding their squalls, 
Or their calls, or their bawls ; 
He passes by Waithman's emporium for 

shawls, 
And, merely just catching a glimpse of 
St. Paul's, 
Turns down the Old Bailey, 
Where in front of the jail he 
Pulls up at the door of the gin-shop, and 

gayly 
Cries, " What must I fork out to-night, my 

trump, 
For the whole first floor of the Magpie and 
Stump ?" 



The clock strikes twelve — it is dark mid- 
night — 

Yet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze of 
light, 
The parties are met, the tables are set, 

There is " punch," " cold without," " hot 
with," heavy wet. 



Ale-glasses and jugs, and rummers and 

mugs. 
And sand on the floor, without carpets or 

rugs. 
Cold fowl and cigars, pickled onions in 

jars, 
Welsh rabbits and kidneys — rare work for 

the jaws — ■ 
And very large lobsters, with very large 

claws ; 
And there is M'Fuze and Lieutenant 

Tregooze, 
And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks of the 

Blues, 
All come to see a man " die in his shoes." 

The clock strikes one. Supper is done. 
And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his 

fun. 
Singing " Jolly companions every one." 
My Lord Tomnoddy is drinking gin- 
toddy, 
And laughing at everything and every- 
body. 

The clock strikes two, and the clock 

strikes three; 
" Who so merry, so merry as we ?" 
Save Captain M'Fuze, who is taking a 

snooze. 
While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work 
Blacking his nose with a piece of burnt 

cork. 

The clock strikes four : round the debt- 
ors' door 

Are gather'd a couple of thousand or 
more ; 
As many await at the press-yard gate, 

Till slowly its folding doors open, and 
straight 

The mob divides, and between their ranks 

A wagon comes loaded with posts and 
with planks. 

The clock strikes five. The sheriflTs ar- 
rive. 
And the crowd is so great that the street 
seems alive ; 
But Sir Carnaby Jenks blinks and 
winks, 
A candle burns down in the socket, and 
stinks. 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



■941 



Lieutenant Tregooze is dreaming of Jews, 
And acceptances all the bill-brokers re- 
fuse ; 
My Lord Tomnoddy has drunk all his 
toddy, 
And just as the dawn is beginning to peep 
The whole of the party are fast asleep. 

Sweetly, oh sweetly the morning breaks, 

With roseate streaks, 
Like the first faint blush on a maiden's 

cheeks ; 
Peem'd as that mild and clear blue sky 
Smiled upon all things far and high. 
On all — save the wretch condemn'd to die ! 
Alack I that ever so fair a sun 
As that which its course has now begun. 
Should rise on such a scene of misery ! 
Should gild with rays so light and free 
That dismal, dark-frowning gallows-tree ! 

And hark I — a sound comes big with fate: 
The clock from St. Sepulchre's tower 

strikes — eight ! 
List to that low funereal bell; 
It is tolling, alas ! a living man's knell! 
And see ! from fortli that opening door 
They come — he steps that threshold o'er 
Who never shall tread upon threshold 

more! 
God ! tis a fearsome thing to see 
That pale wan man's mute agony, — 
The glare of that wild, despairing eye, 
Now bent on the crowd, now turn'd to the 

sky 
As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and 

in fear, 
"The path of the spirit's unknown career. 
Those pinion'd arms, those hands that 

ne'er 
Shall be lifted again — not even in prayer; 
That heaving chest I Enough ; 'tis done ! 
The bolt has fallen, the spirit is gone. 
For weal or for woe is known but to One ! 
Oh, 'twas a fearsome sight ! Ah me! 
A deed to shudder at, — not to see. 

Again that clock! 'tis time, 'tis time! 
The hour is past; with its earliest chime 
The cord is sever'd, the lifeless clay 
By "dungeon villains" is borne away; 
Nine! — 'tw.is the last concluding stroke. 
And then my Lord Tomnoddy awoke. 



And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks 

arose, 
And Captain M'Fuze, with the black on 

his nose, 
And they stared at each other, as much as 

to say, 
" Hollo ! hollo ! Here's a rum go 1 
Why, captain ! — my lord ! — Here's the 

devil to pay ; 
The fellow's been cut down and taken 

away! 
What's to be done? We've miss'd all 

the fun. 
Why, they'll laugh at and quiz us all over 

the town, 
We are all of us done so uncommonly 

brown !" 

What tv(u to be done? 'Tw;ls perfectly 

plain 
That they could not well hang the man 

over again ; 
What was to be done? The man was 

dead. 
Naught coidd be done — naught could be 

said, 
So my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed ! 

KiCiiARi) Harris Babham. 



The Birth of St. Patrick. 

On the eighth day of March it was, some 

people say, 
That Saint Pathrick at midnight he first 

saw the day ; 
While others declare 'twas the ninth he 

was born, 
And 'twas all a mistake between midnight 

and morn ; 
For mistakes will occur in a hurry and 

shock, 
And some blamed the babby — and some 

blamed the clock — 
Till with all their cro.ss-questions sure no 

one could know 
If the child was too fast, or the clock was 

too slow. 

Now the first faction-fight in owld Ireland, 

they say. 
Was all on account of Saint Pathrick's 

birthday : 



942 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Some fought for the eighth — for the ninth 

more would die, 
And who wouldn't see right, sure they 

blacken'd his eye ! 
At last, both the factions so positive 

grew, 
That each kept a birthday, so Pat then 

had two. 
Till Father JIulcahy, who show'd them 

their sins, 
Said, "No one could have two birthdays, 

but a twins." 

Says h6, " Boys, don't be fightin' for eight 

or for nine. 
Don't be always dividin' — but sometimes 

combine ; 
Combine eight with nine, and seventeen is 

the mark. 
So let that be his birthday," — " Amen," 

says the clerk. 
" If he wasn't a twins, sure our hist'ry will 

show 
That, at least, he's worthy any two saints 

that we know !" 
Then they all got blind dhrunk — which 

complated their bliss. 
And we keep up the practice from that 

day to this. 

Samuel Lover. 



The Society upon the Stan 

ISLO w. 

I RESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name 

is Truthful James ; 
I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful 

games ; 
And I'll tell in simple language what I 

know about the row 
That broke up our society upon the Stan- 

islow. 

But first I would remark, that it is not a 
proper plan 

For any scientific gent to whale his fellow- 
man. 

And, if a member don't agree with his 
peculiar whim. 

To lay for that same member for to " put a 
head " on him. 



Now nothing could be finer or more beau- 
tiful to see 

Than the first six months' proceedings of 
that same society. 

Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of 
fossil bones 

That he found within a tunnel near the 
tenement of Jones. 

Then Brown he read a paper, and he re- 
constructed there, 

From those same bones, an animal that 
was extremely rare ; 

And Jones then ask'd the chair for a sus- 
pension of the rules 

Till he could prove that those same bones 
was one of his lost mules. 

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and 

said he was at fault. 
It seemed he had been trespassing on 

Jones's family vault : 
He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet 

Mr. Brown, 
And on several occasions he had clean'd 

out the town. 

Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific 

gent 
To say another is an ass, — at least, to all 

intent ; 
Nor should the individual who happens to 

be meant 
Reply by heaving rocks at him to any 

great extent. 

Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a 

point of order — when 
A chunk of old red sandstone took him in 

the abdomen, 
And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and 

curl'd up on the floor. 
And the subsequent proceedings interested 

him no more. 

For, in less time than I write it, every 

member did engage 
In a warfare with the remnants of a paheo- 

zoic age ; 
And the way they heaved those fossils in 

their anger was a sin. 
Till the skull of an old Mammoth caved 

the head of Thomiwon in. 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



5M3 



Around this place there lived the num- 

'rous clans 
Of honest, plodding, foreign artisans, 
Known at that time by th' name of 
Refugees — 
The rod of persecution from their home 
Compell'd th' inoffensive race to roam. 
And liere they lighted like a swarm of 
bees. 

Well ! our two friends were saunt'ring 

thro' the street. 
In hopes some food for humor soon to 

meet, 
When in a window high a light they 

view, 
And, though a dim and melancholy ray. 
It seem'd the prologue to some merry 

play, 
So toward the gloomy dome our hero 

drew. 

Straight at the door he gave a thund'ring 
knock 

(The time, we may suppose, near two 
o'clock) — 
"I'll ask," says King, "if Thompson 
lodges here." 

"Thompson!" cries t'other, "who the 
devil's he?" 

" I know not," King replies, " but want to 
see 
What kind of animal will now ap- 
pear." 

After some time a little Frenchman 

came — 
One hand display'd a rushlight's trem- 
bling flame, 
yVnd from the other dangled his cu- 
lolk ; 
An old striped woollen night-cap graced 
his head. 
Near famed St. Giles's chanced his course I A tatter'd waistcoat o'er one shoulder 



And this is all I have to say of these im- 
proper games, 

For I live at Table Mountain, and my 
name is Truthful James ; 

And I've told in simple language what I 
know about the row 

That broke up our society upon the Stan- 

islow. 

Frakcis Bbet IIabtk. 

Monsieur tonson. 

There lived, as Fame reports, in days of 

yore, 
At least some fifty years ago or more, 
A pleasant wag on town, yclep'd Tom 
King ; 
A fellow that was clever at a joke. 
Expert in all the arts, to tea.se and smoke, — 
In short, for strokes of humor quite 
the thing. 

To many a jovial club this King was 

known, 
AVith whom his active wit unrivall'd 

shone — 
Choice Spirit, grave Free-Mason, Buck, 

and Blood, 
Would crowd, his stories and bon-mots to 

hear. 
And none a disappointment e'er could 

fear. 
His humor flow'd in such a copious 

flood. 

To him a frolic was a high delight — 

A frolic he would hunt for day and night. 

Careless how Prudence on the sport 
might frown. 
If e'er a pleasant mischief sprang to view. 
At once o'er ditch and hedge away he flew, 

Nor left the game till he had run it down. 

One night our hero, rambling with a 
friend, 



to bend. 
Just by tliat spot the Seven Dials 
hight,— 
'Twas silence all around, and clear the 

coast. 
The watch, an usual, dozing on his post. 
And scarce a lamp display'd a twink- 
ling light. 



spread ; 
Scarce half awake, he heaved a yawning 
note. 

Though thus untimely roused, he cour- 
teous smiled, 

And soon address'd our wag in accents 
mild, 



944 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



Bending his head obsequious to his 
knee, — 
" Pray, sare, vat vant you, dat you come 

so late — 
I beg your pardon, sare, to make you 
vait — 
Pray tell me, sare, vat your commands 
vit me ?" 

"Sir," answer'd King, "I merely thought 

to know. 
As by your house I chanced this night to 

go- 
But really I disturb'd your sleep I fear, — 
I say, I thought that you perhaps could 

tell, 
Among the folks who in this street may 
dwell, 
If there's a Mr. Thompson lodges here ?" 

The shiv'ring Frenchman, though not 

pleased to find 
The business of this unimportant kind, 
Too simple to suspect 'twas meant in 
jeer, 
Shrugg'd out a sigh, that thus his rest 

should break. 
Then, with unalter'd courtesy, he spake — ■ 
"No, sare, no Monsieur Tonson lodges 
here." 

Our wag begg'd pardon, and toward home 

he sped. 
While the poor Frenchman crawl'd again 
to bed ; 
But King resolved not thus to drop the 
jest- 
So the next night, with more of whim than 

grace, 
Again he made a visit to the place. 
To break once more the poor old French- 
man's rest. 

He knock'd — but waited longer than 
before, 

No footstep seem'd approaching to the 
door, 
Our Frenchman lay in such a sleep pro- 
found — 

King with the knocker thunder'd then 
again. 

Firm on his post determined to remain, 
And oft, indeed, he made the door re- 
sound. 



At last King hears him o'er the passage 
creep — 

Wond'ring what fiend again disturb'd his 
sleep — 
The wag salutes him with a civil leer ; 

Thus drawling out, to heighten the sur- 
prise. 

While the poor Frenchman rubb'd his 
heavy eyes, 
" Is there — a Mr. Thompson — lodging 
here?" 

The Frenchman falter'd, with a kind of 

fright — 
" Vy, sare, I'm sure, I toll you, sare, last 
night" 
(And here he labor'd with a sigh sincere) 
" No Monsieur Tonson in de vorld I 

know — 
No Monsieur Tonson here — I toll you so — 
Indeed, sare, dere no Monsieur Ton- 
son here." 

Some more excuses tender'd, off King goes, 

And the poor Frenchman sought once 

more repose. 

Our wag next night pur.sued his old 

career — 

'Twas long, indeed, before the man came 

nigh. 
And then he utter'd in a piteous cry, 
" Sare, 'pon ray soul, no Monsieur Ton- 
sou here." 

Our sportive wight his usual visit paid. 
And the next night came forth a prattling 
maid. 
Whose tongue, indeed, than any jack 
went faster — 
Anxious she strove his errand to inquire ; 
He said, 'twas vain her pretty tongue to tire. 
He should not stir till he had seen her 
master. 

The damsel then began, in doleful state, 

The Frenchman's broken slumbers to re- 
late. 
And begg'd he'd call at proper time of 
day,— 

King told her she must fetch her master 
down, 

A chaise was ready, he was leaving town, 
But first had much of deep concern to 
say. 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



94.5 



Thus urged, she went the snoring man to 

call, 
And long, indeed, was she obliged to bawl 
Ere she could rouse the torpid lump of 

clay. 
At last he wakes — he rises — and he 

swears — 
But scarcely had he totter'd down the 

stairs, 
When King attacks him in his usual 

way. 

The Frenchman now perceived 'twas all in 

vain 
To this tormentor mildly to complain, 
.Vnd straight in rage began his crest to 
rear, — 
"8are, vat de devil make you treat me so? — 
Sare, I inform you, sare, tree nights ago, 
Begar, I swear, no Monsieur Tonson 
here." 

True as the night King went and hiard a 

strife 
Between the faara.ss'd Frenchman and his 
wife. 
Which should descend to chase the fiend 
away ; 
At length to join their forces they agree, 
And straight impetuously they turn the key. 
Prepared with mutual fury for the fray. 

Our hero, with the firmness of a rock. 
Collected to receive the mighty t^hock, 

Utfring his old incjuirj-, calmly stood, — 
The name of Thompson raised the storm so 

high. 
He deem'd it then the safest plan to fly, 
With "Well, I'll call when you're in 
gentler mood." 

In short our hero, with the same intent. 
Full many a night to plague the French- 
man went, 
So fond of mischief was the wicked wit : 
They threw out water — for the watch tliev 

call, 
But King, e.vpecting, still escapes from all — 
Monsieur at la-st was forced his house to 
quit. 

It hapi>en'd that our wag. about this time. 
On some fair prospect sought the Eastern 
clime ; 
60 



Six ling'ring years were there his tedious 
lot : 
At length, content amid his ripening store, 
He treads again on Britain's happy shore, 

And his long absence is at once forgot. 

To London with impatient hope he flies. 
And the same night, as former freaks 

arise. 
Tie fain must stroll the well-known 

haunt to trace. 
" Ah ! here's the scene of frequent mirth," 

he said ; 
"My poor old Frenchman. I suppose, is 

dead — 
Egad, I'll knock, and see who holds his 

place." 

With rapid strokes he makes the mansion 

roar, 
And while he eager eyes the op'ning duor, 
Lo ! who obeys the knocker's rattling 

peal ? 
Why, e'en our little Frenchman ; strange 

to say. 
He took his old abode that very day — 
Capricious turn of sportive Fortune's 

wheel ! 

Without one thought of the relentless 
foe. 

Who, fiend-like, haunted him so long 
ago. 
Just in his former trim he now ap- 
pears ; 

The waistcoat and the night-cap seem'd 
the same. 

With rushlight, as before he creeping 
came. 
And King's detested voice astonish'd 
hears. 

.Vs if some hideous spectre strui'k his 

sight, 
His senses .seem'd bewilder'd with affright; 
His face, indeed, bespoke a heart full 

sore — 
Then starting, he exclaim'd in rueful 

strain, 
" Begar I here's Monsieur Tonson come 

again !" 
Away he ran — and ne'er was heanl of 

more. 

John Tavi.ok. 



946 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 



NONGTONGPAW. 

John Bull for pastime took a prance, 
Some time ago, to peep at France ; 
To talk of sciences and arts, 
And knowledge gain'd in foreign parts. 
Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak, 
And answer'd John in heathen Greek : 
To all he ask'd 'bout all he saw, 
'Twas, " Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas." 

John to the Palais Royal come, 
Its splendor almost struck him dumb : 
" I say, whose house is that there here '?" 
" House ! Je vous n'entends pas, mon- 
sieur." 
" What, Nongtongpaw again !" cries John, 
" This fellow is some mighty Don : 
No doubt he's plenty for the maw, 
I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw." 

John saw Versailles from JIarle's height, 

And cried, astonish'd at the sight, 

" Whose tine estate is that there here ?" 

"State ! Je vous n'entends pas, monsieur." 

" His ? What ! the land and houses too ? 

The fellow's richer than a Jew : 

On everything he lays his claw ; 

I'd like to dine with Nongtongpaw." 

Next tripping came a courtly fair, 
John cried, enchanted with her air, 
" What lovely wench is that there here?" 
" Ventch ! Je vous n'entends pas, mon- 
sieur." 
" What ! he again '? Upon my life ! 
A palace, lands, and then a wife 
Sir Joshua might delight to draw ; 
I'd like to sup with Nongtongpaw. 

"But hold! whose funeral's that?" cries 

John. 
" Je vous n'entends pas." — "What ! is he 

gone ? 
Wealth, fame, and beauty could not save 
Poor Nongtongpaw, then, from the grave ? 
His race is run, his game is up ; — 
I'd with him breakfast, dine, and sup ; 
But since he chooses to withdraw. 
Good-night t'ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw." 
Chakles Cibdin. 



Epitaph ON the Tombstone Epec- 

TED OVER THE MARQUIS OF AN- 
GLESEA'S Leg, lost at THE BAT- 
TLE OF Waterloo. 

Here rests, and let no saucy knave 

Presume to sneer and laugh. 
To learn that mouldering in the grave 

Is laid a British Calf 

For he who writes these lines is sure, 
That those who read the whole. 

Will find such laugh was premature. 
For here, too, lies a sole. 

And here five little ones repose, 

Twin born with other five. 
Unheeded by their brother toes, 

Who all are now alive. 

A leg and foot, to speak more plain, 
Eests here of one commanding; 

Who, though his wits he might retain, 
Lost half his understanding. 

And when the guns, with thunder fraught, 

Pour'd bullets thick as hail, 
Could only in this way be taught 

To give the foe leg-bail. 

And now in England, just as gay 

As in the battle brave. 
Goes to a rout, review, or play, 

\V'ith one foot in the grave. 

Fortune in vain here show'd her spite, 

For he will still be found. 
Should England's sons engage in fight. 

Resolved to stand his ground. 

But Fortune's pardon I must beg ; 

She meant not to disarm, 
For when she lopp'd the hero's leg. 

She did not seek his harm. 

And but indulged a harmless whim ; 

Since he could walk with one. 

She saw two legs were lost on him. 

Who never meant to run. 

George Canning. 

Malbrouck. 

Malbrouc'k, the prince of commanders, 
Is gone to the war in Flanders ; 
His fame is like Alexander's; 
But when will he come home? 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. {H7 


Perhaps at Trinity feast ; or 


The Mar Off ro Moscow. 


Perhaps he may come at Easter. 


Tlliv Emperor Xap he would set otF 


Egad ! lie had better make haste, or 


On a summer excursion to Moscow ; 


We fear lie may never come. 


The fields were green, and the sky was blue. 


For Trinity feast is over, 


-Morblcu ! Parbleu ! 




And has brought no news from Dover; 


What a plea.sant excursion to Moscow! 


And Eii.ster is past, moreover. 


Four hundred thousand men and more 


And Malbrouck still delays. 


Must go with him to Moscow : 


Milady in her watch-tower 


There were .Marshals by the dozen. 


Spends many a pensive hour, 
Not knowing why or how her 


And Dukes by the score; 




Princes a few, and Kings one or two; 


Dear lord from England stays. 


While the fields are so green, and the sky 
so blue. 


While sitting quite forlorn in 


Morbleu! Parbleu! 


That tower, she spies returning 


What a pleasant excursion to Moscow ! 


A page clad in deep mourning, 




With fainting steps and slow. 


There was .Tunot and Augereau, 




Heigh-ho for Moscow ! 


" page, prythee, come faster ! 


Dombrowsky and Poniatowsky, 


What news do you bring of your ma.ster? 


Marshal Ney, lack-a-day ! 


I fear there is some disa-ster — 


General liapp and the Emperor Nap; 


Your looks are so full of woe." 


Nothing would do. 


" The news I bring, fair lady," 


While the fields were so green, and the sky 


With sorrowful accent said he, 


-so blue. 


" Is one you are not ready 


Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 


So soon, alas I to hear. 


Nothing would do 




For the whole of this crew, 


" But since to speak Pm hurried," 


But they must be marching to Moscow. 


Added this page quite flurried. 




" Malbrouck is dead and buried I" 


The Emperor Nap he talk'd so big 


— And here he shed a tear. 


That he frigliten'<l Mr. Roscoe. 




John Bull, he cries, if you'll be wise. 


"He's dead ! he's dead as a herring! 


Ask the Emperor Nap if he will please 


For I beheld his herring. 


To grant you peace upon your knees. 


And four officers transferring 


Because he is going to Moscow ! 


His corpse away from the field. 


IIc'll make all the Poles come out of 




their holes. 


" One oflTicer carried his sabre ; 


And beat the Russians, and eat the 


And he carried it not without labor. 


Prussians ; 


Much envying his next neighbor. 


For the fields are green, and the sky is blue. 


Who only bore a shield. 


Morbleu! Parbleu! 


"The third was helmet-bearer — 


And he'll certainly march to Moscow ! 


That helmet which on its wearer 
Fill'd all who saw with terror. 


And Counsellor Brougham was all in a 
fume 


And cover'd a hero's brains. 


.\t the thought of the march to Moscow : 


"Now, having got so far. I 


The Russians, he said, they were un- 
done. 


Find that — by the Lord Harry! — 


The fourth is left nothing to carry ; — 


.\nd the great Fee-Faw-Fum 


So there the thing remains." 


Would presently come, 


Feaxcis Mauosv ("Father Proul.)" 


With a hop, step, and jump, unto 


(From the Frencb.) 


London ; 



948 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF POETRY. 



For, as for his conquering Russia, 
However some persons might scoff 

it, 
Do it he could, and do it he would, 
And from doing it nothing would come 
but good, 
And nothing could call him off it, 
Mr. Jeftrey said so, who must certainly 
know, 
For he was the Edinburgh Prophet. 
They all of them knew Mr. Jeffrey's 

Review, 
Which with Holy Writ ought to be 
reckon'd : 
It was, through thick and thin, to its 
party true ; 
Its back was buff, and its sides were 
blue, 
Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 
It served them for Law and for Gos- 
pel too. 

But the Russians stoutly they turn'd 
to 
Upon the road to Moscow. 
Nap had to fight his way all 
through ; 
They could fight, though they could not 
j)arlez-vous ; 
But the fields were green, and the sky was 
blue, 
Morbleu! Parbleu! 
And so he got to Moscow, 

He found the place too warm for him. 

For they set fire to Moscow. 
To get there had cost him much ado. 
And then no better course he knew, 
While the fields were green, and the sky 
was blue, 
Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 
But to march back again from Moscow. 

The Russians they stuck close to him 
All on the road from Moscow. 
There was Tormazow and Jemalow, 
And all the others that end in ow ; 
Milarodovitch and Jaladovitch, 
And Karatschkowitch, 

And all the others that end in itch ; 
SchamschefT, Souchosaneff; 
And Schepaleff, 

And all the others that end in eff; 



Wasiltchikoff, Kostomaroff, 

And Tchoglokoff, 

And all the others that end in off; 

Rajeffsky, and Novereffsky, 

And Rieffsky, 

And all the others that end in efi'sky; 

Oscharoffsky and Rostoffsky, 
And all the others that end in offsky; 
And Platoff he play'd them off. 
And Shouvaloff he shovell'd them off, 
And Markoff he mark'd them off, 
And Krusnoff he cross'd them off. 
And Touchkoff he touch 'd them off, 
And Boroskoff he bored them off. 
And Kutousoff he cut them off. 
And Parenzoff he pared them off, 
And Worronzoff he worried them off, 
And Doctoroff he doctor'd them off, 
And Rodionoff he flogg'd them off. 
And, last of all, an Admiral 
came, 
A terrible man with a terrible 
name, 
A name which you all know by sight very 

well. 
But which no one can speak, and no one 
can spell. 
They stuck close to Nap with all their 
might; 
They were on the left and on the 
right. 
Behind and before, and by day and by 
night; 
He would rather parlez-vous than 
fight ; 
But he look'd white, and he look'd blue, 
Morbleu! Parbleu! 
When parlez-vous no more would 
■ do; 
Foi they remember'd Moscow. 

And then came on the frost and 
snow. 
All on the road from Moscow. 
The wind and the weather he found, in 
that hour. 
Cared nothing for him, nor for all his 
power — 
For him who, while Europe crouch'd under 
his rod. 
Put his trust in his Fortune, and not in 
his God. 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



949 



Worse and worse every day the ele- 
ments grew, 
The fields were so white, and theskyso blue, 
Sacrebleu ! Ventrcbleu I 
What a horrible journey from 
JIoscow ! 

What then thought the Emperor 
Nap 
U|>oii the road from Moscow? 
Why, I ween he thought it small 

delight 
To fight all day, and to freeze all 
night; 
And he was besides in a very great 
fright. 
For a wliole skin he liked to be in ; 
And so, not knowing what else to do, 
When the fields were so white, and the sky 
so blue 
Jlorbleu ! Parbleu ! 
He stole away, — I tell you true, — 
Upon the road from Moscow. 
'Tis myself, quoth he, I must mind most; 
So the Devil may take the hindmost. 

Too cold upon the road was he ; 
Too hot had lie been at JIoscow ; 
But colder and hotter he may be. 
For the grave is colder than Muscovy ; 
And a place there is to be kept in view, 
Wliere the fire is red, and the brimstone 
blue, 
Morblcu ! Parbleu! 
Which he must go to, 
If the Pope say true. 
If he docs not in time look about 
him ; 
Where his namesake almost 
He may have for his liost ; 
He has reckon'd too long without 
him ; 
If that host get him in Purgatory, 
He won't leave him there alone with his 
glory ; 
But there he must stay for a very long 

day. 
For from thence there is no stealing 
away. 
As there wa.s on the road from Mos- 
cow. 

KoUKRT SOITIIKV. 



The Lawyes's Invocation to 
Spuing. 

Whereas, on certain boughs and sprays, 
Now divers birds are heard to sing. 

And sundry flowers their heads upraise. 
Hail to the coming on of Spring! 

The songs of those said birds arouse 
The memory of our youthful hours. 

As green as those said sprays and boughs, 
As fresli and sweet as those said ttowers. 

The birds aforesaid— happy pairs! — 
Love, 'mid the aforesaid boughs, in- 
shrines 

In freehold nests; themselves, tlieir heirs. 
Administrators, and assigns. 

busiest term of Cupid's court, 

Where tender plaintiff's actions bring,— 

Season of frolic and of sport. 

Hail, as aforesaid, coming Spring! 

llENHV 1' llinV.Mtl) BkoWSELL. 



The Art of Bookkeeping. 

How hard, when those who do not wish 

To lend, thus lose, their books, 
Are snared by anglers — folks that fish 

With literary hooks — 
Who call and take some favorite tome. 

Hut never read it through , 
They thus complete their set at home 

I!y uKiking cue at you. 

I, of my " Spenser " quite bereft, 

Liiflt winter sore was shaken ; 
Of " Lamb " I've but a quarter left. 

Nor could I save my " Bacon ;" 
And then I saw my " Crabbe " at last. 

Like Hamlet, backwanl go. 
And, as the tide w;ls ebbing fast, 

Of course I lost my " Howe." 

My " Mallet " served to knock me down, 

Which makes me thus a talker. 
And once, when I was out of town. 

My ■' Johnson " proved a " Walker."' 
While studying o'er the fire one day 

My " Hobbes " amidst tiie smoke, 
They bore my " Colman " clean away, 

And carried ofl" my " Coke." 



950 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


They pick'd my " Locke," to me far more 


They still have made me slight returns, 


Than Bramah's patent worth, 


And thus my griefs divide ; 


And now my losses I deplore. 


For oh, they cured me of my " Burns," 


Without a " Home " on earth. 


And eased my " Akenside." 


If once a book you let them lift. 


But all I think I shall not say. 


Another they conceal, 


Nor let my anger burn, 


For though I caught them stealing " Swift," 


For, as they never found me " Gay," 


As swiftly went my "Steele." 


They have not left me " Sterne." 




Thomas Hood. 


" Hope " is not now upon my shelf, 




Where late he stood elated, 


Epicurean Reminiscences of a 


But, what is strange, my " Pope " himself 
Is excommunicated. 


Sentiment A list. 


My little "Suckling " in the grave 


" My Tables ! Meat it is, 7 set it down ! "—Hamlet. 


Is sunk to swell the ravage, 


I THINK it was Spring — but not certain I 


And what was Crusoe's fate to save. 


am — 


Twas mine to lose — a " Savage.'' 


When my passion began first to work ; 




But I know we were certainly looking for 
lamb. 
And the season was over for pork. 


Even " Glover's " works I cannot put 


My frozen hands upon, 


Though ever since I lost ray " Foote " 




My " Bunyan '' has been gone. 


'Twas at Christmas, I think, when I met 


My '■ Hoyle " with " Cotton " went op- 


with Miss Chase, 


press'd, 


Yes — for Morris had ask'd me to dine — 


My " Taylor," too, must fail. 


And I thought I had never beheld such a 


To save my " Goldsmith " from arrest, 


face. 


In vain I ofler'd " Bayle." 


Or so noble a turkey and chine. 


I " Prior " sought, but could not see 


Placed close by her side, it made others 


The " Hood " so late in front. 


quite wild 
With sheer envy, to witness my luck ; 


And when I turn'd to hunt for " Lee," 


Oh, where was my " Leigh Hunt " ? 


How she blush'd as I gave her some turtle, 


I tried to laugh, old Care to tickle. 


and smiled 


Yet could not " Tickell " touch. 


As I afterward ofTer'd some duck. 


And then, alack ! I miss'd my " Mickle," 




And surely mickle's much. 


I look'd and I languish'd, alas ! to my cost. 




Through three courses of dishes and 


'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed. 


meats ; 


My sorrows to excuse. 


Getting deeper in love — but my heart was 


To think I cannot read my " Reid," 


quite lost 


Nor even use my " Hughes." 


When it came to the trifle and sweets. 


My classics would not quiet lie, — 




A thing so fondly hoped ; 


With a rent-roll that told of my houses 


Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry, 


and land. 


My " Livy " has eloped. 


To her parents I told my designs — 




And then to herself I presented my hand, 


My life is ebbing fast away ; 


With a very fine pottle of pines ! 


I suffer from these shocks; 




And though I fix'd a lock on " Gray," 


I ask'd her to have me for weal or for 


There's gray upon my locks. 


woe. 


I'm far from " Young," am growing pale, 


And she did not object in the least; — 


I see my " Butler " fly. 


I can't tell the date— but we married I 


And when they ask about my ail, 


know 


'Tis " Burton " I reply. 


Just in time to have game at the feast. 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



951 



We went to- 



-, it certainly was the sea- 
side ; 
For the next, the most blessed of morns, 
I remember how fondly I gazed at my 
bride 
Sitting down to a plateful of prawns. 

Oh never may memory lose sight of that 
year, 
But still hallow the time as it ought ! 
That season the " grass " was remarkably 
dear, 
And the peas at a guinea a quart. 

So happy, like hours, all our days seem'd 
to ha.-;te, 

A fond pair, such as poets have drawn, 
So united in heart — so congenial in taste — 

AVe were both of us partial to brawn ! 

A long life I look'd for of bliss with my 
bride. 
But then Death — I ne'er dreamt about 
that! 
Oh there's nothing is certain in life, as I 
cried 
When my turbot eloped with the cat. 

My dearest took ill at the turn of the year, 
But the cause no physician could nab ; 

But something, it seemed like consumption, 
I fear — 
It was just after supping on crab. 

In vain she was doctor'd, in vain she was 
dosed. 
Still her strength and her appetite pined ; 
She lost relish for what she had relish'd 
the most. 
Even salmon she deeply declined ! 

For months still I linger'd in hope and in 
doubt, 
While her form it grew wasted and thin ; 
But tlie htst dying spark of existence went 
out. 
As the oysters were just coming in ! 

She died, and she left me the saddest of 
men, 

To indulge in a widower's moan ; 
Oh ! I felt all tlie power of solituile then, 

As I ate my first " natives" alone 1 



But when I beheld Virtue's friends in their 
cloaks. 
And with sorrowful crape on their hats, 
Oh my grief pour'd a flood ! and the out-of- 
door folks 
Were all crying — I think it wiis sprats ! 
TiiuMAS Hood. 



Address to the Toothache. 

Wkitten when the Author was «riev- 
ousLY Tormented bv that Disorder. 

My curse upon thy venom'd stang, 
That shoots my tortured gums alang ; 
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang. 

Like racking engines! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes, 
Our neighbors' sympatliy may Ciise us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Aye mocks our groan ! 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! 
I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the lire the giglets keckle. 

To see me loup ; 
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

O' a' the num'rous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, 

Or worthy friends raked i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that pl.ice be priests ca' hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, 
And rankM plagues their numbers tell, 

In dreadfu' raw. 
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell, 

Among them a' ; 

O thou grim mischief-making chiel, 
That gars the notes of discord squeal, 
'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In pore a shoe-thick ! — 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's Toothache! 

KOIIKKT Bl'K.VS. 



952 FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF POETRY. 


Unfortunate Miss Bailey. 


Sees no evidence in Paley — 


(An Experiment.) 


Takes to drinking ratifia; 


When he whispers, "0 Miss Bailey, 
Thou art brightest of the throng " — 


Shies the muffins at Miss Bailey 
While she's pouring out the tea. 


Slie makes murmur, softly-gayly — 
" Alfred, I have loved thee long," 


One day, knocking up his quarters, 




Poor Miss Bailey found him dead. 




Hanging in his knotted garters. 


Then he drops upon his knees, a 


■\Vhich she knitted ere they wed. 


Proof his heart is soft as wax : 


Frederick Locker. 


She's — I don't know who, but he's a 




Captain bold from Halifax. 






Captain Reece. 


Though so loving, such another 


Of all the ships upon the blue, 


Artless bride was never seen, 


No ship contain'd a better crew 


Coachee thinks that she's his mother 


Than that of worthy Captain Reece, 


—Till they get to Gretna Green. 


Commanding of The Mantelpiece. 


There they stand, by him attended. 


He was adored by all his men. 


Hear the sable smith rehearse 


For worthy Captain Reece, R. N., 


That which links them, when 'tis ended, 


Did all that lay within him to 


■ Tight for better— or for worse. 


Promote the comfort of his crew. 


Now her heart rejoices — ugly 


If ever they were dull or sad. 


Troubles need disturb her less — 


Their captain danced to them like mad, 


Now the Hai)py Pair are snugly 


Or told, to make the time pass by. 


Seated in the night express. 


Droll legends of his infancy. 


So they go with fond emotion. 


A feather bed had every man. 


So they journey through the night — 


Warm slippers and hot-water can, 


London is their land of Goshen — 


Brown Windsor from the captain's .store, 


See, its suburbs are in sight ! 


A valet, too, to every four. 


Hark ! the sound of life is swelling. 


Did they \vith thirst in summer burn. 


Pacing up, and racing down, 


Lo, seltzogenes at every turn. 


Soon they reach her simple dwelling — 


And on all very sultry days 


Burley Street, by Somers Town. 


Cream ices handed round on ti'ays. 


What is there to so astound them ? 


Then currant wine and ginger pops 


She cries " Oh !" for he cries " Hah !" 


Stood handily on all the " tops :" 


When five brats emerge — confound them ! — 


And, also, with amusement rife, 


Shouting out, " Mamma !— Papa !" 


A " Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life." 


AVhile at this he wonders blindly. 


New volumes came across the sea 


Nor their meaning can divine, 


From Mister Mudie's libraree ; 


Proud she turns them round, and kindly, 


The Times and Saturday Review 


" All of these are mine and thine !" 
***** 


Beguiled the leisure of the crew. 


Here he pines and grows dyspeptic. 


Kind-hearted Captain Reece, E. N., 


Losing heart, he loses pith — 


AVas quite devoted to his men ; 


Hints that Bishop Tait's a sceptic — 


In point of fiict, good Captain Reece 


Swears that Moses was a myth. 


Beatified The Mantelpiece. 



HUMOROUS AND SATIRICAL. 



953 



One summer eve, at half-past ten, 
He said (addressiiir; all his men) : 
" Come, tell me, please, what 1 can do 
To please and gratify my crew. 

" By any reasonable plan 
I'll make ymi iiappy if I can; 
My own convoniencc count as nit; 
It is niy duty, and I will." 

Then up and answer'd William Lee 
(The kindly captain's coxswain he, 
A nervous, shy, low-spoken man); 
He cleared his throat, and thus began : 

" You have a daughter, Captain Reece, 
Ten female cousins and a niece, 
A ma, if what I'm told is true. 
Six sisters, and an aunt or two. 

" Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me. 
More friendly-like we all should be. 
If you united of 'em to 
Unmarried members of the crew. 

" If you'd ameliorate our life, 
Let each select from them a wife ; 
And as for nervous me, old pal. 
Give me your own enchanting gal !" 

Good Captain Reece, that worthy man, 
Debated on his coxswain's plan : 
" I quite agree," he said, " O Bill ; 
It is my duty, and I will. 

" My daughter, that enchanting gurl. 
Has jusi been promised to an earl, 
And all my other familee 
To peers of various degree. 

" But what are dukes and viscounts to 
The happiness of all my crew? 
The word I gave you I'll fulfd ; 
It is my duly, and I will. 

" As you desire it shall befall, 
I'll settle thousands on you all, 
And I shall be, despite my hoard. 
The only bachelor on board." 

The boatswain of The Mantelpiece, 
He blush'd anil spoke to Captain Reece: 
" I beg your honor's leave," he said, 
" If you would wish to go and wed, 



" I have a widow'd mother who 
Would be the very thing for you — 
She long has loved you from afar. 
She washes for you, Captain R." 

The captain saw the dame that day — 
Address'd her in his playful way — 
"And did it want a wedding-ring'' 
It was a tempting ickle sing ! 

" Well, well, the chaplain I will seek, 
We'll all be married this day week 
At yonder church upon the hill ; 
It is my duty, and 1 will !'" 

The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece. 
And widow'd ma of Cai)tain Reece, 
Attended there as they were bid ; 
It was their duty, and they did. 

William S. Gilbekt. 



Mr. Molony's Account of the 
Ball 

Given to the Nepaule.se Ajibassador by 
THE Peninsular and Oriental Co.m- 

PAKV. 

Oh will ye choose to hear the news'? 

Bedad, I cannot pass it o'er : 
I'll tell you all about the ball 

To the Naypaulase ambas.sador. 
Begor I this fete all balls does bate 

At which I've worn a pump, and I 
Must here relate the splendthor great 

Of th' Oriental Company. 

These men of sinse dispoised expinse. 

To fete these black Achilleses. 
"We'll show the blacks," .says they, "Al- 
mack's. 

And take the rooms at Willis's." 
With flags and shawls, for these Nepauls, 

They hung the rooms of Willis up. 
And deck'd the walls, and stairs, and halls. 

With roses and with lilies up. 

And Jullien's band it tuck its stand 

So sweetly in the middle there. 
And soft ba.ssoons play'd heavenly chunes. 

And violins did fiddle there. 
And when the coort was tired of .spoort, 

I'd lave you, boys, to think there was 
A nate buffet before them set, 

Where loshins of good dhrink there was ! 



954 



FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPJEDIA OF POETRY. 



At ten, before the ball-room door 

His moighty Excellency was ; 
He smoiled and bow'd to all the crowd — 

So gorgeous and immense he was. 
His dusky shuit, sublime and mute, 

Into the doorway follow'd him ; 
And oh the noise of the blackguard boys, 

As they hurrood and hoUow'd him ! 

The noble Chair stud at the stair. 

And bade the dhrums to thump; and he 
Did thus evince to tliat Black Prince 

The welcome of liis Company. 
Oh fair the girls, and rich the curls, 

And bright the oyes you saw there, was; 
And fixed each oye, ye there could spoi, 

On Gineral Jung Bahawther was! 

This Gineral great then tuck his sate. 

With all the other ginerals 
(Bedad, his troat, his belt, his coat, 

All bleezed with precious minerals) ; 
And as he there, with princely air, 

Recloinin' on his cushion was, 
All round about his royal chair 

The squeezin' and the pushin' was. 

O Pat, such girls, such jukes and earls, 

Such fashion and nobilitee ! 
Just think of Tim, and fancy him 

Amidst the hoigh gentilitee ! 
There was Lord De L'Huys, and the Porty- 
geese 

Ministher and his lady there ; 



And I reckonized, with much surprise, 
Our messmate. Bob O'Grady, there. 

There was Baroness Brunow, that look'd 
like Juno, 

And Baroness Eehausen there, 
And Countess Roullier, tliat looked peculiar 

Well in her robes of gauze, in there. 
There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first 

When only Mr. Pips he was), 
And Mick O'Toole, the great big fool, 

That after supper tijjsy was. 

There was Lord Fingall and his ladies all, 

And Lords Killecn and Dufferin, 
And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife — 

I wondther how he could stuff her in. 
There was Lord Belfast, that by me past. 

And seem'd to ask how should / go 
there ; 
And the widow Macrae, and Lord A. 
Hay, 

And the marchioness of Sligo there. 

Yes, jukes and earls, and diamonds and 
pearls, 

And pretty girls, was spoorting there; 
And some beside (the I'ogues!) I spied 

Behind the windies, coorting there. 
Oh, there's one I know, bedad, would show 

As beautiful as any there ; 
And I'd like to hear the pipers blow. 

And shake a fiit with Fanny there ! 

William M.ikepeace Thackeray. 



NOTES 

Explanatory and Corroborative. 




Notes 

EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



I'agr S. — Home, Sweet Hume! — The following 
additional verses to the .«ong of " Home, Sweet , 
Home!" Mr. Pajnc affixed to the sheet music, and i 
presented them to Mrs. Bates in London, a rela- 
tive of his. and tha wife of a rich banker : 

To M«, in despite of the absence of years, 

How sweet the remembrance of home still appears ! 

From allurements abroad, which but flatter the 

eye. 
The unsatisfied heart turns, and says with a sigh, 
" Home. home, sweet, sweet home! 
There's no place like home! 
There's no i)lace like home!" 

Your exile is blest with all fate can bestow ; 
But mine has been checkered with many a woe ! 
Yet, tho' different our fortunes, our thoughts are 

the same. 
And both, as we think of Columbia, exclaim. 

" Home, home, sweet, sweet home ! 
There's no ])lace like home I 
There's no place like home!" 
— Life and Wrilinyt of John Hoicard Payne, 
4to, Albany, 1875. 

PtKje 5. — The Cotter's Svtirdav Night. — 
The house of William Burns was the scene of 
this fine, devout, and tranquil drama, and William 
himself was the saint, the father, and the hus- 
band who gives life and sentiment to the whole. 
" Robert had frequently remarked to me." says 
Gilbert Burns, "that he thought there was some- 
thing peculiarly venerable in tho ))hrasc, ' Let us 
worship tiod I' used by a decent, sober head of a 
family, introducing family worship." To this 
sentiment of the author the world is in'lebtoii for 
the " Cotter's Saturday Night." He owed some 
little, however, of the inspiration to Fcrgusson's 
" Farmer's Ingle," a poem of great merit. 

— /iiirna't Poelienl Workt, 8vo cd., Philada. 

Page 9. — MATniMoxiAi. Happi.vess. — Lapraik 
was a very worthy facclinus old follow, late of 
Ilnlfram near Muirkirk. which little property he 
was obliged to sell in consequence of some con- 
nection as security for some persons concerned in 
that villainous bubble, " The Ayr Bank." He has 
often told mc that he composed this song one day 



when his wife had been fretting over their mis- 
fortunes. — Robert /turn». 

Page 13.— 'The Mariner's Wife. — This most 
felicitous song is better known as " There's nae 
Luck about the House." It first appeared on the 
streets about the middle of the last century, and 
was included in Herd's Collection, 1776. The 
authorship is a matter of doubt. A copy of it, 
like a first draught, was found among the papers 
of William Julius Mickle. and the song has hence 
been believed to be his. notwithstanding that he 
did not include it in his own works. On the other 
hand, there has been some plausible argument to 
show that it must have been the work of a Mrs. 
Jane Adams, who kept a school at Crawford's 
Uyke, near Greenock ; it is not, however, included 
in her volume of MiHcel/atit/ Poemti, published as 
early as 17.'J4. Jane Adams gave Shakespearian 
readings to her pupils, and so admired Richard- 
son's Clarissa Hiirliiwe that she walked to London 
to see the author. Toward the close of her life she 
became a wandering beggar, died in the poor- 
house of Glasgow on .\pril 3, 1765, and was 
" buried at tho house expense." — Xoles and Qne- 
ries, Third Series, vol. x. 

Notwithstanding the weighty authority of Xotet 
and Queries. I am inclined to a.scribo its authorship 
to Jean Adnm (not Jane Adams). Mickle never 
lived near a seaport, and never wrote anything 
as good as this poem. The remarkable statement 
that tho poem does not appear in any of the pub- 
lished works of cither claimant is, as far as it 
goes, an argument in favor of Miss Adam. She 
was poor, and probably published but one edition 
of her poems, which had a sale so small that the 
industrious .-Mlibone does not mention her name 
in his Dictionary of Anthnrn, while the scholarly 
translator of the Lntind published many volumes 
of poems, some of which ran into several editions; 
and the fact that he never included " The Mari- 
ner's Wife " in any of them should determine the 
question of its authorship in her favor. 

Page IS. — The Exile to nis Wife. — Joseph 
Brennan (b. IS29, d. 1S57) was a native of the 
north of Ireland. He joined tho Young Xrcland 
party in ISIS, and was one of tho conductcrs of 

957 



958 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



the Irish Felon. He was imprisoned for nine 
months in Dublin, afterward edited the Irishmau, 
and in October, 1S49, being implicated in an in- 
surrectionary movement in Tipperary, fled to 
America. He was fur three years connected with 
the New Orleans Delta, and died in that city in 
May, 1857. — Single Famous Poems. 

Page 17. — Golden-Tressed Adklaide. — The 
gifted child of the poet, Adelaide Anne Procter. 

Pnrje 2S. — Lady Anne Bothwbll's Lament. — 
The subject of this pathetic ballad the editor [ 
once thought might possibly relate to the Earl 
of Bothwell, and his desertion of his wife, Ladj 
Jean Gordon, to make room for his marriage 
with the Queen of Scots. But this opinion he 
now believes (o be groundless; indeed, Earl Both- 
well's age, who was upward of sixty at the time 
of that marriage, renders it unlikely that he 
should be the object of so warm a passion as 
this elegy supposes. He has been since informed 
that it entirely refers to a private story. A young 
lady of the name of Bothwell — or rather Boswell — 
having been, together with her child, deserted by 
her husband or lover, composed these affecting 
lines herself. — Percy*8 HeUqnes. 

Page 2^. — The Angels' Whisper. — A super- 
stition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that 
when a child smiles in its sleep it is ''talking 
with the angels." — Lover's Lyrics of Ireland. 

Page S4- — The Mitherless Bairn. — An In- 
verary correspondent writes : " Thorn gave me 
the following narrative as to the origin of ' The 
Mitherless Bairn ;' I quote his own words : * When 
I was livin' in Aberdeen, I was limping roun* the 
house to my garret, when I heard the greetin' o' 
a wean. A lassie was thumpin' a bairn, when 
out cam' a big dame, bellowin', "Ye hussie I will 
ye lick a mitherless bairn ?" I hobbled up the 
stair and wrote the sang afore sleepin'.' " 

Page 4^- — The Children in the Wood. — The 
subject of this very popular ballad (which has 
been set in so favorable a light by The Spectator, 
No. 85) seems to be taken from an old play, en- 
titled "Two Lamentable Tragedies; the one of the 
murder of Maister Beech, a chandler in Thames- 
streete, etc. The other of a young child murthered 
in a wood by two ruffins, with the consent of his 
unkle. By Rob. Yarrington, 1601, 4to." GUI' 
ballad-maker has strictly followed the play in 
the description of the father's and mother's dying 
charge; in the uncle's promise to take care of 
their issue; his hiring two ruffinns to destroy his 
wards, under pretence of sending them to school ; 
their choosing a wood to perpetrate the murder 
in; one of the ruffians relenting and a battle 
ensuing, etc. In other respects he has departed 



from the play. In the latter the scene is laid in 
Padua; there is but one child, which is murdered 
by a sudden stab of the unrelenting ruffian : he 
is slain himself by his less bloody companion, 
but ere he dies he gives the other a mortal wound, 
the latter living just long enough to im])each the 
uncle, who, in consequence of this impeachment, 
is arraigned and executed by the hand of justice, 
etc. Whoever compares the play with the ballad 
will have no doubt but the former is the original : 
the language is far more obsolete, and such a 
vein of simplicity runs through the whole per- 
formance that, had the ballad been written first, 
there is no doubt but every circumstance of it 
would have been received into the drama; where- 
as this was probably built on some Italian novel. 
Printed from two ancient copies, one of them 
in black-letter in the Pepi/s Collection. Its title at 
large is. The Children in the Wood, or The Norfolk 
Gentleman's Last Will and Testament, to the tune 
of Rogero, etc. — Percy's Reliqnes. 

Page 77. — Woodman, Spare THAT Tree. — This 
song owes its existence to the following incident : 
The author some years since was riding out with 
a friend in the suburbs of New York City, and 
when near Bloomingdale they observed a cottager 
in the act of sharpening his axe under the shadow 
of a noble ancestral tree. His friend, who was 
once the proprietor of the estate on which the 
tree stood, suspected that the woodman intended 
to cut it down, remonstrated against the act, and, 
accompanying the protest with a ten-dollar note, 
succeeded in preserving from destruction this le- 
gendary memorial of his earlier and better days. 
— Frederick Sanndere's Fentival of Song. 

Page S3. — AuLD Lang Syne. — Of the two 
versions of this song, we adopt for our text that 
supplied to Johnson in preference to the copy 
made for George Thomson. The arrangement of 
the verses is more natural ; it wants the redun- 
dant syllable in the fourth line of stanza first j and 
the spelling of the Scotch words is more correct. 
The poet transcribed the song for Mrs. Bunlop in 
his letter to her dated ]7th December, 178S, and 
it is unfortunate that Dr. Currie did not print a 
verbatim copy of it, along with that letter, in- 
stead of simply referring his reader to the Thom- 
son correspondence for it. Thomson's closing 
verse stands second in Johnson, where it seems in 
its proper place, as having manifest reference to 
the earlier stages of the interview between the 
long-separated friends. Many of our readers 
must have observed that when a social company 
unites in singing the song before dispersing, it is 
the custom for the singers to join hands in a cir- 
cle at the words, " And there's a hand," etc. 
This ought to conclude the song, with the chorus 
sung rapidly and emphatically thereafter. But 



how awkwardly and out of place does the slow 
Finn:ing of Thomnon's closing verse come in after 
that excitement I — '* And surely ye'll be your pint 
8towp." etc. No. no! The play i? over; no more 
pint stowps ! — finrng't Puema, William Scott 
Douglas's edition. 

Ptifje 87. — Odk to An Ivdiah CfOLn Coin. — This 
remarkable poem was written in Cherical, Mala- 
bar, the author having left his native land, Scot- 
land, in quest of a fortune in India. He died 
shortly afterward in Java. — Frederick Sautiders'a 
Fentivul of Song. 

Paffc 20S. — WaLY, WaLY, liOVE BE BONXY. — 

Nothing 18 known with ccrtninty as to the 
authorship of this exquisite song, one of the 
most affecting of the many that Scotland can 
boast. It had been supposed to refer to an inci- 
dent in the life of Lady Barbara Erskine, wife of 
the second Marquis of Douglas: but the allusions 
are evidently to the deeper woes of one not a wife 
— who '* loved not wisely, bnt too well." — Illus- 
trated Book of Scottish Song. 

Page US, — The Nct-Brown Maid. — Henry, 
Lord Clifford, first Earl of Cumberland, and Lady 
Margaret Percy his wife, are the originals of this 
ballad. Lord Clifford had a miserly father and 
ill-natured stepmother, so he left home and be- 
came the head of a band of robbers. The ballad 
was written in 1502, and says that the ** Xot- 
brownt' Mayd" was wooed and won by a knight 
who gave out that he was a banished man. After 
describing the hardships she would have to under- 
go if she married him, and finding her love true 
to the test, he revealed himself to be an earl's son, 
with large hereditary c;states in Westmoreland. — 
Percy* Relique* (Series II.). 

page ISO. — TIionLAND Marv. — " Highland 
Mary,** says the Hon. A. Erskine in a letter to 
Mr. George Thomson, "is most enchantingly 
pathetic." Burns says of it himself, in a letter to 
Mr. Thomson : " The foregoing song pleases my- 
self: I think it is in my happiest manner; you 
will see at first glance that it suits the air. The 
subject of the song is one of the most interesting 
passages of my youthful days; and I own that I 
should be much flattered to see the verses set to an 
air which would ens'ure celebrity. Perhaps, after 
all, 'tis the still-glowing prejudice of my heart that 
throws a borrowed lustro over the merits of the 

composition." — Iltuntrntrd Jiuiik of Smttiah Sintg. 

The history of thit< humble maiden is now 
known to all the world, and will continue to bo 
remembered as long as Scottish song exists. Her 
namewus Mary Campbell, and her parcnU* resided 
at Campbclltown. in Argylcr»hire. At the time 
Burns became acquainted with her she was ser- 
vani at Coilsfield House, the scat of Colonel 



Montgomery, afterward Earl of Eglinton. In 
notes to the iY/HAcn/n, Burns says of the present 
song : *' This was a composition of mine befi>ro I 
was known at all to the world. My Highland 
lassie was a warm-hearted, charming young 
creature as ever blessed a man with generous 
love. After a pretty long trial of the most ardent 
reciprocal attachment, we met by appointment on 
the second Sunday of May in a sequestered spot 
on the banks of the Ayr, where we spent the 
day in taking a farewell before she should cm- 
bark for the West Highlands to arrange matters 
among her friends for our ])rojected change of 
life. At the close of the autumn following she 
crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where 
she bad scarce landed when she was seized with 
a malignant fever, which hurried my dear girl to 
her grave in a few days, before I could even hear 
of her illness," Cromek adds a few particulars 
of the final interview of the youthful lovers : 
" This adieu was performed with all those simple 
and striking ceremonials which rustic sentiment 
has devised to prolong tender emotion and to in- 
spire awe. The lovers stood on each side of a 
small purling brook, they laved their hands in the 
limpid stream, and, holding a Bible between them, 
they pronounced their vows to bo faithful to each 
other. They parted never to meet again." Cro- 
mck's account of this parting interview was con- 
sidered somewhat apocryphal till, a good many 
years ago, a pocket Bible in two volumes, pre- 
sented by Burns to Mary Campbell, was discovered 
in the possession of her sister at Ardrossan. 
This Bible afterward found its way to Canada, 
whither the family had removed ; and having 
excited the interest of some Scotchmen at Mon- 
treal, they purchased it (for its possessors were 
unfortunately in reduced circumstances), and bad 
it conveyed back to Scotland, with the view of 
being permanently placed in the monument at 
.Ayr. On its arrival at Glasgow, Mr. Weir, sta- 
tioner. Queen street Uhrough the instrumentality 
of whose son, we believe, the precious relic was 
mainly procured), kindly announced that he 
would willingly show it for a few days at his 
shop to any person who might choose to see it. 
The result was, that thousands flocke<l to obtain 
a view of this interesting memorial, anil the ladies 
in particular displayed an unwonted eagerness 
regarding it, some of them being even moved to 
tears on beholding an object which appealed so 
largely to female sympathies. On the anniver- 
sary of the poet in 1841, the Bible, enclosed in an 
oaken glass case, was deposited among other re- 
lics in the monument at Ayr. On the boards of 
one uf the volumes is inscribed in Burns's hand- 
writing, "And yo chall not swear by my name 
falsely, I am the Lord," Levit., chap. xix. v. 12; 
aad'on the othor, "Thou shalt not forswear thv- 



960 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



self, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine oath,"* 
St. Matt., chap. v. v. 33 ; and on the blank leaves 
of both volumes, " Robert Burns, Mossgiel." — 
Bunis's Wo/-ks, Blackie &■ Son's ed. 

Page 130. — Sally iv Otr Alley. — Carey 
says the occasion of his ballad was this: "A 
shoemaker's apprentice, making holiday with 
his sweetheart, treated her with a sight of Bed- 
lam, the puppet-shows, the flying chain, and all 
the elegancies of Moorfields ; from whence pro- 
ceeding to the Farthing Piehouse. he gave her a 
collation of buns, chee?e-cakes, gammon of bacon, 
stuffed beef and bottle ale; through all which 
scenes the author dodged them (charmed with the 
simplicity of their courtship), from whence he 
drew this little sketch of nature." The song, he 
adds, made its way into the polite world, and 
was more than once mentioned with approbation 
by " the divine Addison," — ChamherH^a Cijclnpifdia 
of English Literature, 

Pafje 124' — To Althea, prom Prison. — This 
excellent sonnet, which possessed a high degree 
of fame among the old Cavaliers, was written by 
Colonel Pilchard Lovelace during his confinement 
in the Gate-house, "Westminster, to which he was 
committed by the House of Commons in April, 
1642, for presenting a petition from the county of 
Kent, requesting them to restore the king to his 
rights and to settle the government. See Wood's 
Aihetife, vol. ii., p. 22S, and Lysons's Euviroua of 
London, vol. i., p. 109, where may be seen at 
large the affecting story of this elegant writer, 
who after having been distinguished for every 
gallant and polite accomplishment, the pattern 
of his own sex and the darling of the ladies, 
died in the lowest wretchedness, obscurity, and 
want in 1658. — Percy's Reliqnea. 

Poije 126. — Jean. — This song was written in 
celebration of the charms of Jean Armour, after- 
ward the poet's wife. 

"Of a' the Airts the Wind can Blaw'* was the 
most universally popular of all Burns's songs, 
at least in the west of Scotland, and it is still a 
great favorite. The air is by Mr. Marshall, who 
in Burns's time was butler to the Duke of Gordon, 
and who composed several other fine airs. Only 
the first two stanzas were written by Burn'^. The 
last two have been ascribed to John Hamilton, 
music-seller, Edinburgh. — Bnrns'e Works, Blackie 
& Son's ed. 

Pa(je 127.— Tw-B. Eve of St. Agnes. — The 
Feast of St. Agnes was formerly held as in a 
special degree a holiday for women. It was 
thought possible for a girl, on the eve of St. 
Agnes, to obtain by divination a knowledge of 
her future husband. She might take a row of 
pins, and, plucking them out one after another, 



I stick them in her sleeve, singing the whilst a Pa- 
ternoster, and thus ensure that her dreams would 
that night present the person in question. Or, 
passing into a different country from that of her 
ordinary residence, and taking her right-leg stock- 
ing, she might knit the left garter round it, re- 
peating : 

" I knit this knot, this knot I knit, 
To know the thing I know not yet, 
That I may see 

The man that shall my husband be, 
Not in his best or worst array, 
But what he weareth every day; 
That I to-morrow may him ken 
From among all other men." 

Lying down on her back that night with her 
hands under her head, the anxious maiden was 
led to expect that her future spouse would appear 
in a dream and salute her with a kiss. — Cham- 
hcre's Book of Uai/s. 

Page 136. — Lochinvar. — The ballad of Lochin- 
var is in a very slight degree founded on a ballad 
called " Katharine Janfarie." (^ee Note to Kath- 
arine Janfarie.) 

Page 137 — Acld Robin Gray. — This beauti- 
ful ballad, of which the authorship was long a 
mystery, was written by Lady Anne Lindsay, 
daughter of the Earl of Balcarras, and afterward 
Lady Barnard. It appears to have been com- 
posed at the commencement of the year 1772, 
when the author was yet a young girl. It was 
published anonymously, and acquired great pop- 
ularity. No one, however, came forward to lay 
claim to the laurels lavished upon it, and a liter- 
ary controversy sprang up to decide the author- 
ship. Many conjectured that it was as old as the 
daj's of David Rizzio, if not composed by that 
unfortunate minstrel himself, while others con- 
sidered it of much later date. The real author 
was, however, suspected ; and ultimately, when 
her ladyship was an old woman, Sir "Walter Scott 
received a letter from Lady Anne herself openly 
avowing that she had written it. She stated that 
she had been long suspected by her more intimate 
friends, and often questioned with respect to the 
mysterious ballad, but that she had always man- 
aged to keep her secret to herself without a direct 
and absolute denial. She was induced to write the 
song by a desire to see an old plaintive Scottish 
air ("The Bridegroom Grat when the Sun gaed 
down") which was a favorite with her fitted with 
words more suitable to its character than the ri- 
bald verses which had always hitherto, for want 
of better, been sung to it. She had previously 
been endeavoring to beguile the tedium occasioned 
by her sister's marriage and departure for Lon- 
don by the composition of verses; but of all she 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



961 



had written, either before or sinoe, none havo 
rcacheil the merit of this admirable little poem. 
It struck her th:it some talc of virtuous di.«tress 
in humbtu life would be most suitable to the plain- 
tive character of her favorite air; aud she accord- 
ingly set about such an attempt, taking tlie name 
of " Auld Unbin Gray" from an ancient herd at 
Balcarras. AVhcn she had written two or three of 
the verses she called to her junior sister (after- 
ward LaJy llardwicke), v.ho was the only per- 
son near her, and thus addressed her: '* I have 
been writing a ballad, my dear; I am oppressing 
my heroine with many misfortunes: I have al- 
ready sent her Jamie to sea, and broken her 
father's arm, and made her mother fall sick, and 
given her Auld Robin Gray for her lover: but I 
wish to load her with a fifth sorrow within the 
four lines — poor thing I Help me to one." " Steal 
the cow, sister Anne," said the little Elizabeth. 
"The cow," adds Lady Anne in her letter, ** was 
immediately lifted by me, and the song com- 
pleted." — lUuttraied Book of Scottieh Sotig. 

Pnge 1S7.— To Mary IN Heaven.— "At Ellis- 
land/* saya Professor Wilson, " Burns wrote many 
of his finest strains, and, above all. that immor- 
tal burst of passion, * To .Mary in Heaven.' This 
celebrated poem was composed in September. 
1789, on the anniversary of the day in which ho 
heard of the death of his early love, Mary Camp- 
bell. According to Mrs. Burns, he spent that day, 
though laboring under cold, in the usual work of 
his harvest, and apparently in excellent spirits; 
but as the twilight deepened he appeared to grow 
very sad about something, and at length wan- 
dered out to the barnyard, to which his wife, in 
her anxiety for his health, followed him, entreat- 
ing him in vain to observe that the frost had set 
in, and to return to the fireside. On being again 
ond again requested to do so. ho always promised 
compliance, but still remained where he was, 
striding up and down slowly and contemplating 
the sky, which was singularly clear and starry. 
At last Mrs. Bums found him stretched on a 
maps of straw, with his eyes fixed on a beautiful 
planet * that shone like another moon,' and pre- 
vailed on him to come in. He immediately on 
entering the bouse called for his desk, and wrote 
as they now stand, with all the ease of one copy- 
ing from memory, these sublime and pathetic 
Tcrsea." — John Gih»on Lockkart. 

Page 240. — The MiLKMAin's Song. — This song 
and "The Milkmaid's Mother's Answer" have 
been ascribed by some editors to Shakespeare, 
but there is very little donbt but that they were 
written respectively by Marlowe and Raleigh. 
Izaak Walton says, in The Compleat Angler: "As 
I left this |)laco ond entered into the nex* field a 
second pleasure entertained me. 'Twas a band- 
61 



8omo milkmaid, that had not yet attained so 
much ago and wisdom as to load her mind with 
any fears of many things that will never be, as 
too many men too often do; but she cast away 
all care, and sung like a nightingale. Her voice 
was good, nnd the dilty suited for it. 'Twas that 
smooth song which was made by Kit Murloir now 
at least fifty years ago ; and the milkmaid's mo- 
ther sung an answer to it, which was made by 
Sir irn//cr Unit igh in his younger days. They 
were old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good ; I 
think much better than the strong lines that are 
now in fashion in this critical age. Look yon- 
der! On my word, yonder they both be a- milk- 
ing again I I will give her the chub, and per- 
suade them to sing those two songs to \X6." 

Pcge 145. — Maid of Athens. — Our servant, 
who had gone before to procure accommodation, 
met us at the gate and conducted us to Theodora 
Macri, the Consulina's, where we at present live. 
This lady is the widow of the consul, and has 
three lovely daughters ; the eldest celebrated for 
her beauty, and said to be the subject of those 
, stanzas by Lord Byron — 

I " Maid of Athens, ere we part. 

Give, oh, give me back my heart!" etc. 

, Theresa, the Maid of Athens, Catlnco, and Mari- 
ana, are of middle stature. On the crown of the 
head of each is a red Albanian skull-cap, with a 

' blue tassel spread out and fastened down like a 
star. Near the edge or bottom of the skull-cap 
is a handkerchief of various colors bound around 
their temples. The youngest we.irs her hair loose, 
falling on her shoulders — the hair behind descend- 
ing down the back nearly to the waist, and. as 
usual, mixed with silk. The two eldest generally 
have their hair bound, and fastened under the 
handkerchief. Their upper robe is a pclifsc edged 
with fur, hanging loose down to the ankles; be- 
low is a handkerchief of muslin covering the 
bosom and terminating at the waist, which ts 
short; under that, a gown of striped silk or 
muslin, with a gore round the swell of the loins, 

I falling in front in graceful negligence; white 
stockings nnd yellow slippers complete their 
attire. The two eldest have black or dark hair 
and eyes; their visage oval and complexion some- 
what pale, with teeth of dazzling whiteness. 
Their checks are rounded and nose straight, 
rather inclined to aquiline. The youngest, Mari- 
ana, is very fair, her face not so finely rounded, 
hut has a gayer expression than her sisters', 
whose countenances, except when the conversa- 
tion has something of mirth in it, may be said to 
be rather pensive. Their persons are elegant and 
their manners pleasing nnd lady-like, such as 
would be fascinating in any country. Thoy pos- 



962 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



sess very considerable powers of conversation, 
and their minds seem to be more instructed than 
those of the Greek women in general. With such 
attractions it would, indeed, be remarkable if 
they did not meet with great attention from the 
travellers who occasionally are resident in Athens. 
They sit in the Eastern style, a little reclined, 
with their limbs gathered under them on the 
divan, and without shoes. Their employments 
are the needle, tambourine, and reading. — Trav- 
eh in Jtnfi/, Greece, etc., by H. W. Williams, Esq. 

Page 1^5. — BoxNiE Leslev. — The poet, in a 
letter to Mrs. Dunlop dated August, 1792, de- 
scribes the influence which the beauty of Miss 
Lesley Baillie exercised over his imagination. 
"Know, then," said he, "that the heartstruck 
awe, the distant, humble approach, the delight 
we should have in gazing upon and listening to 
a messenger of heaven, appearing in all the un- 
spotted purity of his celestial home among the 
coarse, polluted, far inferior sons of men, to de- 
liver to them tidings that make their hearts swim 
in joy and their imaginations soar in transport, — 
such, so delighting and so pure, were the emo- 
tions of my soul on meeting the other day with 
Miss Lesley Baillie, your neighbor. Mr. Baillie 
with his two daughters, accompanied by Mr. H. 
■ of Gr., passing through Dumfries a few days ago 
on their way to England, did me the honor of 
calling on me, on which I took my horse {though 
God knows I could ill spare the time!) and ac- 
companied them fourteen or fifteen miles, and 
dined and spent the day with them. 'Twas about 
nine, I think, when I left them, and riding home 
I composed the following ballad." — Burns's 
Poems. 

Page 155. — The Lass o' Patie's Mill. — 
"'The Lass o' Patie's Mill,'" says Burns, "is 
one of Kamsay's best songs. The following 
anecdote was told by the late John, Earl of Lou- 
don : Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Cas- 
tle with the then earl, father to Earl John, and 
one afternoon, riding or walking out together, 
his lordship and Allan passed a sweet romantic 
spot on Irwine AYater, still called ' Patie's Mill,' 
where a bonnie lass was 'tedding hay bareheaded 
on the green.' My lord observed to Allan that 
it would be a fine theme for a song. Ramsay 
took the hint, and lingering behind he composed 
the first sketch of it, which he produced at din- 
ner." — lUmtmted Bmik of Scottink Song. 

Page 166. — Jessy. — The Jessy of this and 
several' other songs was Jessy Lewars, sister of 
a fellow-exciseraan of Burns in Dumfries. She 
was distinguished from many of his contera- 
porarary admirers by the affectionate sympathy 
which she always had for him and for his wife, 



and which during his last illness took the form 
of a daughter's watchful care. This is the hist 
song Burns ever wrote. — Mari/ Carlyle Aitken. 

Page 167. — "Whe.v the Kye comes Hame. — In 
the title and chorus of this favorite little pas- 
toral I choose rather to violate a rule in gram- 
mar than a Scottish phrase so common that when 
it is altered into the proper way every shepherd 
and shejaherd's sweetheart accounts it nonsense. 
I was once singing it at a wedding with great 
glee the latter way (" When the kye como 
hame"), when a tailor, scratching his head, said, 
" It was a terrible afl'ected way, that !'* I stood 
corrected, and have never sung it so again. — 
Hogg'% Poems. 

Page 17S.^A Pastoral.— The Phoebe of this 
admired pastoral was Joanna, the daughter of 
the very learned Dr. Richard Bentley, archdeacon 
and prebendary of Ely, regius professor and mas- 
ter of Trinity College, Cambridge, whu died in 1 742. 
She was afterward married to Dr. Dennison Cum- 
berland, bishop of Clonfert in Killaloe in Ireland, 
and grandson of Dr. Richard Cumberland, bishop 
of Peterborough. — Spectator, No. 60.3, note. 

Page 179. — Castara. — Castara was a daugh- 
ter of William Herbert, first Lord Percy, and be- 
came the wife of the poet, There are no purer 
and few more graceful records of a noble attach- 
ment than that which is contained in the poems 
to which Habington has given the name of the 
lady of his happy love. — Richard Ckenevix Trench. 

Page 185. — Go, Lovely Rose. — A lady of 
Cambridge lent Waller's poems to Henry Kirko 
White, and when he returned them to her she 
discovered this additional stanza written by him 
at the end of this poem : 

" Yet, though thou fade, 
From thy dead leaves let fragrance risej 

And teach the maid 
That Goodness Time's rude hand defies. 
That Virtue lives when Beauty dies." 

— Henry Kirke White's Poems. 

Page 185. — To His Mistress, the Queen of Bo- 
hemia. — On that amiable princess, Elizabeth, 
daughter of James I. and wife of the Elector Pala- 
tine, who was chosen King of Bohemia September 
5, 1619. The consequences of this fatal election 
are well known. Sir Henry Wotton, who in that 
and the following year was employed in several 
embassies in Germany in behalf of this unfortu- 
nate lady, seems to have had sin uncommon attach- 
ment to her merit and fortunes ; for he gave away 
a jewel that was worth a thousand pounds, that 
was presented to him by the emperor, "because it 
came from an enemy to his royal mistress the 
Queen of Bohemia" ("for so," says Walton in 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE, 



963 



Tlic Life of Wotton, "she was pleased he should 
always call her"). — lieiieic's Poett' Corner. 

Page 1S6. — Jensy Kisset) Me. — These lines are 
paid to be due to the following incident: Leigh 
Hunt called on Carlyle to inform him of some very ; 
pleasant piece of news. Mrs. Carlyle, who was in 
the room at the time, was so delighted that she 
jumped up and kis^icd him. On his return home t 
ho wrote this pretty little compliment. 

Page 199. — AsxiE LaI'RIE. — 

MAXWELTON BANKS. 
Maxvvelton banks are bonnie, 

Where early fa's the dew ; 
Where me and Annie Laurie 

Made up the promise true; 
Made up the promise true, 

And never forget will T; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I'll lay me doun and die. 

Phc*? backit like the peacock, 

She's breistit like the swan, 
She's jimp about the middle, 

Her waist ye wecl micht span ; 
Her waist ye weel micht span, 

And she has a rolling eye; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I'll lay me doun and die. 

"These two verses," as we are informed by Mr. 
Robert Chambers, "were written by Mr. Douglas 
of Finland upon Annie, one of the four daugh- 
ters of Sir Robert Laurie, first baronet of Max- 
welton, by his second wife, who was a daughter 
of Riddell of Minto. As Sir Robert was created a 
baronet in the year 16S5, it is probable that the 
verses were composed about the end of the seven- 
teenth or the beginning of the eighteenth century. 
It is painful to record that, notwithstanding the 
ardent and chivalrous affection displayed by Mr. 
Douglas in his poem, he did not obtain the heroine 
for a wife; she was married to Mr. Ferguson of 
Craigdarroch." The first four lines of the second 
stanza are taken from the old and indecent bal- 
lad of "John Anderson, my Jo," a fact which 
Mr. Chambers has not mentioned. The ballad 
of "John Anderson," as it was sung before it wajj 
rendered decent by Robert Burns, appeared in a 
very scarce volume of English songs, with music, 
entitled The Courim'nl SongMter, published in 17S2. 
— Plnttrated Book of Scottigh Song. 

Page SOI. — The Lord of Burleigh. — Henry 
Cecil, eleventh Baron Burleigh, tenth Karl of Ex- , 
eter and first Marquis of Exeter, was born at 
Brussels in 1754, and for many years in his early 
life was M. P. for Stamford. His lordship was ' 
married three timef : first, to Emma, only daugh- ; 
tcr and heiress of Thomas Vernon, Esq., uf Han- | 



bury, from whom he was divorced in 1791, after 
having issue by her one son, who died young; 
secondly, to Sarah, daughter to Thomas Hoggins, 
of Bolas, Shropshire, by whom he had issue four 
children — namely, the Lady Sophia Cecil, married 
to the Hon. Henry Manvers Pierrepoint (whose 
daughter married Lord Charles Welleslcy, second 
son of the first Duke of Wellington, and was moth- 
er of the present heir-presumptive to that duke- 
dom) ; Lord Henry Cecil, who died young; Lord 
Brownlow Cecil, who became second Marquis of 
Exeter ; and Lord Thomas Cecil, who married 
Lady Sophia Georgiana Lennox ; and, thirdly, to 
Elizabeth, Duchess Hamilton, by whom he had no 
issue. The second of these three marriages has 
supplied a theme to many novelists and dram- 
atists. They have used the poet's license some- 
what, but it is certain that the bride and her 
family had no idea of the rank of the wooer until 
the Lord of Burleigh had wedded the peasant girl. 
Thus Moore pictures Ellen, the *' hamlet's pride," 
loving in poverty, leaving her home to seek un- 
certain fortune. Stopping at the entrance to a 
lordly mansion, blowing the horn with a chief- i 
tain's air, while the porter bowed as he passed 
the gate, "she believed him wild " when he said, 
" This castle is thine, and these dark woods all ;" 
but "his words were truth," and " Ellen was Lady 
of Rosna Hall." — The Stately Humea of England, 
Second Series, 

Page 20^. — Lfcv's Flittis'. — The author of this 
sweet little poem was Scott's valued friend and 
steward. On Scott's return to Abbotsford from 
Xaples, after having travelled from London in a 
state of utter prostration and semi-unconscious- 
ness, seeing Laidlaw at his bedside, he said, his 
eyes brightening, "Is that you, Willie? I ken 
I'm hamo noo." — .yfary Carlyle Aitken. 

Page 22S. — The Grave op MACArnA.— At Cal- 
lan, a pass on an unfrequented road leading from 
Glanerought (the Vale of the Roughty) to Bantry, 
the country -people point out a flat stone by the 
pathway which they name as the burial-place of 
Daniel MacCarthy, who fell there in an engage- 
ment with the Fitzgeralds in 1261. The stone 
still preserves the traces of characters, which are, 
however, illegible. From the scanty records of 
the period it would appear that this battle was 
no inconsiderable one. The Geraldines were de- 
feated, and their leader, Thomas Fitzgerald, and 
his son, eighteen barons, fifteen knights, and many 
others of his adherents, slain. But the honor and 
advantage of victory were dearly purcha.'icd by 
the exulting natives, owing to the death of their 
brave and noble chieftain. The name .MacCarthy, 
as spelt in Irish, would he (represcnte*! in Roman 
characters) MacCartha. But it would be pro- 
nounced MacCaura, the th, or dotted f', having, in 



964 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



the Irish tongue, the soft sound of h. — Lover's 
Lyrics of Ireland, 

Page 225. — The Good Lord Clifford. — Mr. 
Southey, describing the mountain-scenery of the 
Lake region, says : " The story of the shepherd 
Lord ClitTord, which was known only to a few an- 
tiquarians till it was told so beautifully in verse 
by Wordsworth, gives a romantic history to Blen- 
cathara." Henry, Lord Clifford, was the son of 
John, Lord Clifford, who was slain at Towton, 
which battle placed the House of York upon the 
throne. His family could expect no mercy from 
the conqueror, for he was the man who slew the 
younger brother of Edward IV. in the battle of 
AVakefield — a deed of cruelty in a cruel age. The 
hero of this poem fled from his paternal home, 
and lived for twenty-four years as a shepherd. 
He was restored to his rank and estates by Henry 
VII. The following nai'rative is from an old MS. 
quoted by Mr. vSouthey : 

" So in the condition of a shepherd's boy at 
Lonsborrow, where his mother then lived for the 
most part, did this Lord Clifford spend his youth, 
till he was about fourteen years of age, about 
which time his mother's father, Henry Bromflett, 
Lord Vesey, deceased. But a little after his death 
it came to be rumored, at the court, that his daugh- 
ter's two sons were alive, about which their mother 
was examined; but her answer was, that she had 
given directions to send them both beyond seas, 
to be bred there, and she did not know whether 
they were dead or alive. 

"And as this Henry, Lord Clifford, did grow to 
more years, he was still the more capable of his 
danger, if he had been discovered. And therefore 
presently after his grandfather, the Lord Vesey, 
was dead, the said rumor of his being alive being 
more and more whispered at the court, made his 
said loving mother, by the means of her second 
husband, Sir Launcelot Threlkeld, to send him 
away with the said shepherds and their wives 
into Cumberland, to be kept as a shepherd there, 
sometimes at Threlkeld, and amongst his father- 
in-law's kindred, aud sometimes upon the borders 
of Scotland, where they took lands purposely for 
these shepherds'that had the custody of him ; where 
many times his father-in-law came purposely to 
visit him, and sometimes his mother, though very 
secretly. By which mean kind of breeding this 
inconvenience befell him, that he could neither 
write nor read; for they durst not bring him up 
in any kind of learning, lest by it his birth should 
be discovered. Yet, after he came to his lands 
and honors, he learnt to write his name only. 

" Notwithstanding which disadvantage, after he 
came to be possessed again, and restored to the 
enjoyment of his father's estate, he came to be a 
very wise man, and a very good manager of his 
estate and fortunes. 



" This Henry, Lord Clifford, after he came to bo 
possessed of his said estate, was a great builder 
and repairer of all his castles in the North, which 
had gone to decay when he came to enjoy them; 
for they had been in strangers' hands about twen- 
i ty-four or twenty-five years. Skipton Castle, and 
the lands about it, had been given to William 
Stanley by King Edward IV., which AVilliam 
Stanley's head was cut off about the tenth year of 
King Henry VIL; and Westmoreland was given 
by Edward IV. to his brother Kichard, Duke of 
Gloucester, who was afterward king of England, 
and was slain in battle, the 22d of August, 1485. 

*' This Henry, Lord Clifford, did, after he came 
to his estate, exceedingly delight in astronomy 
and the contemplation of the course of the stars, 
which it is likely he was seasoned in during the 
course of his shepherd's life. He built a great 
part of Barden Tower (which is now much de- 
cayed), and there he lived muchj which it is 
thought he did the rather because in that place 
he had furnished himself with instruments fjr 
that study. 

** He was a plain man, and lived for the most 
part a country life, and came seldom either to the 
court or London but when he was called thither 
to sit in them as a peer of the realm, in which par- 
liament, it is reported, he behaved himself wisely, 
and nobly, and like agood Englishman." — Knt'ijkt's 
Half Hours icith the Bent Authors. 

Page 233, — Epitaph on the Countess of Pem- 
broke. — The accomplished sister of Sir Philip 
Sidney, who dedicated to her his Arcadia. The 
countess of Pembroke wrote some graceful poems, 
translated the tragedy of Antony from the French, 
and joined her brother in a translation of the 
Psalms. Spenser speaks of her as 

" Most resembling, both in shape and spirit, 
Her brother dear." 

She died in 1621. The above epitaph was first 
introduced into the collected works of Ben Jonson 
by Whalley, on the ground that it was '* universally 
assigned to him." Jonson's claim to it, however, 
is by no means certain. — Bellew^a Poets* Corner. 

Page 233. — On Lrcv, Countess of Bedford. — 
Lucy, the lady of Edward, third Earl of Bedford, 
and daughter of John, Lord Harrington. She 
was a munificent patron of genius, and seems to 
have been peculiarly kind to Jonson. One of the 
most exquisite compliments that ever was offered 
to talents, beauty, and goodness was paid by the 
graceful poet to this lady The biographers are 
never weary of repeating after one another that 
she was "the friend of Donne and Daniel, who 
wrote verses on her," but of Jonson, who wrote 
more than both, they preserve a rigid silence. — • 
Jonson's WorJcn, vol. vii. 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



965 



Paiie.SS4. — SoiiNBTToCTniAcSKisNKB. — Cyrioo 
Skinner waa one of the principal members of Har- 
rington's political club. Wood says that lie was 
" an ingonioufi young gentleman and scholar to 
John Milton.*' 

Page BS5. — Milton's Pit.vvEn of Patiksce. — 
This poem, so Miltonic in its purity and force of 
expression, was at first attributed to the great 
poet himself, and was actually published in an 
English edition of his works as a recently-dis- 
covered poem by him. 

PaijriSS. — To THE Lady Margarkt Ley. — The 
daughter of Sir James Ley, whose singular learn- 
ing and abilities raised him through all the groat 
posts of the law till he came to be made Earl of 
Marlborough, Lord Uigh Treasurer, and Lord Pres- 
ident of the Council to King .James I. lie died at 
an advanced age, and Milton attributes his death 
to the breiikiny 1/ ihe Parliament ; and it is true 
that the Parliament was dissolved the 10th of 
March, lf)2|, and ho died on the 11th of the 
same month. 

Payc 2'i.j, — Lycidas. — The namo under which 
Milton celebrates the untimely death of Edward' 
King, Fellow of Christ College, Cambridge, who 
was drowned in his passage from Chester to Ire- 
land, August loth, 10:57. He was the son of Sir 
John King, Secretary for Ireland. — Dremer't Dic- 
tionary of Phrase and Fable. 

Pnije 2S8. — As HonATiAS OnE. — This ode was 
written in the summer of 16.')0, after Cromwell's 
return from the campaign in Ireland, and after he 
had been designated for the expedition to Scot- 
land, but while as yet the "laureat wreath'* of 
Dunbar Field was unwon. 

Paije 245. — On the Death of Dn. Levett. — 
In one of his (Johnson's) memorandum-books in 
roy possession is the following entry: ".January 
20, Sunday, 17S2, Robert Levett was buried in 
the churchyard of Bridewell between one and two 
in the afternoon. He die<l on Thursday, 17, about 
seven in the morning, by an instantaneous death. 
Ho was an old and faithful friend. I have known 
him from about 1746. Cammendavl. May God 
have mercy on him ! May Ho have mercy on 
me!" Boswell quotes as follows from "Critical 
Remarks" by Nathan Drake, M. D. : "The stan- 
zas on the death of this man of great but humble 
utility are beyond all praise. The wonderful 
powers of Johnson were never shown to greater 
advantage than on this occasion, where the sub- 
ject, from its obscurity .ind mediocrity, seemed 
to bid (lefiance to poetical efforts: it is, in fact, 
warm from the heart, and is the only poem from 
the pen of Johnson that has been bathed with 
tears. Would to God that on every medical man 



who attends the poor such encomiums could be 
justly passed!" — liosweWn Life of Johnton. 

Page S47. — ElEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HEN- 
DERSON. — Captain Matthew Henderson, a gentle- 
man of very agreeable manners and great pro- 
priety of character, usually lived in Edinburgh, 
dined constantly at Fortune's Tavern, and was a 
member of the Capillaire Club, which was com- 
posed of all who desired to be thought witty or 
joyous. Ho died in 1789. Burns, in a note to 
tho poem, says : " I loved the man much, and 
have not flattered his memory." Henderson seems, 
indeed, to have been universally liked. '* In our 
travelling party," says Sir James Campbell of 
Ardkinglass, "was Matthew Henderson, then 
(1759) and afterward well known and much es- 
teemed in the town of Edinburgh, at that time an 
officer in the Twenty-fifth regiment of foot, and, 
like myself, on his way to join the army; and I 
may say with truth that in the course of a long 
life I have never known a more estimable cha- 
racter than Matthew Henderson." — Memoirs of 
Campbell of Ardklnglun^. 

Page 252. — BiRiAi. op Sib John Moore. — 
Sir John Moore often said that if he were killed 
in battle ho wished to be buried where he fell. 
The body was removed at midnight to the citadel 
of Corunna. A grave was dug for him on the 
rampart there by a body of the Ninth regiment, 
the aides-de-camp attending by turns. No coffin 
could be procured, and the officers of his staff 
wrapped the body, dressed as it was, in a military 
cloak and blanket. The interment was hastened, 
for about eight in the morning some firing was 
heard, and the officers feared that if a serious 
attack were made they should be ordered away 
ond not suffered to pay him their last duty. The 
officers of his family bore him to the grave, the 
funeral service was read by tho chaplain, and tho 
corpse was covered with earth. — Edinburgh An- 
nual llcglHter (1808). 

Page 252. — On, Breathe not his Name.— This 
poem refers to Bobert Emmett, an eloquent Irish 
enthusiast, born in Cork in 1780. He was an 
ardent but misguided partisan of Irish independ- 
ence, and appears to have been n sincere patriot. 
He was one of the chiefs of the " United Irish- 
men." In July, 1803, he rashly put himself at 
the head of a party of insurgents consisting of 
the rabble of Dublin, who murdered the chief- 
justice. Lord Kilwarden, and others, but were 
quickly dispersed by tho military. Emmett was 
arrested, was tried, and after an eloquent and 
impassioned speech in vindication of his course, 
suffered with intrepid courage a felon's death, 
September, 180.^. — Thomatt Jtlographlcal Dic- 
tionary. 



966 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE, 



Page 263. — The Lost Leader. — In his earlier 
years, Wordsworth, who had travelled in France 
during the French Revolution, was very demo- 
cratic in his opinions, but afterward grew more 
conservative, which some of his old associates 
attributed to his having received from the Eng- 
lish government the office of poet-laureate. 

Page 267. — Ichabod. — "And she named the 
child Ichabod, saying, The glory U departed 
from Israel." 1 Samuel iv. 2L This poem was 
written upon receipt of the intelligence of Dan- 
iel Webster's speech in the U. S. Senate, March 
7, 1850, in defence of the Compromise measures, 
and especially of the Fugitive Slave Law. 

Page 273. — Lines Written on the Night of 
THE 30th of July, 1847. — The contest was short, 
but sharp. For ten days the city was white with 
broadsides, and the narrow courts off the High 
street rang with the dismal strains of innumer- 
able ballad-singers. The opposition was nomi- 
nally directed against both the sitting members, 
but from the first it was evident that all the scur- 
rility was meant exclusively for Macaulay. He 
came scathless even out of that ordeal. The vague 
charge of being too much of an essayist and too 
little of a politician was the worst that either 
snint or sinner could find to say of him. The bur- 
den of half the election songs was to the effect that 
he had written poetry, and that one who knew so 
much of ancient Rome could not possibly be the 
man for modern England. The day of nomination 
was the 29th of July. The space in front of the 
hustings had been packed by the advocates of 
ciieap whiskey. Professor Aytoun, who stooped 
to second Mr. Blackburn, was applauded to his 
heart's content, while Macaulay was treated with 
a brutality the details of which are painful to read 
and would be worse than useless to record. The 
polling took place on the morrow. A considerable 
number of the Tories, instead of plumping for 
Blackburn or dividing their favors with the sit- 
ting members (who were both of them moderate 
Whigs and supporters of the Establishment), 
thought fit to give their second votes to Mr. 
Cowan, an avowed Yoluntaryist in church mat- 
ters and the accejitcd champion of the Radical 
party. 

*' I waited with Mr. Macaulay," says Mr. Adam 
Black, ^' in a room of the Merchants' Hall to re- 
CL-ivo at every hour the numbers who had polled 
in all the districts. At 10 o'clock we were con- 
founded to find that he was 150 below Cowan, but 
still had faint hopes that the next hour might turn 
the scale. The next hour came, and a darker 
prospect. At 12 o'clock he was 340 below Cowan. 
It was obvious now that the field was lost, but 
we were left from hour to hour under the torture 
of a sinking poll, till at 4 o'clock it stood thus : 



Cowan, 2063; Craig, 1854; Macaulay, 1477; 
Blackburn, 980." 

That same night, while the town was still alive 
with jubilation over a triumph that soon lost its 
gloss even in the eyes of those who had won it, 
Macaulay, in the grateful silence of his chamber, 
was weaving his perturbed thoughts into those ex- 
quisite lines which tell within the compass of a 
score of stanzas the essential secret of the life 
whose outward aspect these volumes have endeav- 
ored to portray. — Macatilai/'s Life (uid Letters. 

Page 293. — Harmozan. — After a noble defence, 
Harmozan, the prince or satrap of Ahwaz and 
Susa, was compelled to surrender his person and 
his state to the discretion of the caliph; and 
their interview exhibits a portrait of the Arabian 
manners. In the presence and by the command 
of Omar the gay barbarian was despoiled of his 
silken robes embroidered with gold, and of his 
tiara bedecked with rubies and emeralds. ''Are 
you not sensible," said the conqueror to his naked 
captive — "are you not sensible of the judgment 
of God, and of the different rewards of infidel- 
ity and obedience?" — "Alas!" replied Harmo- 
zan, "I feel them too deeply. In the days of our 
common ignorance we fought with the weapons 
of the flesh, and my nation was superior. God 
was then neuter; since He has espoused your 
quarrel you have subverted our kingdom and 
religion." Oppressed by this painful dialogue, 
the Persian complained of intolerable thirst, but 
discovered some apprehension lest he should be 
killed whilst he was drinking a cup of water, 
"Be of good courage," said the caliph; "your 
life is safe till you have drunk this water." The 
crafty satrap accepted the assurance, and instant- 
ly dashed the vase against the ground. Omar 
would have avenged the deceit, but his compan- 
ions represented the sanctity of an oath; and the 
speedy conversion of Harmozan entitled him not 
only to a free pardon, but even to a stipend of 
two thousand pieces of gold. — Gibbon's Home, 
chap. li. 

Page 394- — Crespextius. — Crescentius was con- 
sul of the Romans in the reign of the Emperor 
Otho HI. He attempted to shake off the Saxon 
yoke, and was besieged by Otho in the Mole of 
Hadrian (long called the Tower of Crescentius). 
He was betrayed and beheaded. — Bellew's Pueta' 
Cur tier. 

Page 294. — The Vengeance of Mudara. — 
Gonjalo Bustos de Salas de Lara, a Castilinn 
hero of the eleventh century, had seven sons. 
His brother, Rodrigo Velasquez, married a Moor- 
ish lady, and these seven nephews were invited 
to the feast. A fray took place in which one of 
the seven slew a Moor, and the bride demanded 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



907 



vengeance. Rodrigo, to please his bride^ waylaid 
his brother Gon^iilo, and kept hiui in durance in 
a dungeon of Cordova, and the seven boys were 
betrayed into a ravine where they were cruelly 
murdered. While in the dungeon the daughter 
of the Moorish king fell in love with Gonfalo and 
became the mother of Mudara, who avenged the 
death of Lara's seven sons by slaying Kodrigo. 
— Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. 

Page 295. — Thb Bard. — This ode is founded 
on a tradition current in Wales, that Edward I., 
when he completed the conquest of that country, 
ordered all the Bards that fell into his hands 
to be put to death. The original argument of 
this ode, as Mr. trray had set it down in one 
of the pages of his commonplace book, was as 
follows: The army of Edward I., as they march 
through a deep valley, are suddenly stopped by 
the appearance of a venerable figure seated on 
the summit of an inaccessible rock, who, with a 
voice more than human, reproaches the king 
with all the misery and desolation wliich he had 
brought on his country; foretells the misfortunes 
of the Norman race, and with prophetic spirit 
declares that all bis cruelty shall never extinguish 
the noble ardor of poetic genius in this island; 
and that men shall never be wanting to celebrate 
true virtue and valor in immortal strains, to ex- 
pose vice and infamous pleasure, and boldly cen- 
sure tyranny and oppression. His song ended, 
he precipitates himself from the mountain, and 
is swallowed up by the river that rolls at its 
foot. — Grain's Poems. 

Pa,jeS97. — A Verv Moirxfil BAI.I.An. — The 
effect of the original ballad (which existed both 
in .Spanish and Arabic) was such that it was for- 
bidden to bo sung by the Moors, on pain of death, 
within Granada. — Uyro»*s Poems. 

Page SOS. — Tnn Loni> of Bitraoo. — The in- 
cident to which this ballad relates is supposed 
to have occurred on the famous field of Alju- 
barrota. where King Juan I. of Castile was de- 
feated by the Portuguese. The king, who was 
at the time in a feeble state of health, exposed 
himself very much during the action, and. being 
wounded, had great difficulty in making his es- 
cape. The battle was fought A. D. l.'iSa. — ioci- 
hart*s Spnninh linUoih. 

Pitije ?ii».— Make Wav for Liiikrty I— This 
poem is founded on the heroic achievement of 
Arnold de Winketried at the battle of Sempach, 
which was fought on the »th of July, I.ISti. In 
this battle the Swiss gained a great victory over 
Leopold, Diikc of Austria, and secured the liberty 
of their rountry, which had been grossly op- 
pressed by Austria. 

Page 300. — The Ballad of Aoi.xcourt. — In 



the battle of Agincoart, fought on the 25th of 
October, 1115, Henry V. of England, with an 
army of about ten thousand men, totally defeated 
the French under the Constable d'Albrct. The 
French army consisted of about sixty thousand 
men. 

Page SOI. — The Ballad of Chf.vv Ciiack. — 
There had long been a rivalry between tho 
families of Percy and Douglas, which showed 
itself by incessant raids into each other's terri- 
tory. Percy of Northumberland one day vowed 
he would hunt for three days in tho Scottish 
border without condescending to ask leave of 
Earl Douglas. The Scottish warden said in his 
anger, " Tell this vaunter he shall find one day 
more than sufficient." The ballad called " Chevy 
Chace" mixes up this hunt with the battle of 
Otterburn, which. Dr. Percy justly observes, was 
"a very different event." Chevy Chacemeans the 
chase or hunt among the "Chyviat hyls." — 
Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. 

Page SO^. — EnixBiiRcn AFTER FLonnEX. — The 
great battle of Flodden was fought upon tho flth 
of September, 151S. Tho defeat of the Scottish 
army, resulting mainly from the fantastic ideas 
of chivalry entertained by James IV., and his 
refusal to avail himself of the natural advantages 
of his position, was by far the most disastrous of 
any recounted in the history of the northern 
wars. The whole strength of tho kingdom, both 
Lowland and Highland, was assembled, and the 
contest was one of the sternest and most dcs- 
' perate ujion record. For several hours tho issue 
seemed doubtful. On the left the Scots obtained 
a decided advantage; on the right they were 
broken and overthrown ; and at last tho whole 
weight of tho buttle was brought into the centre, 
where King James and the Earl of .Surrey com- 
manded in person. The determined valor of 
James, imprudent as it was, had the effect of 
rousing to a pitch of desperation the courage of 
the meanest suKliers ; and the grouml becoming 
soft and slippery from blood, they pulled off 
their boots and shoes, and secured a firmer foot- 
ing by fighting in their hose. Both parlies did 
wonders, but none performed more than the king. 
Ho would fight not only in person, but on foot. 
At first ho had abundance of success ; but at 
length bis battalion was surrounded, and tho 
Scots formed themselves into a ring, and, being 
resolved to die nobly with their sovereign, who 
scorned to ask quarter, were alt<igethcr cut off. 
Tho loss of the Scots was about ten thousand 
men. Tho loss to Edinburgh was peculiarly 
great. All the magistrates and able-bodied eiti- 
lens had followeil their king to Flodden, whence 
vory few of them returned. Tho news of (ho 
overthrow on the field of Flodden overwhelmed 



968 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



the inhabitants with grief and confusion. The 
streets were crowded with women seel<ing in- 
telligence about their friends, clamoring and 
weeping. The city banner referred to in the 
])oem is a standard still held in great honor bj 
the burghers, having been presented to them by 
James III. in return for their loyal service in 
14S2. This banner, still conspicuous in the 
library of the Faculty of Advocates, was honor- 
ably brought back from Flodden, and could cer- 
tainly never have been displayed on a more mem- 
orable field. No event in Scottish history ever 
took a more lasting hold on the public mind than 
the " woeful fight" of Flodden ; and even now the 
song^ and traditions which are current on the 
Border recall the memory of a contest unsullied 
by disgrace, though terminating in disaster and 
defeat. — Harper^ Maf/aziite. 

Paye SOS. — The Flowers op the Forest. — 
The " Flowers of the Forest " are the young 
men of the districts of Selkirkshire and Peebles- 
shire, anciently known as " the Forest." The 
song is founded by. the author upon an older 
composition of the same name, deploring the 
loss of the Scotch at Flodden Field, of which 
all has been lost except two or three lines. — 
Ilhistrttted Book of SciAtinh Son(j. 

Pmje S09. — IvRY. — Henry IV., on his ac- 
cession to the French throne, was opposed by 
a large part of his subjects upder the Duke of 
Mayenne, with the assistance of Spain and 
Savoy, and from the union of these several 
nations their army was called the "Army of the 
League." In March, 1590, he gained a decisive 
victory over that party at Ivry, a small town in 
France. Before the battle he said to his troops, 
" My children, if you lose sight of your colors, 
r.Tlly to my white plume ; you will always find it 
in the path to honor and glory." His conduct was 
answer.able to his promise. Nothing could resist 
his impetuous valor, and the Leaguers underwent 
a total and bloody defeat. In the midst of the 
rout Henry followed, crying, " Save the French !" 
and his clemency added a number of the enemy 
to his own army. 

Pnrje 311. — The Sack of B.iltimore. — Bal- 
timore is a small seaport in the barony of Car- 
bcry in South Munster. It grew up round a 
castle of O'DriscoH's, and was after his ruin col- 
onized by the English. On the 20th of June, 
10,31, the crews of two Algerine galleys landed in 
the dead of the night, sacked the town, and bore 
off into slavery all who were not too old, or too 
young, or too fierce for their purpose. The 
pirates were steered up the intricate channel by 
one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they 
had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years 



after, he was convicted and executed for the 
crime. Baltimore never recovered this. To the 
artist, the antiquary, and the naturalist its neigh- 
borhood is most interesting. (See The Ancient 
and Present State of the County and Citt/ of- Cork, 
by Charles Smith, M. D., second edition, Dublin, 
1774. Note by Thomas Osborne Davis.) 

Page SIS. — Naseby. — The battle of Naseby was 
fought June 14, 1645, between the royal forces, 
commanded by Charles I., and the Parliamentary 
party, nicknamed " Roundheads," under Lord 
Fairfax. The forces on both sides were about 
equal, Fairfax having rather the choice of posi- 
tion. At first, Prince Kupert, who commanded 
the right wing of the royal army, made such an 
impetuous attack upon the left wing of the Parlia- 
mentarians that it was broken and put to flight, 
and Ireton, its commander, wounded and taken 
prisoner; but finally Cromwell, who commanded 
the right wing of Fairfa.x's army, routed the left 
wing of the opposing army, and came to the re- 
lief of the Parliamentary centre, commanded by 
Fairfax and Skippon, when the royal army was 
defeated, and Charles fled from the bloody field, 
leaving 800 killed, 4500 prisoners, besides his ar- 
tillery, ammunition, and several thousand stand 
of arms. The battle virtually decided the war. 

Page 315. — "When the Assault was I.ntended 
TO THE City. — This sonnet, the first of those 
which refer to English public affairs, was written 
in November, 1642, and probably on Saturday, the 
12th of that month. The Civil War had then be- 
gun, and Milton, already known as a vehement 
anti-Episcopal pamphleteer and Parliamentarian, 
was living, wilh two young nephews whom he was 
educating, in his house in Aldersgate street, a 
surburban thoroughfare just beyond one of the 
city gates of London. After some of the first 
actions of the war, including the indecisive bat- 
tle of Edgehill (Oct. 23), the king's army, advan- 
cing out of the Midlands, with the king and Prince 
Rupert present in it, had come as near to London 
as Hounslow and Brentford, and was threatening 
a further march to crush the Londoners and the 
Parliament at once. They were at their nearest 
on Saturday, the 12th of November; and all that 
day and the next there was immense excitement 
in London in expectation of an assault — chains 
put up across streets, houses barred, etc. It 
was not till the evening of the 1.3th that the 
citizens were reassured by the retreat of the 
king's army, which had been checked from a 
closer advance by a rapid march-out of the 
trained bands under Essex and Skippon. Mil- 
ton, we are to fancy, had shared the common 
alarm. His was one of the houses which, if the 
Cavaliers had been let loose, it would have given 
them jiarticular pleasure to sack. Knowing this, 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE, 



969 



the only precaution ho takes is, half in jest, and 
yet perhaps with some anxiety, to write a son- 
net a(ldret)t<cd to tbc imaginary Royalist captain, 
colonel, or knight who may command the Alders- 
gate street sacking-party. *'0n hia ciore when ye 
citty expected an aamtuft" is the original heading 
of the sonnet in the copy of it, by an amanuensis, 
among the Cambridge MSS., as if the sonnet had 
actually been pasted or nailed up on the outside 
of Milton's door. This title was afterward de- 
leted by Milton himself, and the other title sub- 
stituted in his own band ; but the sonnet appeared 
without any title at all in the editions of 1645 and 
1673. — Miltotif Mosson's edition. 

Paye S15. — On the Late Massacre in Pied- 
most. — This, the most powerful of Milton's son- 
nets, was written in 1G63, and refers to the perse- 
cutions instituted, in the early part of that year, 
by Charles Emmanuel II., Duke of Savoy and 
Prince of Piedmont, against his Protestant sub- 
jects of the valleys of the Cottian Alps. This 
Protestant community, half French and half 
Italian, and known as the Waldenscs or Vaudois, 
were believed to have kept up the tradition of a 
primitive Christianity from the time of the apos- 
tles. There had been various persecutions of 
them since the Keformation, but that of 1655 
surpassed all. By an edict of the duke they were 
required to part with their property and leave 
their habitations within twenty days, or else to 
hecomo Roman Catholics. On their resistance, 
forces were sent into their valleys, and the most 
dreadful atrocities followed. Many were butch- 
ered, others were taken away in chains, and hun- 
dreds of families were driven for refuge to the 
mountains covered with snow, to live there miser- 
ably or perish with cold and hunger. Among the 
Protestant nations of Europe, and especially in 
England, the indignation was immediate and vio- 
lent. Cromwell, who was then Protector, took up 
the matter with his whole strength. He caused 
Latin letters, couched in the strongest terms, to be 
immediately sent, not only to the offending Duke 
of Savoy, but also to the chief princes and pow- 
ers of Europe. These letters were drawn up by 
Milton, and may be read among his Letters of 
State. An ambassador was also sent to collect in- 
formation; a Fast Day was appointed; a sub- 
scription of £40,000 was raised for the sufferers ; 
and altogether Crorawcll's reraonstrances were 
such that, backed as they would have been, if 
necessary, by armed force, the cruel edict was 
withdrawn, and a convention made with the Vau- 
dois, allowing them the exercise of their worship. 
Milton's sonnet is his private and more tremen- 
dous expression in verse of the feeling ho expressed 
publicly, in Cromwell's name, in his Latin State 
Letters. — MUtonj Maeson's edition. 



Page 315, — The Execution op Montrose. — 
James Graham, Marquis of Montrose, was born 
at Edinburgh in 1012. Having finished his stud- 
ies in Franco, after his return to Scotland he 
served for a time in the Presbyterian army, but 
subsequently went over to the royalists. lie was 
appointed by Charles I., in 1G44, Marquis of 
Montrose and commander-in-chief of the Scot- 
tish forces, lie signally defeated the Covenanters 
at Tippermuir in 1644, also at Invcrlochy and at 
Kilsylh in 1646; but his army was surprised and 
totally defeated by General Leslie at Philiphaugh 
in September, 1645. Montrose soon after went to 
Germany, where he was received with great dis- 
tinction by the Austrian emperor and made a 
marshal of the Empire. Having collected a small 
but ill-organized force, he returned to Scotland in 
1650, but was soon after defeated and taken pris- 
oner. Ho was executed, without a trial, at Edin- 
burgh, in May, 1650. — Thomaa'a Biographical Dic- 
tionary. 

PageSlS, — The Bonnets op Bonnfe Dcndee. — 
Dundee, enraged at his enemies, and still more at 
his friends, resolved to retire to the Highlands, 
and to make preparations for civil war, but with 
secrecy, for ho had been ordered by James to 
make no public insurrection until assistance 
should be sent him from Ireland. 

Whilst Dundee was in this temper, information 
was brought him — whether true or false is uncer- 
tain — that some of the Covenanters had associated 
themselves to assassinate him. in revenge for his 
former severities against their party. He tlcw to 
the Convention and demanded justice. The Duke 
of Hamilton, who wished to get rid of a trouble- 
some adversary, treated his comjilaint with neg- 
lect, and, in order to sting him in the tenderest 
part, reflected upon that courage which could bo 
alarmed by inmginary dangers. Dundee left the 
house in a rage, mounted his horse, and with a 
troop of fifty horsemen, who had deserted to him 
from his regiment in England, galloped through 
the city. Being asked by one of his friends, who 
stopped him, "Where he was going?'' ho waved 
bis hat, and is reported to have answered, 
"Wherever the spirit of Montrose shall direct 
mo." In passing under the walls of the Castle, 
he stopped, scrambled up the precipice at a place 
diflicult and dangerous, and held a conference 
with the Duke of Gordon ot a postern-gato, the 
marks of which are still to bo seen, though the 
gate itself is built up. Hoping, in vain, to infuse 
the vigor of iiis own spirit into the duke, ho 
pressed him to retire with him into the High- 
lands, raise his vassals there, who were numerous, 
brave, and faithful, and leave the command '»f the 
Castle to Winram, the lieutenant-governor, an 
I officer on whom Dundee could rely. The duke 



970 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



concealed his timidity under the excuse of a sol- 
dier. "A soldier/' said he, "cannot in honor 
quit the post that is assigned him," The novelty 
of the sight drew numbers to the foot of the rock 
upon which the conference was held. These num- 
bers every minute increased, and, in the end, were 
mistaken for Dundee's adherents. The Conven- 
tion -was then sitting; news was carried thither 
that Dundee was at the gates with an army, and 
had prevailed upon the governor of the Castle to 
fire upon the town. The Duke of Hamilton, 
whose intelligence was better, had the presence 
of mind, by improving the moment of agitation, 
to overwhelm the one party, and provoke the 
other, by their fears. He ordered the doors of 
the house to be shut, and the keys to bo laid on 
the table before him. He cried out, " That there 
was danger within as well as without doors; that 
traitors must be held in confinement until the 
present danger was over; but that the friends of 
liberty had nothing to fear, for that thousands 
were ready to start .up in their defence at the 
stamp of his foot." He ordered the drums to be 
beat and the trumpets to sound through the city. 
In an instant vast swarms of those who had been 
brought into town by him and Sir John Dalrym- 
ple from the western counties, and who had been 
hitherto hid in garrets and cellars, showed them- 
selves in the streets : not. indeed, in the proper 
habiliments of war, but in arms, and with looks 
fierce and sullen, as if they felt disdain at their 
former concealment. This unexpected sight in- 
creased the noise and tumult of the town, which 
grew loudest in the square adjoining the house 
where the members were confined, and appeared 
still louder to those who were within, because they 
were ignorant of the cause from which the tumult 
arose, and caught contagion from the anxious 
looks of each other. After some hours the doors 
were thrown open, and the "Whig members, as 
they went out, were received with acclamations, 
and those of the opposite party with the threats 
and curses of a 2}rej}ared populace. Terrified by 
the prospect of future alarms, many of the ad- 
herents of James quitted the Convention and 
retired to the country; most of them changed 
sides ; only a very few of the most resolute con- 
tinued their attendance. — Dalvymplea Memoirs. 

Page S 19. — The "Burial March of Dundee. — 
John Graham, Viscount Dundee, was born in 16-13, 
He served in the French army from 166S to 1672, 
and next entered the Dutch service as cornet in 
the Prince of Orange's horse-guards, and is re- 
ported to have saved the life of the prince at the 
battle of SenefFe in 1674. Returning to Scotland, 
he took a prominent part in the persecution of the 
Covenanters and in the attempt to force Episco- 
pacy on the people of that country. In 1688, on 



the eve of the Revolution, he was raised to the 
peerage by James II. as Viscount Dundee and 
Lord Graham of Claverhouse. When James was 
driven from the throne, Dundee remained faith- 
ful to the fallen monarch. He was joined by the 
Jacobite Highland clans and by auxiliaries from 
Ireland, and raised the standard of rebellion 
against the government of AVilliam and Mary. 
After various movements in the North, he advanced 
upon Blair in Athol, and General Maekay, com- 
manding the government forces, hastened to meet 
him. The two armies confronted each other :it 
the Pass of Killiecrankie, July 27., 1 6S9. Mackay's 
force was about four thousand men; Dundee's, 
twenty-five hundred foot, with one troop of horse. 
A few minutes decided the contest. After both 
armies had exchanged fire, the Highlanders rush- 
ed on with their swords, and the enemy instantly 
scattered and gave way. Maekay lost by death 
and capture two thousand five hundred men; the 
victors, nine hundred. Dundee fell Joy a musket- 
shot while waving on one of his battalions to 
advance. He was carried ofl' the field to Urrard 
House, or Biair Castle, and there expired. 

Page S21. — Fontenoy. — The battle of Fontenoy 
was fought between the French, under Marshal 
Saxe, and the English, Dutch, and Austrians, 
under the Duke of Cumberland, May 11, 17-15. 
The fortunes of war were at first in favor of the 
French, who were posted on a hill behind Fonte- 
noy, when Cumberland, heading a column of four- 
teen thousand British' and Hanoverian infantry, 
with fixed bayonets, plunged down the ravine 
separating the two armies, and gained the hill, 
carrying everything before him. The day was 
apparently lost to the French, and Marshal Saxe 
in vain urged the king to fly. At this critical 
moment the Irish brigade charged on the English 
flank, and changed the apparent defeat into a de- 
cisive victory. 

Page S2S. — Lochiel's Warning. — Lochiel, the 
chief of the wai'Iike clan of the Camerons, and 
descended from ancestors distinguished in their 
narrow sphere for great personal prowess, was a 
man worthy of a better cause and fate than that in 
which he embarked— the enterprise of the Stuarts in 
1745. His memory is still fondly cherished among 
the Highlnnders by the appellation of the " gentle 
Lochiel," for he was famed for his social virtues 
as much as his martial and magnanimous (though 
mistaken) loyalty. His influence was so import- 
ant among the Highland chiefs, that it depended 
on his joining with his clan whether the standard 
of Charles should be raised or not in 1745. Lochiel 
was himself too wise a man to be blind to the 
consequences of so hopeless an enterprise, but his 
sensibility to the point of honor overruled his 
wisdom. Lochiel, with many arguments, but in 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



971 



raiDf pressed the Pretender to return to Franee 
and reserve biiusclf and his friends for a niuro 
favorable occa.'iion, as bo bad come, by bis own 
acknowledgment, witbout arms, or money, or ad- 
bcrents ; or, at all events, to remain concealed till 
bi? friends sbuuld meet and deliberate wbat wns 
best to be done. Cbarles, whose mind was wound 
up to the utmost impatience, paid no regard to 
his propo:-aI, but answered that be was determined 
to put all to tbc hazard. "In a few days," said 
he, "I wiil erect the royal standard, and will pro- 
claim to the people of Great Britain that Charles 
Stuart is come over to claim the crown of bis an- 
cestors, and to win it or perish in the attempt. 
Locbiel, who my father has often told mc was our 
firmest friend, may stay at homo and learn from 
the newspapers the fate of his prince." " No," 
gftid LochicI, " I will share the fate of my prince, 
and so shall every man over whom nature or for- 
tune hath given mc any power." — Campbell's 
PoemHj note. 

Page S27.—1tiv: Tears of PcoTi.Asn.— Written 
on tbc barbarities committed in tbc Highlands by 
the English forces under the command of the Duke 
of Cumberland after the battle of Cullodcn, 1746. 
It is said that Smollett originally finished the 
poem in. six stanzas, when some one representing 
that such a diatribe against government might 
injure his prospects, he sat down and added the 
still more pointed invective of the seventh stanza. 
— Chambera't Ci/clopiedta of EugUsh Literature, 

Pafje S28. — Lons XV.— The story of the king's 
meeting a coffin was in everybody's mouth. Xo 
one here bad heard it. So Jerome told that the 
king was fond of asking questions of strangers, 
and particularly about disease, death, and church- 
yards, because be thought bis gay attemlants did 
not like to hear of such things. One day be was 
hunting in the forest of Scnard when ho met a 
man on horseback carrying a coffin. "Where arc 
you carrying that coffin ?" asked the king. " To 
the village yonder." " Is it for a man or a 
woman?" "For a man." "What did ho die 
of?" "Of hunger." The king clapped spurs to 
his horse and rode away. — The Peasant and the 
Prince, by Harriet Martineau. 

PaffcS29. — Paul REvnnE'sRinE. — Paul Revere 
was one of the four engravers in America at the 
time of the Revolution, and one of the most active 
participants in the political movementn imme- 
diately preceding the breaking out of the war. 
He was prouiinent in the destruction of the tea in 
Boston harbor, and was scut to Philadelphia and 
New York to convey the news of that event; and 
again visited those cities to enlist their sympathy 
and co-operation when the decree for closing the 
port of Boston was passed. On the night of April 



18th, 1775, Dr. Joseph Warren sent him and M'il- 
liam Dawes to Lexingtou and Concord to give 
notice of (jteneral Gage's intended expedition to 
I destroy tbe Provincial military stores and can- 
non at Concord. Dawes went by way of Roxbor- 
ough to Lexington, while Revere went through 
Charlestown. After tbe lalter bad crossed tbe 
Cbarles River orders were sent from tbe BritiMi 
bead-quarters to arrest him, but, eluding tbe Brit- 
I ish sentinels, he rowed across tbc Charles River 
I five minutes before the order was received, and 
galloped through the country to Lexington, arous- 
ing the inhabitants as he went along. Tbe two 
messengers jiassed through Lexington a little 
after midnight, and aroused Hancock and Adams, 
who were lodging at tho house of the Rev. Jonas 
Clark, and then hurried on to Concord. They 
were afterward taken prisoners, and brought as 
far as Lexington, but were released in the con- 
fusion of the battle. 

Patfc SSI. — SosG OP MAnio>''s Men. — The ex- 
ploits of General Francis Marion, the famous 
partisan warrior of South Carolina, form an in- 
teresting cha])tcr in tbe annals of the American 
Revolution. Tbe Brilish Iroftps were so harassed 
by the irregular and successful warfare which bo 
kept up at the head of a few daring followers, 
that they sent an officer to remonstrate with him 
for not coming into the open field and fighting 
"like a gentleman and a Christian." — Sotcs to 
Brjfa»t*a Poems. 

Page S40. — HniiFxi.iNnEN. — During his tour in 
Germany, Campbell saw a battle from o convent 
near Ratisbon, and ho saw tbe field of Ingolstadt 
after n battle. From such experiences he derived 
his poem on tbe battle in which the French de- 
feated tbc Austrians at Holienlindcn on the ."id 
of December, 1800. Ten thousand Austrians were 
killed or wounded, and as many were made pris- 
oners. — Morleifa Shorter EnrfUsh Poemn. 

Pafje S4I. — Battle of the Baltic. — In De- 
cember, 1800, a maritime alliance was formed be- 
tween Russia, Prussia, Denmark, and Sweden in 
regard to the rights of neutral nations in war. 
For the purpose of breaking uj) this confederacy 
a fleet of 52 sail was sent in March, 1801, to tbe 
Bailie under Sir Hyde Parker, Nelson consenting 
to act as second in command. The squadron 
passed the Sound on the .'iOth, and entered tho 
harbor of Copenhagen. To Xelson, at the head 
of 12 ships of tbe line and smaller vessels, mak- 
ing 30 in all, was assigned the attack ; against 
him were opposed 18 vessels mounting 62S guns, 
moored in a line a mile in length and Hanked by 
two batteries. Tho action-began about 10 a. m., 
April 2, and lasted five hours. About 1 o'dnck 
Sir Hyde Parker made tbe signal for discontinu- 



972 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



ing. Nelson ordered it to be acknowledged, but, 
putting the glass to his blind eye, exclaimed, "I 
really don't see the signal. Keep mine for closer 
battle still flying. That's the way I answer such 
signals. Nail mine to the mast." By 2 o'clock, 
the Danish fleet being almost entirely taken or 
destroyed, he wrote to the crown prince the fol- 
lowing note: "Vice-Admiral Nelson has been 
commanded to spare Denmark when she no 
longer resists. The line of defence which cov- 
ered her shores has struck to the British flagj 
but if the firing is continued on the part of Den- 
mark, he must set on fire all the prizes he has 
taken, without having the power of saving the 
men who have so nobly defended them. The 
brave Danes are the brothers, and should never 
be the enemies, of the English." An armistice of 
fourteen weeks was agreed to, and in the mean 
time the accession of Alexander to the throne of 
Russia broke up the confederacy and left matters 
on their old footing. For this battle, which Nel- 
son said was the most terrible of all in which he 
bad ever been engaged, he was raised to the rank 
of viscount. — Appletons Cycloptedia, 

Page S44- — Casabianca. — Young Casabianca, 
a boy about thirteen years old, son of the admiral 
of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle 
of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire and all 
the guns had been abandoned, and perished in 
the explosion of the vessel when the flames had 
reached the powder. — Hemans's Poems. 

Page S44- — The Angels of Buena Vista. — At 
the terrible fight of Buena Vista, Mexican women 
were seen hovering near the field of death for the 
purpose of giving aid and succor to the wounded. 
One poor woman was found surrounded by the 
maimed and suffering of both armies, minister- 
ing to the wants of Americans as well as Mex- 
icans with impartial tenderness. 

Page 346. — Marco Bozxauis. — Marco Bozzaris 
was one of the bravest and best of the modern 
Greek chieftains. He fell in a night-attack upon 
the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient 
Platiea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the mo- 
ment of victory. — Halleek'e Poems. 

Page 8^7 . — On the Extinction of the Vene- 
tian Republic. — During the revolutionary 
movements of 1848, Venice in March revolted 
against the Austrian rule and proclaimed the 
restoration of the republic; but after enduring 
a long siege and a terrible bombardment, she ca- 
pitulated on August 23, 1849, .and on the 30th 
Radetzky entered the city, which was not released 
fi'om the state of siege until May 1, 1854, — Apple- 
ton\ Cxjcloptedia. 

Page S47. — The Charge of the Light Brig- 



ade. — The battle of Balaklava was fought Octo- 
ber, 1854, between the allied English, French, and 
Turkish forces, under Lord Raglan, Omar Pacha, 
and Marshal St. Arnaud, and the Russian armies; 
the fighting being principally by the English and 
Russians. The brilliant but useless charge of the 
Light Brigade has made this battle famous in 
song and story, but it really did little toward 
deciding the result of the war. 

Page 353. — The Star - Spangled Banner. — 
This song was composed under the following 
circumstances : A gentleman had left Baltimore 
with a flag of truce for the purpose of getting 
released from the British fleet a friend of his, who 
had been captured at Marlborough. He went as 
far as the mouth of the Patuxent, and was not 
permitted to return, lest the intended attack on 
Baltimore should be disclosed. He was therefore 
brought up the bay to the mouth of the Patapsco, 
where the flag-vessel was kept under the guns of 
a frigate ; and he was compelled to witness the 
bombardment of Fort McHenry, which the admi- 
ral had boasted he would carry in a few hours, 
and that the city must fall. He watched the flag 
at the fort through the whole day, with anxiety 
that can be better felt than described, until the 
night prevented him from seeing it. In the night 
he watched the bomb-shells, and at early dawn his 
eye was again greeted by the flag of his country. 
— McCartya National Songs. 

Page 355. — Rule, Britannia. — This celebrated 
song was first sung in the *' Masque of Alfred," 
a performance which was the joint production of 
James Thomson and David Mallet. The masque 
was written by the command of the Prince of 
Wales, father of George III., for his entertain- 
ment of the Court, and was first performed at 
Clifden in 1740, on the birthday of H. R. H. the 
Princess of Wales. — Belfew's Poets' Corner. 

Page 355. — GoD Save the King. — The most 
popular song in the world is our " God save the 
Queen." The history of its composition is very 
uncertain. Perhaps the best-sustained theory is 
that it was originally a Jacobite song, written 
during the rebellion of 1715 by Henry Carey, and 
partly composed by him. It rushed into popu- 
larity at the English theatres in 1745, and Carey 
himself sang it publicly in 1740, having changed 
" James " to " George." The air is simple, and yet 
stately. It is capable of calling forth the talents 
of the finest vocal performers, and yet is admira- 
bly adapted for a chorus, in which the humblest 
pretender to music may join. The words are not 
elegant, but they are very expressive; and the 
homeliness of some of the lines may have con- 
tributed to its universality. It is one of those 
very rare productions which never pall — which. 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



973 



either from hnbit, or associations, or intriasic ex- 
cellence, are ahvny.'* pleasing. Its popularicj ts 
so recognized that it is now often called the " Xa- 
tional Anthem." — Kniijht'a Half IIuurH ict'tk the 
Beat Authors. 

Putje S59. — Pibroch of Doxcri. Bnr. — This is 
a very ancient pibroch belonging to Clan Mac- 
Donald, and supposed to refer to the expedition of 
Donald Ilalloch, who, in 1431. humchcd from the 
I,-*Ies with a considerable force, invaded Lochabcr, 
and at Inverlochy defeated and put to flight the 
Earls of Mar and Caithness, though at the head 
of an array superior to his own. — Scott's Poems, 
Abbotsford ed. 

Poffc 367. — Sir Patrick Spens. — The name of 
Sir Patrick Spens is not mentioned in history, 
but I am able to ftatc that tradition has preserved 
it. In the little island of Papa Stronsay, one of 
the Orcadian group, lying over againfit Norway, 
there is a large grave, or tumuhis, which has been 
known to the inhabitants, from time immemorial, 
as " the grave of Sir Patrick Spens." . . . The 
people know nothing beyond the traditional ap- 
pellation of the I'pot, and they have no legend to 
tell. Spens is a Scottish, not a Scandinavian 
name. Is it, then, a forced conjecture that the 
shipwreck took place off the iron-bound coast of 
the northern islands, which did not then belong 
to the crown of Scotland ? — Aytuini {Noted Kamet 
of Fiction). 

Page 87^. — The Wavdering Jew. — The story 
of the " Wandering Jew " is of considerable an- 
tiquity. It had obtained full credit in this part 
of the world before the year 1228, as we learn 
from Matthew Paris ; for In that year, it seems, 
there came an Arnienian archbishop into England 
to visit the shrines and reliques preserved in our 
churches; who. being entertained at the monas- 
tery of St. Albans, was asked several questions 
relating to hi3 country, etc. Among the rest, a 
monk who eat near him inquired " if he had ever 
seen or heard of the famous person named 
Joseph, that was so much talked of, who was 
present at our Lord's crucifixion and conversed 
with him. and who was still alive, in confirmation 
of the Christian faith." The archbishop answered 
that the fact was true : and afterward one of his 
train, who was well known to a servant of the 
abbot's, interpreting his master's words, told 
them in French " that his lord knew the person 
they spoke of very well ; that he had dined 
at bis table but a little while before ho left 
the East ; that he had been Pontius Pilate's por- 
ter, by name Cartaphilus, who, when they were 
dragging Jesus out of the door of the judgment- 
hall, struck him with his fist on the hack, saying, 
MJo faster, Jesus, go faster! why dost thou lin- 
ger?' Upon which Jesus looked at him with a 



frown and said, * I indeed am going, but thou 
shalt tarry till I come.' Soon after he was con- 
verted, and baptized by the name of Joseph. 
lie lives for ever, but at the end of every hun- 
dred years falls into an incurable illness, and at 
length into a fit or ecstasy, out of which, when 
he recovers, he returns to the same state of youth 
he was in when Jesus suffered, being then about 
thirty years of ago. IFe remembers all the cir- 
cumstances of the death and resurrection of 
Christ, the saints that arose with him, the com- 
posing of the apostles' creed, their preaching and 
dispersion, and is himself a very grave and holy 
person." This is the substance of Matthew Paris's 
account, who was himself a monk of St. Albans, 
and was living at the time when the Armenian 
archbishop made the above relation. 

Since his time several impostors have ap- 
peared at intervals under the name and charac- 
ter of the " Wandering Jew," whose several his- 
tories may be seen in Calmet's Dirjiouary of the 
Bible. See also The Turkish .^y>y, vol. ii., book 3, 
let. 1. The story that is copied in the following 
ballad is of one who appeared at Hamburg in 
1547, and pretended he hud been a Jewish shoe- 
maker at the time of Christ's crucifixion. The 
ballad, however, scorns to bo of a later date. — 
Percy's Reliques. 

Page S75. — The Dream op Eugene Aram. — 
Eugene Aram, the son of a poor gardener, but 
who by the most indefatigable industry and un- 
swerving perseverance in the face of the greatest 
difficulties had won for himself the reputation 
of extensive scholarship, was a schoolmaster in 
Knaresborough. In 1745 he was implicated in 
a robbery committed by Daniel Clark, a shoe- 
maker of that place, but was acquitted for want 
of evidence. Nevertheless, ho left Knaresborough 
and went to London, while at the same time 
, Clark mysteriously disappeared. Nothing waa 
I known of the matter until February, 1759, nearly 
fourteen years afterward, when a skeleton was 
dug up near Knaresborough which was suspected 
to be that of the shoemaker. At the time of this 
I discovery Aram was an usher at an academy in 
I Lynn, pursuing his favorite studies of heraldry, 
botany, the Chaldee, Arabic. Welsh, and Irish 
languages, and was just engaged in compiling a 
comparative lexicon of the English, Latin, Greek, 
Hebrew, and Celtic languages, when ho was sud- 
denly arrested on the charge of murder. At the 
trial he conducted his own defence with wonder- 
ful ability and ingenuity, but the evidence of his 
crime was overwhelming, and ho was found 
guilty. After his condemnation he confessed his 
guilt and attempted to commit suicide, but was 
discovered before he had bled to death, and ex- 
piated his crime on the gallows. 



974 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



Page S7S. — Inchcnpe Rode. — An old writer 
mentions a curious tradition which may be worth 
quoting. " By east the Isle of May," says he, 
"twelve miles from all land, in the German seas, 
lyes a great hidden rock, called Inchcape, very 
dangerous for navigators, because it is overflowed 
everie tide. It is reported, in old times upon the 
saide rock there was a bell, fixed upon a tree or 
timber, which rang continually, being moved by 
the sea, giving notice to the saylers of the dan- 
ger. This bell or clocke was put there and 
mnintained by the abbot of Aberbrothok, and 
being taken down by a sea-pirate, a yeare there- 
after he perished upon the same rocke, with ship 
and goodes, in the righteous judgment of God." 
— Stoddarfs Remarks on Scotland. 

Page S79. — CuMNOU Hall. — The death of 
Lord Dudley's deserted wife at this critical junc- 
ture, under peculiarly suspicious circumstances, 
gave rise to dark rumors that she had been put 
out of the way to enable him to accept the willing 
hand of a royal bride. Several days before the 
tragedy was perpetrated at Cumnor Hall, it had 
been reported in the court that she was very ill 
and not expected to recover, although at that 
time in perfect health. The Spanish ambassador, 
De Quadra, writes to the Duchess of Parma : 
*' The queen, on her return from hunting, told 
me that Lord Robert's wife was dead, or nearly 
so, and begged me to say nothing about it. As- 
suredly it is a matter full of shame and infamy. 
Since this was written," His Excellency adds, "the 
death of Lord Robert's wife has been given out 
publicly." The queen said in Italian, *' She had 
broken her neck ; she was found dead at the foot 
of a staircase at Cumnor Hall." There was cer- 
tainly a great lack of feminine feeling in the brief, 
hard terms in which Elizabeth announced the 
tragic fate of the unfortunate lady, from whom she 
had alienated a husband's love. Lever, one of the 
popular preachers of the day, wrote to Cecil, " that 
the country was full of dangerous suspicion and 
muttering of the death of her that was Lord 
Robert Dudley's wife, and entreated that there 
might be an earnest investigation, with punish- 
ment if any were found guilty; for if the matter 
were hushed up or passed over, the displeasure of 
God, the dishonor of the queen, and the danger 
of the whole realm were to be feared." Lord 
Robert caused a coroner's inquest to sit on the 
body of his deceased wife, but we detect him in 
correspondence with the foreman of the jury ; 
and, although a verdict of accidental death was 
returned, Lord Robert continued to be burdened 
with the suspicion of having contrived the mur- 
der, or, to use Cecil's more expressive words, 
"was infamed by the death of his wife." Throck- 
morton, the English ambassador at Paris, .was 



so thoroughly mortified at the light in which this 
affair was regarded on the Continent that he 
wrote to Cecil : " The bruits be so hrim, and so 
maliciously reported here, touching the marriage 
of the Lord Robert and the death of his wife, that 
I know not where to turn me nor what coun- 
tenance to bear." — Strickland's Queens of Eng- 
land. 

Page SSI.^The DowiE Dews of Yarrow. — 
This ballad was first published in the Minstrelsy 
of the Scottish Border; but other versions of it 
were previously in circulation, and it is stated by 
Sir Walter Scott to have been "a very great favor- 
ite among the inhabitants of Ettrick Forest," where 
it is universally believed to be founded on fact. 
Sir Walter, indeed, "found it easy to collect a 
variety of copies ;" and from them he collated the 
present edition — avowedly for the purpose of " suit- 
ing the tastes of these more light and giddy-paced 
times." A copy is contained in Motherwell's 
Minstrclni/, Ancient and Modern; another in Bu- 
chan's Ballads and Songs of the North of Scot- 
land ; it no doubt originated the popular compo- 
sition beginning — 

" Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride," 

by Hamilton of Eangour, first published in 
Ramsay's Tca-Table Miscellany, and suggested 
the ballad "The Braes of Yarrow," by the Rev. 
John Logan. In Herd's CoUecfionf in Ritson's 
Scottish So»gSy and in the Tea-Table Miscellani/ 
are to be found fragments of another ballad, 
entitled "Willie's drowned in Yarrow," of which 
this is the concluding stanza: 

"She sought him east, she sought him west. 
She sought him braid and narrow,- 
Syne in the cleaving of a craig. 

She found him drowned in Yarrow." 

Indeed, " Yarrow stream " has been a fertile 
source of poetry, and seems to have inspired the 
poets; the very sound is seductive: and, as Mr. 
Buchan remarks, "All who have attempted to 
sing its praise or celebrate the actions of those 
who have been its visitors have almost univer- 
sally succeeded in their attempts." 

That the several versions of the story scat- 
tered among the people and preserved by them 
in some form or other had one common origin 
there can be little doubt. "Tradition," accord- 
ing to Sir AValter Scott, *' places the event re- 
corded in the song very early, and it is probable 
the ballad was composed soon afterward, although 
the language has been modernized in the course of 
its transmission to us through the inaccurate chan- 
nel of oral tradition." " The hero of the ballad," 
he adds, "was a knight of great bravery, called 
Scott ;" and he believes it refers to a duel fought 
at Deucharswyre, of which Annan's Treat is a 



A'OrAS EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



975 



part, botwixt John Scott of Tufhiolaw and his 
brolher-in-law Walter Scott, tliiril son of Robert 
of Tliirlstnno, in which the latter was slain. 
Annan's Treat is a low muir on the banks of the 
Yarrow, lying to the west of Yarrow kirk. Two 
tall unhewn masi^es of stone ore erected about 
eighty yards distant from each other, and the 
least child, that can herd a cow, will tell the pas- 
senger that there lie " the two lords who were 
slain in single combat." Sir Walter also informs 
us that, according to tradition, the murderer was 
the brother of either the wife or the betrothed 
bride of the murdered, and that the alleged cause 
of quarrel was the lady's father having proposed 
to endow her with half of his property upon her 
marriage with a warrior of such renown. The 
name of the murderer is said to have been Annan, 
hence the place of combat is still called Annan's 
Treat. — Perctf'a lietiqiiet. 

Page 387. — Hartle.h- Well.— Ilartlcap Well 
is a small spring of water about five miles from 
Richmond in Y'orkshire, and near the side of the 
road that leads from Richmond to Askrigg. Its 
name is derived from a remarkable, ehase, the 
memory of which is preserved by the monuments 
spoken of in the second part of the following 
poem, which monuments do now exist as I have 
there dcjjcribed them. — Wordsworth, Svo ed. 

Page S9S. — KATHARINE Janfarie. — Of this 
ballad — first published in the Minttrchy nf the 
Scotthh Border — the editor informs us that it 
is " given from several recited copies." It has 
obviously undergone some alteration, yet much 
of the rugged character of the original has been 
retained. The scenery of the ballad is said by 
tradition to lie upon the banks of the Cadden- 
watcr, "a small rill which joins the Tweed (from 
the north) bctwi.\t Invcrleithcn and Clovenford.** 
It is also traditionally stated that Katharine Jan- 
farie " lived high up in the glen " — a beautiful 
and sequestered vale connected with Traquair, and 
situated about three miles above Traquair House. 
The recited copies, from which it is probable Sir 
Walter Scott collected the verses ho has here 
brought together, exist in Buehan's Ancient lifil- 
Indt and Songn. and in Motherwell's Minntvel^y. 
Ancient and Modern. It derives interest and im- 
portance, however, less from its intrinsic merit 
than from the circumstance of its having given 
to Scott the hint upon which he founded one of 
the most brilliant and spirit-stirring of his com- 
positions — the famous and favorite ballad of 
" Young Lochinvar." — Pcreij'n lleliqnei. 

Page 395. — O'Connor's Child. — The poem of 
" O'Connor's Child " is an exquisitely finished and 
pathetic tale. The ruggcil and ferocious features 
of ancient feudal manners and family pride arc 
there displayed in connection with female suiTer- 



ing, love, and beauty, and with the romantic and 
warlike coloring suited to the country and times. 
It is full of antique grace and passionate energy 
— the mingled light and gloom of the wild Celtic 
character. — Chumhers^s Vi/clojmdia of English 
Literature. 

Page SPS. — PRISONER OF CiiiLLON. — Francois 
de Bonnivard was born in Seyssel, in the depart- 
ment of .\in, in 1496. Having adopted republican 
opinions, he took sides with the Genevese against 
Duke Charles III. of Savoy; but ho had the mis- 
fortune in 1.W0 to fall into the power of the latter, 
who confined him six years in the castle of Chil- 
lon. The Chateau do Chillon is situated between' 
Clarens and Villeneuvc, which last is at one ex- 
tremity of the Lake of Geneva. On its left are 
the entrances of the Rhone, and opposite are the 
heights of Meillerie and the range of the Alps 
above Boveret and St. Gingo. Near it, on a hill 
behind, is a torrent; below it, washing its walls, 
the lake has been fathomed to the depth of eight 
hundred feet (French measure); within it are a 
range of dungeons, in which tiie early Reformers, 
and subsequently prisoners of state, were confined. 
Across one of the vaults is a beam bliick with age, 
on which we were informed that the condemned 
were formerly executed. In the cells are seven 
pillars, or rather eight, one being half merged in 
the wall ; in some of these are rings for the fet- 
ters and fettered ; in the pavement the steps of 
Bonnivard have left their traces. 

Page 402. — FAin Helen. — Thcstory upon which 
this ballad is founded is thus related in the first 
edition of the Sinlliiiini 1,/ Scotland : " In the burial- 
ground of Kirkconncll are still to be seen the 
tombstones of Fair Helen and her favorite lover, 
Adam Flceming. She was a daughter of the fam- 
ily of Kirkoonnell, and fell a victim to the jealousy 
of a lover. Being courted by two young gentle- 
men at the same time, the one of whom, thinking 
himself slighted, vowed to sacrifice the other to 
his resentment when he again discovered him in 
her company. An opportunity soon presented 
itself when the faithful pair, walking along the 
romantic banks of the Kirtio, were discovered 
from the opjiositc banks by the assassin. Helen, 
perceiving him lurking among the bushes, and 
dreading the fatal resolution, rushed to her lover's 
bosom to rescue him from the danger, and thus 
receiving the wound intended for another, sank 
and expired in her favorite's arms. Ho immedi- 
ately avenged her death and slew her murderer. 
Tho inconsolable Adam Fleeming, now sinking 
under the pressure of grief, went abroad and 
served under tho banners of Spain against the 
infidels. Tho impression, however, was too strong 
to be obliterated. The image of woe attended him 
thither, and the pleasing remembrance of tho ten- 



976 



NOTES EXPLANATORY^ AND CORROBORATIVE. 



(ler scenes that were past, with the melancholy 
reflection that they could never return, harassed 
his soul and deprived his mind of repose. He 
soon returned, and stretching himself on her grave, 
expired, and was buried by her side. Upon the 
tombstone are engraven a sword and cross, with. 
■Hie jacet Adamu.s Flecming.'" — Biirns's Works, 
Blackie and Son's edition. 

Pafffi 40s. — BuLL-FiCHT OF Gazul. — Gazul is 
the name of one of the Moorish heroes who figure 
in the Hisfona de laa Guerras Civiles de Granada. 
The following ballad is one of the very many in 
which the dexterity of the Moorish cavaliers in the 
bull-fight is described. The reader will observe 
that the shape, activity, and resolution of the un- 
happy animal destined to furnish the amusement 
of the spectators are enlarged upon, just as the 
qualities of a modern race-horse might be among 
ourselves: nor is the bull without his name. The 
day of the Baptist is a festival among the Mussul- 
mans as well as among Christians. — Lockhart's 
/S^KOJisA Ballads. 

Page 409. — God's Judgment on a "Wicked Bish- 
op. — Itliapned in the year 914, that there was an 
exceeding great famine in Germany, at what time 
Otho, surnamed the Great was Emperor, and one 
Hatto, once Abbot of Fulda, was Archbishop of 
Mentz, of the Bishops after Crescens and Crescen- 
tius the two and thirtieth, of the Archbishops after 
St. Bonifacius the thirteenth. This Ilatto in the 
time of this great famine afore-mentioned, when 
he saw the poor people of the country exceedingly 
o])presscd with famine, assembled a great com- 
pany of them togetlier into a Barne, and, like a 
most accursed and mercilcsse caitiflFe, burnt up 
those poor innocent souls, that were so far from 
doubting any such matter, that they rather hoped 
to receive some comfort and relief at his hands. 
The reason that moved the prclat to commit that 
execrable impiety was, because he thought the 
famine wauld the sooner cease, if those unprofit- 
able bcg':;f\rs, that consumed more bread than they 
were worthy to eat, were dispatched out of the 
world. For he said that those poor folks were 
like to Mice, that were good for nothing but to 
ilevour come. But God Almighty, the just aven- 
ger of the poor folks quarrel, did not long suff"er 
tliis hainous tyranny, this most detestable fact, 
unpunished. For he mustered up an army of Mice 
against the Archbishop, and sent them to perse- 
cute him as his furious Alastors, so that they af- 
llicted him both day and night, and would not 
sulTer him to take his rest in any place. Where- 
upon tho Prelate, thinking he should be secure 
from the injury of Mice if he were in a certain 
tower, that standeth in the Rhine near to the 
towne, betook himself unto the said tower as to a 
safe refuge and sanctuary from his enemies, and 



locked himself in. But the innumerable troupes 
of Mice chased him continually very eagerly, and 
swumme unto him upon the top of the water to 
execute the just judgment ot God, and so at last 
he was most miserably devoured by those sillie 
creatures," who pursued him with such bitter hos- 
tility, that it is recorded they scraped and knawed 
out his very name from the walls and tapistry 
wherein it was written, after they had so cruelly 
devoured his body. Wherefore the tower wherein 
he was eaten up by the Mice is shewn to this day, 
for a perpetual monument to all succeeding ages 
of the barbarous and inhuman tyranny of this 
impious Prelate, being situate in a little green 
Island in the midst of the Rhine near to the towne 
of Bingcn, and is commonly called in the German 
Tongue the Mowse-turn. — Cort/at's Crudities. 

Page 413. — The Bended Bow. — It is supposed 
that war was anciently proclaimed in Britain by 
sending messengers in different directions through 
the land, each bearing a bended bote ; and that 
peace was in like manner announced by a bow 
unstrung, and therefore straight. — See the Cam- 
brian Antiquities. — Note to Mrs. Hemans'e Poeins. 

Page 417. — Bahbara Allen's Crueltv. — There 
are several versions of this popular ballad, and 
we have chosen the one adopted by Mr. AUing- 
ham in his _^ri^^rtrf ^00/.:. AUingham says: "No 
doubt, however, those who have been bred up, as 
it were, in a particular foi-m of a ballad will be 
apt, at least at first, to mislike any other form. 
One who has had impressed upon his youthful 
mind — 

*It was in or about the Martinmas time, 

AVhen the green leaves were a-fallin*, 
That Sir John Graeme in the west countrie 

Fell in love with Barbara Allen,' — 
may very likely be ill-content to find name of per- 
son and season of year altered, as they are in this 
equally authentic version. But let him not, there- 
fore, fall foul of the editor, who was bound to 
choose without prejudice between Autumn and 
Spring, Jemmy Grove and Sir John." 

Page 417. — Lament of the Border Widow. — 
This fragment, obtained from recitation in tho 
Forest of Ettrick, is said to relate to the execution 
of Cockburne of Ilenderland, a Border freebooter 
hanged over the gate of his own tower by James 
V. in the course of that memorable expedition in 
1529 which was fatal to Johnie Armstrong, Adam 
Scott of Tushielaw, and many other marauders. 
— Sir Walter Scott. 

Page 421- — A Song of the North. — In May, 
1845, Sir John Franklin sailed from England with 
the two ships Erebus and Terror, to discover a 
north-west passage through the Arctic seas. Not 
returning, several expeditions were sent out in 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



seAreh, among which was the celebrated one 
heiiiled by the Into Dr. E. K. Kane, Liuly Frank- 
lin, especially, being indefatigable in her endeav- 
ors to ascertain bis fate, but without any success 
until 1854, when Dr. Hae found some relics, and 
in 1859, Captain McClintock discovered on the 
shore of King William's Land a record deposited 
in a cairn by the survivors of Franklin's company. 
This document was dated April 25, 1848, and 
stated that Sir John died June 11, 1847 — ^that 
the Erebus and Terror were abandoned .Vpril 22, 
1848, when the survivors, 105 in number, started 
for the (ircat Fish River. Many relics were also 
found of this party, who perished on their journey, ! 
probably soon after leaving the vessels. It ap- 
pears also that Sir John really did discover the 
long-sought-for north-west y)assage, but the know- 
ledge of its whereabouts perished with him, al- 
though subsequent expeditions have been sent 
out to find it. 

Pntje 45s. — The Dbath ok the Flowers. — 
The verse beginning — 
"And then I think of one who in her youthful 

beauty died," 
is an allusion to the memory of the poct*8 sister, 
who died of consumption in 1824. — Duyckiiivk^a 
Ct/cloptedia of American Literature. 

Pafjc 504. — Lines on the Mermaid Tavern. — 
The Mermaid Tavern was the resort of Ben 
Jonson and his literary friends, members of a 
club established by Sir AValtcr Kaleigh in 1G01, 
and numbering among them Shakespeare, IJeau- 
mont, Fletcher, Donne, Selden, and the noblest 
names in English authorship. Truly might Beau- 
mont, in his poetical epistle to Jonson, exclaim — 
" What things have seen 
Done at the Mermaid ; heard words that have 

been 
So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, 
As if that every one from whom they came 
Had mcan'd to put his whole wit in a jest I" 

— Chamhem'ti Book of Dny«. 
Paye 51S. — Ai.swicK Casti.e. — Alnwick Castle 
is one of the finest in England. It is built of 
freestone, in the Gothic style, and covers five 
acres of ground, and was restored in 18^0 at an 
outlay of $1.00n,00n. It belongs to the Duke of 
Northumberland, a descendant of the Percys so 
famed in ancient ballad?, and especially for their 
feuds with their neighbors on the other side of 
the border, the noble Douglases. One of the 
Percys was an emperor of Constantinople, anoth- 
er was a major in the British army, and " fought 
for King tJcorge at Lexington" and at the battle 
of the Brandywine. 

Pntjc 514. — Heli.vellyn. — In the spring of 
1805 a voung gentleman of talents, and of a most 
62 



amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on 
the mountain Hellvcllyn. His remains were not 
discovered till three months afterward, when they 
were found guarded by a faithful terrier bitch, his 
constant attendant during frequent solitary ram- 
bles through the wilds of Cumberland and West- 
moreland. — Scott's Poems. 

Page 517. — TuE Meeting op tde Waters. — 
" The Meeting of the Waters " forms a part of 
that beautiful scenery which lies between Rath- 
drum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, 
and these lines were suggested by a visit to this 
romantic spot in the summer of the year 1807. — 
Moore H Works, 8vo. 

Page a^l. — The Lake of the Dismal Swamp. — 
Moore's *' Lake of the Dismal Swamp," written at 
Norfolk, in Virginia, is founded on the following 
legend: *'A young man who lost his mind upon 
the death of a girl he hived, and who, suddenly 
disappearing from his friends, was never afterward 
heard of. As he had frequently said in his rav- 
ings that the girl was not dead, but gone to the 
Diurnal Sicawpj it is supposed he had wandered 
into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hun- 
ger or had been lost in some of its dreadful mo- 
rasses." — Frederick Sanudera'^ Featival of Sour/. 

PageSSS. — On the Morning OF Christ's Nativ- 
ity. — This magnificent ode, called by Hallam "per- 
haps the finest in the English language," was com- 
])osed, as we learn from Milton's own heading of 
it in the edition of ir.l5, in the year ir)2'.». Mil- 
ton was then twenty-one years of age, in the 
sixth academic year at Cambridge, and n B. A. 
of a year's standing. There is an interesting 
allusion to the ode by Milton himself, wiien lio 
was in the act of composing it, in the sixth of 
his Latin elegies. In that elegy, addressed to 
his friend Charles Diodati, residing in the coun- 
try, in answer to a friendly epistle which Dioda- 
ti had sent to him on the i:Uh of December, 1029, 
there is a distinct description of the ** Ode on the 
Nativity " as then finished, or nearly so, and ready 
to be shown to Diodati, together with the express 
information that it was begun on Christmas Doy, 
1029. — Miitoti, Maseon's cd. 

Page 5^9.— EMIGRANTS IN TRE BeRMIDAS. — 

Representative government was introduced into 
the Berniudiis in 1020. and in 1021 the Bermuda 
Company of London issued a sort of charter to 
the colony, inclutling rights and liberties — among 
them liberty of worship — that attracted many of 
those English emigrants whose feeling Mar veil 
has here fashioned into song. — Morley» Shorter 
Piteiim of the English Language. 

P'tgr 550, — REBRrrA's Hymn. — It wai» in the 
twilight of the day whrn hor trial — if i! could be 
called such — had taken place, that a low knock 



978 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



was heard at the door of Kebecca's prison-cham- 
ber. It disturbed not the inmate, who was then 
engaged in the evening prayer recommended by 
her religion, and which concluded with a hymn 
which we have ventured thus to translate into 
English. — Ivanhoe. 

Page 59S. — I "WouLD NoT LiVE Alway. — This 
hymn was written without the remotest idea that 
any portion of it would ever be employed in the 
devotions of the Church.. Whatever service it 
has done in that way is owing to the late Bishop 
of Pennsylvania, then the rector of St. Ann's 
Church, Brooklyn, who made the selection of 
verses out of the whole which constitutes the 
present hymn, and offered it to the Committee 
on Hymns appointed by the General Convention 

of . The hymn wns at first rejected by the 

committee, of which the unknown author was a 
member, who, upon a satirical criticism being 
made upon it, earnestly voted against its adop- 
tion. It was admitted on the importunate appli- 
cation of Dr. Onderdonk to the bishops on the 
committee. — Duyckinck'a Cycloiitvdia of Ameri- 
can Literature. 

Page 630. — Elegy Written in a Country 
Churchyard. — As he was floating down the 
river to attack Quebec, Generftl Wolfe read the 
"Elegy" in low tones to his officers, and upon 
its conclusion said : " I had rather be the author 
of that poem than take Quebec'' — a remark which 
has perhajis done as much to perpetuate Wolfe's 
name as the capture of Quebec, great as that 
achievement was. 

Page 637. — Stanzas. — These beautiful lines 
were composed by Hood on his death-bed. 

Page 64^. — To A Skeleton. — The manuscript 
of this poem was found near a skeleton in the 
London Royal College of Surgeons about 1S20. 
The author has never been found, though a re- 
ward of fifty guineas was offered for his dis- 
covery. — Single Famous Poemt. 

Page 5J5.— The Lie. — This celebrated poem 
has been attributed to Joshua Sylvester. In a 
note of Mr. Peter Cunningham's to his edition 
of Campbell's Lives of the PoetSy referring to the 
passage in which Campbell says, "We would will- 
ingly ascribe the * Soul's Errand' to him (Ral- 
eigh)," we read, "'The Lie' is ascribed to Sir Wal- 
ter Raleigh in an annwcr to it written at the tiine^ 
and recently discovered in the Cheethara Library 
at Manchester. That it was written by Raleigh 
is now almost past a doubt." — Bellcw's Poets' 
Cttruer. 

Page 656. — ARMSTRONG'S GooD-NiGHT. — These 
verses are said to have been composed by one of 
the Armstrongs, executed for the murder of Sir 



John Carmichael of Edrom, Warden of the Mid- 
dle Marches. Whether these are the original 
words will admit of a doubt. — Sir Walter Scott. 
This is one of the songs which so touched (Jold- 
smith in his youth that nothing he heard sung in 
after years had an equal charm for him. "The 
music of the finest singer," he wrote in the Hee, 
October 13, 1759, "is dissonance to what I felt 
when our old dairymaid sung me into tears with 
'Johnny Armstrong's Last Good-Night' or the 
' Cruelty of Barbara Allen ; ' " and in a letter to his 
Irish friend Hodson, December 27, 1757, he says: 
" If I go to the opera where Signora Columba pours 
out all the mazes of melody, I sit and sigh for 
* Lishoy's Fireside' and 'Johnny Armstrong's 
Last Good-Night,' from Peggy Golden." — Mary 
Carljjle Aitkeu, 

Page 672. — The Old and Young Courtier. — 
The whole of the sixteenth century was marked 
by important changes of every kind — political, 
religious, and social. The wars with France and 
the internal contests of the Roses were over, and 
the energy of the nation was directed to new ob- 
jects. Trade and commerce wero extended ; 
fresh sources of wealth were developed; and 
new classes of society sprang up into import- 
ance whose riches enabled them to outvie the old 
landed gentry, but who had few of their heredi- 
tary tastes and habits. Hence the innovation of 
old customs and the decay of ancient manners to 
which the gentry themselves were compelled to 
conform. This old song, which is printed in the 
Percy Reliqucs from an ancient black-letter copy 
in the Pepytt Collection, is a lament over the 
changes which had taken place in the early 
part of the seventeenth century, as compared 
with the days of Queen Elizabeth. — Knight's 
Half Hours with the Bent Authors. 

Page 677. — Battle OF Blenheim. — The battle 
of Blenheim or Hochstadt was fought August 13, 
1704, between the English and Austrians, under 
the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, 
and the French and Bavarians, under Marshal 
Tallard, Marson, and the Elector of Bavaria. 
The latter army, being badly handled and hud- 
dled together in the village of Blenheim, was sud- 
denly attacked by Marlborough and completely 
defeated, losing 30,000 in killed, wounded, and 
prisoners. Marlborough's loss was but 11,000. 
This victory completely shattered the French 
prestige which Louis XIV. had struggled so 
hard to obtain. 

P>tge 6SS. — Lines Written by One in the 
Tower. — Chidioek Tychborn shared in Babing- 
ton's cons})iracy, and was executed with lum in 
15S6. (For a fuller account see Disraeli's Curios- 
ities of Literature.) 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



979 



Page 704. — HoSEST POVERTY. — A great critic 
(Aikin) on fongs says that love and wine are 
the exclusive themes for song-writing. The fol- 
lowing is on neither subject, and consequently is 
no song, but will bo allowed, I think, to be two 
or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into 
rhyme. — In a Letter from Burn« to G. Thomaou. 

Page 726. — .\i,f.xasder's Feast. — St. Cecilia is 
sai<l tu have been a Roman lady born about A. D. 
2l'j, bred in the Christian faith, and married to a 
Pagan nobleman, Valerianus. She told her hus- 
band that she was visited nightly by an angel, 
whom he was allowed to see after his own conver- 
sion. The celestial youth had brought from par- 
adise two wreaths, which he gave to them. One 
was of the lilies of heaven, the other of its roses. 
They both suffered mavtyrdom at the beginning 
of the third century, in the reign of Septimius 
Severus. The angel by whom Cecilia was visited 
is referred to in the closing lines of Dryden's 
" Ode," coupled with a tradition that he had been 
drawn down to her from heaven by her melodies. 
Id the earliest traditions of Cecilia there is no 
mention of her skill in music. This part of her 
story seems to have been developed by a little 
play of fancy over her relations with the angel, 
and the great Italian painters — Kaffaclle, Dome- 
nichino, and others — fixed her position as the pa- 
tron saint of music by representing her always 
with symbols of harmony, a harp or organ-pipes. 
Then came the suggestion adopted in Dryden's 
" Ode," that the organ was invented by St. Ce- 
cilia. The practice of holding musical festivals on 
St. Cecilia's Day, the 22d of Xovember, began to 
prevail in England at the close of the seventeenth 
century. The earliest piece composed for such a 
meeting was produced in 1083, and was by Henry 
Purccll. From that date to about 1740 there was 
an annual Cecilian festival in London, and the 
fashion spread into the provinces. Poets — Dry- 
den and Pope among them — were applied to for 
odes which were to celebrate the power of music, 
and to be set to music for performance as a spe- 
cial feature of the anniversary. — Morley't Shorter 
Poemt, 

Page 7S7. — A Canadias Boat-Soxo. — I wrote 
these words to an air which our boatmen sung to 
us frequently. The wind was so unfavorable that 
they were obliged to row all the way, and we were 
five days in descending the river from Kingston 
to Montreal, exposed to an intense sun during the 
day, and at night forced to take shelter from the 
dews in any miserable hut upon the banks that 
would receive us. But the magnificent scenery 
of the St. Lawrence repays all snch difficuUics. 

Our votfngciirn had gooil voices, and sung per- 
fectly in tune together. The original words of the 
air to which I adapted these stanzas appeared to 



be a long, incoherent story, of which I could un- 
derstand but little, from the barbarous pronuncia- 
tion of the Canadians. It begins — 

Dans mon chemin j'ai rcncontr^ 
Deux cavaliers tris-bien months; 

and the refrain to every verse was — 

A I'ombre d'un bois je m'en vais jouer, 
A I'orabre d'un bois je m'en vais danser. 

I ventured to harmonize this air, and have pub- 
lished it. Without that charm which association 
gives to every little memorial of scenes or feelings 
that are past, the melody may perhaps be thought 
common and trifling: but I remember when we 
have entered, at suns^ct, upon one of those beau- 
tiful lakes into which the St. Lawrence so grandly 
and unexpectedly opens, I have heard this simple 
air with a pleasure which the finest compositions 
of the first masters have never given me; and 
now there is not a note of it which does not recall 
to my memory the dip of our oars in the St. Law- 
rence, the flight of our boat down the rapids, and 
all those new and fanciful impressions to which 
my heart was alive during the whole of this very 
interesting voyage. — Moore's PoemSf note. 

Page 741. — A Vision upon this Conceit of the 
Faehie Queene. — This sonnet is the first among 
the commendatory poems prefixed to the earliest 
edition of The Faerie Queeitc. As original in con- 
ception as it is grand in execution, it is about the 
finest compliment which was ever paid by poet to 
poet, such as it became Raleigh to indite and Spen- 
ser to receive. Yet it labors under a serious de- 
fect. The great poets of the past lose no whit of 
their glory because later poets are found worthy 
to share it. Petrarch in his lesser, and Homer in 
his greater sphere, are just as illustrious .since 
Spenser appeared as before. — Kiehard Chcnerix 
Trench. 

Page 7-'iS. — The Deserted Village. — Lissoy, 
near Ballymahon, where the poet's brother, a cler- 
gyman, hud his living, claims the honor of being 
the spot from which the localities of " The Deserted 
Village" werederivcd. The church which tops the 
neighboring hill, the mill, and the brook, are slill 
pointed out; and a hawthorn has sufl^ered the 
penalty of poetical celebrity, being cut to ]iiece» 

I by those admirers of the bard who desircil to have 
classical toothpick -cases and tobacco -stoppers. 

' Much of this supposed locality may bo fanciful, 
but it is a pleasing tribute to the poet in the land 
of his fathers. — Sir Waller Seoll. 

I Page ?S9. — SoNO OF THE Dying. — This remark- 
able poem appeared originally, it is believeil. in 
the .S'(. Helena Magazine, and was aflcrward 
copied in the Lanilun .Spectator and other jour- 
nals. It relates to the early service of English 



980 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND COEROBORATIVE. 



officers in India when the army was mowed down 
by pestilence. When Macaulay'a account of the 
effects of smallpox in England is remembered, as 
it describes the separation of brothers, sisters, and 
lovers, it will be seen that this poem gives with 
wonderful effect what is far nobler, however pain- 
ful — the very poetry of military despair, but still 
the dying together of brothers in arms. 

P<'f}e 789. — TiTHONUS. — Tithonus was a beauti- 
ful Trojan, beloved by Aurora. He begged the 
goddess to grant him immortality, which request 
she granted ; but as he had forgotten to ask for 
youth and vigor, he soon grew old, infirm, and 
ugly. When life became insupportable, he prayed 
Aurora to remove him from the world; this, how- 
ever, she could not do, but she changed him into 
a grasshopper. — Brewers Dictionary of Phrase 
and Fable. 

Patje 795. — The Rape of the Lock. — The 
stealing of Miss Belle Termor's hair (by Lord Pe- 
tre) was taken too seriously, and caused an es- 
trangement between the two families, though they 
had lived so long in great friendship before. A 
common acquaintance and well-wisher to both 
desired me to write a poem, to make a jest of it 
and laugh them together again. It was with this 
view that I wrote " The Rape of the Lock," which 
was well received, and had its effect in the two 
families. Nobody but Sir George Brown was an- 
gry, and he was a good deal so, and for a long 
time. He could not bear that Sir Plume should 
talk nothing but nonsense. The machinery was 
added afterward. — Pojie'a Letter to t^peiice. 

Page 810. — The Culprit Fay. — This exquisite 
poem was composed hastily among the highlands 
of the Hudson in the summer of 1819. The au- 
thor was walking with some friends on a warm 
moonlight evening, when one of the party re- 
marked that it would be difficult to write a faery 
poem, purely imaginative, without the aid of hu- 
man characters. The party was reassembled two 
or three days afterward, and "The Culprit Fay" 
was read to them, nearly as it is now printed. — ■ 
futroductioit to the. " Culprit Pat/." 

Page 818. — CoMUS. — " Comus " was presented at 
Ludlow Castle in 16.34, before the Earl of Bridge- 
water, then President of Wales. This drama was 
founded on an actual occurrence. The Earl of 
Bridgewater then resided at Ludlow Castle ; his 
sons. Lord Brackley and Mr. Egerton, and Lady 
Alice Egerton, his daughter, passing through 
Haywood Forest in Herefordshire, on their way 
to Ludlow, were benighted, and the lady was for 
a short time lost. This accident being related to 
their father upon their arrival at his castle, Milton 
■ — at the request of his friend, Henry Lawes the 
rdusician, who taught music in the family — wrote 



the masque. Lawes set it to music, and it was acted 
on Michaelmas Night, 1634, the two brothers, the 
young lady, and Lawes himself, bearing each a 
part in the representation. 

Page SS3. — Kilmeny. — Besides the old tradi- 
tion on which this ballad is founded, there are 
some modern incidents of a similar nature which 
cannot well be accounted for, yet are as well at- 
tested as any occurrence that has taken place in 
the present age. The relation may be amusing to 
some readers : 

A man in the parish of Traquair and county 
of Peebles was busied one day casting turf in a 
large open field opposite the mansion-house — the 
spot is well known, and is still pointed out as 
rather unsafe; his daughter, a child seven years 
of age, was playing beside him and amusing him 
with her prattle. Chancing to ask a question of 
her, he was surprised at receiving no answer, and, 
looking behind him, he perceived that his child 
was not there. He always averred that, as far as 
he could remember, she had been talking to him 
about half a minute before; he was certain it was 
not above a whole one at most. It was in vain 
that he ran searching all about like one distracted, 
calling her name ; no trace of her remained. Ho 
went home in a state of mind that may be better 
conceived than expressed, and raised the people 
of the parish, who searched for her several days 
with the same success. Every pool in the river, 
every bush and den on the mountains around, 
was searched in vain. It was remarked that the 
father never much encouraged the search, being 
thoroughly persuaded that she had been carried 
away by some invisible being, else she could not 
have vanished so suddenly. As a last resource, 
ho applied to the minister of Inverleithcn, a 
neighboring divine of exemplary ])iety and zeal 
in religious matters, who enjoined him to cause 
prayers' to be offered to Gud for her in seven 
Christian churches next Sabbath at the same 
instant of time; "And then," said he, "if she is 
dead, God will forgive our sin in praying for the 
dead, as we do it through ignorance ; and if she is 
still alive, I will answer for it that all the devils 
in hell shall bo unable to keep her." The injunc- 
tion was punctually attended to. She was re- 
membered in the prayers of all the neighboring 
congregations next Sunday at the same hour, and 
never were there such prayers for fervor heard 
before. There was one clergyman in particular, 
Mr. Davidson, who prayed in such a manner that 
all the hearers trembled. As the old divine fore- 
boded, so it fell out. On that very day, and with- 
in an hour of the time on which these prayers 
were offered, the girl was found in the Plora wood, 
sitting picking the bark from a tree. She could 
give no perfect account of the circumstances which 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



981 



had befallen to her, but she said she did not want 
plenty of ment. for that her mother oinne iind fed 
her with milk and bread several times a day, and 
sung her to sleep at night. Her skin had acquired 
a bluish cast, which gradually wore off in the 
course of a few weeks. Her name was Jane 
Brown; she lived to a very advanced age, and 
was known to many btill alive. Kvery circum- 
stance of this story is truth, if the father's report 
of the suddenness of her disappearance may be 
relied on. 

Another circumstance, though it happened still 
lateri is not less remarkable. A shepheni uf Tus- 
bilaw, in the parish of Ettrick, whose name was 
Walter Dalgleish, went out to the heights of that 
farm one Sabbath murning to herd the young 
sheep of his sun and let him go to church. He 
took his own dinner along with him, and his son's 
breakfast. When the sermon was over, the lad 
went straight home, and did not return to his 
father. Night came, but nothing of the old shep- 
herd appeared. When it grew very late his dog 
came home — seemed terrified, and refused to take 
any meat. The family were ill at case during the 
night, especially as they had never known his dog 
leave him before ; and early next morning the lad 
arose and went to the height to look after his 
father and his flock. He found his sheep all scat- 
tered, ami his father's dinner unbroken, lying on 
the same spot where they had piirted tlie day be- 
fore. At the distance of twenty yards from the 
spot the plaid which the old man wore was lying 
an if it had been flung from him, and a little 
farther on, in the same direction, his bonnet was 
found, but nothing of himself. The country peo- 
ple, as on all such occasions, rose in great num- 
bers and searched for him many days. My father 
and several old men still alive were of the party. 
He could not be found or heard of, neither dead 
nor alive, an«i at length they gave up all thoughts 
of ever seeing him more. On the twentieth day 
after his disappearance, a shepherd's wife, at a 
place called Iterrybush, came in as the family 
were sitting down to dinner and said that if it 
wore possible to believe that AValtcr Dalgleish 
was still in existence, she would say yonder was 
ho coming down the hill. They all ran out to 
watch the phenomenon, and as the person ap- 
proached nigher they perceived that it was actu- 
ally he, walking without his plaid and his bonnet. 
The place where he was first descried is not a mile 
distant from that where ho was last seen, and 
there is neither brake, bog, nor bush. When ho 
came into the house he shook hands with them all 
— asked for his family, and spoke as if he bad 
been absent for years, and as if convinced some- 
thing had befallen them. As (hey perceived 
something singular in his looks anri manner, they 
unfortunately forbore asking him any questions 



at first, but desired him to sit and share their 
dinner. This he rcailily complied with, and be- 
gan to sup some broth with seeming eagerness. 
He ha<l only taken one or two spoonfuls when he 
sucldenly stopped, a kind of rattling sound was 
heard in his breast, and he sank back in a faint. 
They put him to bed, and from that time forth ho 
never spoke another word that any person could 
make sense of. He was removed to his own 
home, where he lingered a few weeks and died. 
What befell him remains to this day a mystery, 
and fur ever must. — //"^y*» Poent«. 

Pdffc 841- — CiiniSTABKL. — Coleridge's friend, 
Mr. Oilman, with whoui he spent much of the 
latter part of his life, and who began his biogra- 
phy, tells us that " t ho following relation was to 
have occupied a third and fourth canto, and to 
have closed the tale: 'Over the mountains the 
Bard, as directed by Sir Leoline, hastes with 
his disciple, but in consequence of one of those 
inundations supposed to be common to this coun- 
try, the spot only where tho castle once stood is 
discovered, the edifice being washed away, Jle de- 
termines to return, (leraldine, being acquainted 
with all that is passing, like the Weird Sisters in 
Mitchvth, vanishes. Reappearing, however, she 
waits tho return of the Bard, exciting, in the 
mean time, by her wily arts, all the anger she 
could rouse in the baron's breast, as well as that 
jealousy of \vbich ho is described to have been 
susceptible. The old Bard and the youth at 
length arrive, and therefore she can no longer 
j)ersonato the character of Geraldine, the daugh- 
ter of Lord Roland do Vaux, but changes her 
appearance to that of tho accepted, though ab- 
sent, lover of Christtthel. Next ensues a court- 
ship most distressing to Christabel, who feels — 
she ku'iws nut why — great disgust for her oncc- 
favorcd knight. This coldness is very painful tu 
the banm. who has no more conception than her- 
self of the supematiinil transformation. Sho iit 
last yields to her father's entreaties, and consents 
to appDiach the altar with this hated suitor. Tho 
real lover, returning, enters at this moment, and 
produces the ring which she had once given him 
in sign of her betrothmcnt. Thus defeated, tho 
supernatural being, Cicraldine, disappears. As 
predicted, tho castle-bell lolls, the mother's voice 
is heard, and, to the exceeding great joy of tho 
parties, the rightful marriage takes place, after 
which follow a reconciliation and explanation 
between tho father and daughter.'" — yfurlry'n 
Shurtrr Pitent*. 

Piujt S48. — Krni.A Kh,in. — In the summer of 
tho year 1797 tho author, then in ill health, had 
retired to a lonely farm-house between Porlock 
an<l Linton, on tho Kxmoor confines of Somerset 
and Devonshire. In consequcnco of a slight in- 



982 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



disposition, an anodyne had been prescribed, 
from tlie effect of which he fell asleep in his 
chair at the moment that he was reading the fol- 
lowing sentence, or words of the same substance, 
in Purchas's PiUjiimafje : "Here the Khan Kubla 
commanded a palace to be built, and a statelj 
garden thereunto, and thus ten miles of fertile 
ground were enclosed with a wall." The author 
continued for about three hours in a profound 
sleep, at least of the external senses, during 
which time he has the most vivid confidence that 
he could not have composed loss than from two to 
three hundred line?, if that, indeed, can be called 
composition in which all the images rose up be- 
fore him as things, with a parallel production of 
the correspondent expressions, without any sen- 
sation or consciousness of effort. On awaking he 
appeared to himself to have a distinct recollec- 
tion of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and 
paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines 
that arc here preserved. At this moment he was 
unfortunately called out by a person on business 
from Porlock, and detained by him above an 
hour, and on his return to his room found, to his 
no small surprise and mortification, that though 
he still retained some vague and dim recollection 
of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the 
exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and 
images, all the rest had passed away like the im- 
ages on the surface of a stream into which a stone 
had been cast, but alas! without the after-restora- 
tion of the latter. — Coleridye'a Poems. 

Page 851. — TiiE PiED Piper of Hamelin. — 
The story of the Pied Piper — that first by his 
pipe gathered together all the rats and mice and 
drowned them in the river, and afterward, being 
defrauded of his reward, which the town prom- 
ised him if he could deliver them from the plague 
of those vermin, took his opportunity and by the 
same pipe made the children of the town follow 
him, and leading them into a hill that opened, 
buried them there all alive — has so evident proof of 
it in the town of Haramel where it was done, that 
it ought not at all to be discredited. For the fact 
is very religiously kept among their ancient rec- 
ords, painted out also in their church-windows, 
and is an epoch joined with the year of our Lord 
in their bills and indentures and other law instru- 
ments. — Henri/ Moore's Philosophy. 

Page Soo. — The Rime of the Ancient Mari- 
ner. — -Wordsworth has given the following ac- 
count of the origin of '* The Ancient Mariner." 
" It arose," he says, " out of the want of five 
pounds which Coleridge and I needed to make a 
tour together in Devonshire. We agreed to write 
jointly a poem, the subject of which Coleridge 
took from a dream, which a friend of his had 
once dreamt, concerning a person suffering under 



a dire curse from the commission of some crime. 
I supplied the crime, the shooting of the alba- 
tross, from an incident I had met with in one of 
Shelvocke's voyages. Wo tried the poem con- 
jointly for a day or two, but we pulled different 
ways, and only a few lines of it are mine." — • 
Frederick Saundera'a Festival of Song. 

Page 878. — The Abbot M'Kinnon. — To describe 
the astonishing scenes to which this romantic tale 
relates, Icolmkill and Staffa, would only be mul- 
tiplying pages to no purpose. By the Temple of 
the Ocean is meant the Isle of Staffa, and by its 
chancel the Cave of Fingal. 

St. Columba placed the nuns in an island at a 
little distance from lona, where he would not 
suffer either a cow or a woman; "for where there 
are cows," said he, '" there must be women ; and 
where there are women, there must be mischief." 
— Hogg^s Poems. 

Page 890. — The Laird o' Cockpen. — Miss 
Ferrier, who wrote Marriage Dealing, etc., added 
the last two verses. 

Par/e 897. — Baucis and Philemon. — The orig- 
inal tale here playfully modernized is in the 
Eighth Book of Ovid's Metamorjihoses, where 
Jove and Mercury are the originals of the two 
brother hermits. Finding hospitality only in the 
thatched cottage of the poor old couple, Baucis 
and Philemon, the gods after their entertainment 
took the old couple to the toj) of the hill, whence 
they saw the houses and lands of their unchar- 
itable neighbors all swallowed in a lake. Only 
their little home remained, which expanded to a 
temple. In this they served as the priests of 
Jove until they were changed into companion 
trees, hung over with fresh garlands by their 
worshippers. — Morlei/'a .Shorter Poems, 

Page 912. — The Vicar of Brav. — The Vicar 
of Bray, in Berkshire, was a Papist under the 
reign of Henry VIIL, and a Protestant under 
Edward VI. ; ho was a Papist again under Mary, 
and once more became a Protestant in the reign 
of Elizabeth. When this scandal to the gown 
was reproached for his versatility of religious 
creeds, and taxed for being a turncoat and an 
inconstant changeling, as Fuller expresses it, he 
replied, "Not so, neither; for if I changed my 
religion, I am sure I kept true to my principle ; 
which is, to live and die the Vicar of Bray." 

This vivacious and reverend hero has given 
birth to a proverb peculiar to this county: "The 
Vicar of Bray will be Vicar of Bray still." But 
how has it happened that this vicar should be so 
notorious, and one in much higher rank, acting 
the same part, should have escaped notice? Dr. 
Kitchen. Bishop of Llandaff, from nn idle abbot 
under Henry VIII. was made a busy bishop; 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



983 



Protestant under Ednard, be returned to bis old 
master under Mary ; and at last took the oath of 
supremacy under Elizabeth, and finished as a 
Parliament Prutestant. A pun spread the odium 
of bis name, for they said that be bad always 
loved the Kitchen better than the Church. — Dit- 
raeli'e Vuriuiiitie« of LiUratnrt:. 

Page 920. — What Mr. Robinson Thinks. — This 
satire was written to ridicule the habit of compar- 
atively obscure personages writing long letters to 
the newspapers supporting this or that candidate. 
The General C. mentioned in the poem is Gen. 
Caleb Gushing, afterward Attorney-General of 
the United States. During bis absence at the 
head of his troops in the Mexican war be was 
nominated for Governor of Massachusetts, but 
was not elected. 

Parje 927. — The Divkrtisg History of John 
Gilpin. — Mr. Beyer, an eminent linen-draper at 
the end of Paternoster Row, where it adjoins to 
Cheapside.— who died on the llth of May, 1791, at 
the ripe age of ninety-eight — is reported upon 
tolerable authority to have undergone in bis 
earlier days the adventure which Cowper has 
depicted in his ballad of "John Gilpin." It ap- 
pears from Southey's life of the poet that, among 
the efforts which Lady Austen from time to time 
made to dispel the melancholy of Cowper, was her 
recital of a story told to her in her childhood of 
an attempted but unlucky pleasure-party of a 
London linen-draper, ending in his being carried 
past his point both in going ami returning, and 
finally brought home by his contrarious beast, 
without ever having come in contact with his 
longing family at Edmonton. Cowper is said to 
have been extremely amused by the story, and 
kept awake by it the great part of the ensuing 
night, during which be probably laid the foun- 
dations of his ballad embodying the incidents. 
This was in October, 1782. 

Southey's account of the origin of the ballad 
may bo consistent with truth; but any one who 
candidly reads the marriage- adventure of Com- 
modore Trunnion, in Perfjjrtnc Plch-le^ will be 
forced to own that what is effective in the nar- 
ration previously existed there. — Chamberi'a Book 
of Daya. 

Pnije aj.f. — Toe Frirsd op Himaxitv and thb 
KNiFE-timsDKR. — In this poem Cunning ridicules 
theyoutbful Jacobin effusions of .Southcy, in which, 
he says, it was sedulously inculcated that there 
was a natural and eternal warfare between the 
poor and the rich. The Sapphic rhymes of Sou- 
they afforded a tempting subject for ludicrous 
parody, and Canning quotes the following stan- 
za, lest be should be suspected of painting from 
fancy, and not from life: 



" Cold was tho night-wind : drifting fast the 
snows fell ; 
Wide were the downs, and shelterless and 

naked ; 
When a poor wanderer struggled on her jour- 
ney. 

Weary and waysore." 

Page 93S. — .«0XG, BV Rogero. — The Rotert ; 
OTf The Double Arraugenieut, was a caricature 
of tho sentimental drama, and was levelled at 
Schiller's Rubbert and Goethe's Stella. Tho 
following extract will throw some light on the 
song. The soliloquy is by Frere, the song by 
Canning and Ellis : 

Scene from "The Rovers." 
{Scene changes to a nubterrancau vault in the Abbey 
of Quedliltburghj tcith coj^ug, 'ncutcheous, Dealh'» 
heads, and crons-botieg. — Toads and other loath- 
some reptiles are seen traversing the obscurer parts 
of the stage. — Rogero appears in chains, in n suit 
of rusty armor, with his beard grown and a cap 
of n grotesque form upon his head. — Reside him 
a crock or pitcher, supposed to contain his daily 
allowance of sustenance. — A long silence, during 
which the wind is heard to whistle through the 
caverns. — Rogero rises and comes slowly for- 
ward, with his arms folded.) 

Rog. Eleven years ! It is now eleven years since 
I was first immured in this living sepulchre — tho 
cruelty of a minister — the perfidy of a monk — 
yes, Matilda! for thy sake — alive amidst the dead 
—chained — coffined — confined — cut off from the 
converse of my fellow-men. Soft ! what have we 
here? {Stumbles over a bundle of sticks.) This 
cavern is so dark that I can scarcely distinguish 
the objects under my feet. Oh I — the register of 
my captivity — let me see, how stands the ac- 
count? {Takes ttp the sticks and turns them over 
with a melancholy air; then stands silent for a few 
moments, as if absorbed in calculation.) Eleven 
years and fifteen days ! — Ha ! the twenty-eighth 
of August! How docs the recollection of it vi- 
brato on my heart! It was on this day that I 
took my last leave of my Matilda. It was a sum- 
mer evening; her melting hand seemed to dis- 
solve in mine as I pressed it to my bosom — some 
demon whispered me that I shouM never see bcr 
more. I stood gazing on the hated vehicle which 
was conveying her away for ever. The tears were 
petrified under my eyelids. My heart was crys- 
tallized with agony. Anon, I looked along tho 
road. The diligence seemed to diminish every 
instant. I felt my heart beat against its prison 
as if anxious to leap out and overtake it. My 
soul whirled round as I watcbeil the rotation of 
the hinder wheels. A long trail of glory fol- 
lowed after her, ond mingled with the dust; it 



984 



NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CORROBORATIVE. 



was the emanation of divinity, luminous with 
love and beauty like the splendor of the setting 
sun, but it told me that the sun of my joys was 
sunk for ever. Yes, here in the depths of an eter- 
nal dungeon — in the nursing-cradle of hell — the 
suburbs of perdition — in a nest of demons, where 
despair in vain sits brooding over the putrid 
eggs of hope ; where agony woos the embrace 
of death; where patience, beside the bottomless 
pool of despondency, sits angling for impossibil- 
ities — yet even here to behold her, to embrace 
her! — yes, Matilda, whether in this dark abode, 
amidst toads and spiders, or in a royal palace, 
amidst the more loathsome reptiles of a court, 
would bo indifferent to me. Angels would show- 
er down their hymns of gratulation upon our 
heads, while fiends would envy the eternity of 
suffering love. . . . Soft, what air was that? 
It seemed a sound of more than human war- 
blings. Again {liHtene attentively for some min- 
iitef). Only the wind. It is well, however — it 
reminds me of that melancholy air which has 
so often solaced the hours of my captivity. Let 
rae see whether the damps of this dungeon have 
not yet injured my guitar. {Tuken his (jxiitar, 
tunes itf and hcffins the song with a full accompa- 
nimeut of violins from the orcheatra.) — Morlet/'s 
Shorter Poems. 

Page 934. — A Tale of Drury Lane. — The 
opening of Drury Lane Theatre in 1802, after 



having been burnt and rebuilt, and the offering 
of a prize of fifty pounds by the manager for 
the best opening address, were the circumstances 
which suggested the production of the Hfjected 
Addresses. The idea of the work was suddenly 
conceived, and it was executed in six weeks. 
Of the examples of the Mejected Addresses given 
in this book, "A Tale of Drury Lone" is a bur- 
lesque imitation of Sir Walter Scott's poems, " The 
Theatre" of Crabbe's, and "The Baby's Debut" 
of Wordsworth's. 

Page 946. — Malbrouck. — " Malbrouck " does 
not date from the battle of Malplaquet (1709), 
but from the time of the Crusades, six hundred 
years before. According to a tradition discovered 
by M. de Chateaubriand, the air came from the 
Arabs, and the tale is a legend of Mambrou, a 
crusader. It was brought into fashion during the 
Kevolution by Mme. Poitrine, who used to sing it 
to her royal foster-child, the son of Louis XVI. 
M. Arago telis us that when M. Monge, at Cairo, 
sang this air to an Egyptian audience, they all 
knew it, and joined in it. Certainly the song has 
nothing to do with the Duke of Marlborough, as 
it is all about feudal castles and Eastern wars. 
We are told also that the band of Captain Cook, 
in 1770, was playing the air one day on the east 
coast of Australia, when the natives evidently 
recognized it, and seemed enchanted. — Moniteur 
de I'ArmSe. — Breioer*8 D^ictionarif of Phrase and 
Fable, 



INDEX OF FIRST LIKES. 



Paog 
A BABr wn? sleeping 24 

Abide with me! fa.^t falls the eventide 557 

Abou Ben Adbem (may hi? tribe incrcnse !)... 66-i 
Above the pines the moon was slowly 

drifting 282 

A chieftain to the Highlands bound 381 

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun 442 

A country life is sweet! 692 

A dewdrop came, with a spark of flame 461 

Ae fond ki?s and then we sever! 154 

Afar in the desert I love to ride 4SS 

Again the Lord of Life and Light 537 

A good that never patisfios the mind. 656 

A happy bit hame this auld world would be... 706 

Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit 189 

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh 189 

Ah ! from mine eyes the tears unbidden start. 356 

Ah, how sweet it is to love! 99 

Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn 55 

Ah! my heart is weary waiting 433 

Ah ! then how sweetly closed those crowded 

days ! 41 

Ah! what a weary race my feet have run 508 

Ah! what is love? It is a pretty thing 142 

Airy, fairy Lilian 203 

A life on the ocean wave 695 

A little child, beneath a tree 43 

AlIen-a-Dale has do fagot for burning 186 

All hail the power of Jesus' name ! 537 

All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd 119 

All in the merry month of May 417 

All praise to Thee, my God, this night 555 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights 102 

All worldly shftpcs shall melt in gloom 643 

All yesterday I was spinning 776 

All ye wood?*, anrl trees, and bowers 429 

Aloft upon an old basaltic crag 276 

Although I enter not 211 

A man there came, whence none could tell.... 665 
A monk, when his rites sacerdotal were o'er... 665 

An attorney was taking a turn 918 

And are ye sure the news is true? 12 

And hast thou sought thy heavenly home 27 

And is this — Yarrow? — this the stream 510 

And this is thy grave, Macaura 223 

And thou art dead, as young and fair 744 



Paob 
And thou hast walk'd about (how strange a 

story!) 746 

"And wherefore do the poor complain?" 714 

"And where have 3*ou been, my Mary 809 

And ye sail walk in silk attire 147 

An old song made by an aged old pate 672 

A poor wayfaring man of grief. 542 

Arcthusa arose 462 

Ariel to Miranda: — Take 734 

Art thou pale for weariness 44S 

Art thou poor, yet ha^t thou golden slumbers? 660 

Art thou weary, art thou languid 577 

As, by some tyrant's stern command 740 

As by the shore at break of day 786 

As I gaed down by yon house-cn' 411 

A simple child 39 

As it fell upon a day 478 

As Julia once a-slumboring lay 209 

Ask me no more : the moon may dra\v the sea. 192 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows 192 

Ask mc why I send you here 214 

A slanting ray of evening light 671 

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers. 701 

As ships bccalm'd at eve, that lay 746 

A steed ! a steed of matchlesse speed 313 

As thro' the land at eve wo went 16 

A street there is in Paris famous 89 

A sweet disorder in the dress 742 

A thousand miles from land are we 470 

At midnight, in his guarded tent 346 

At Paris, hard by the main barriers 334 

At Paris it was, at the opera there ISO 

At setting day and rising morn 195 

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is 

still 648 

At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts 

arebarr'd 373 

Avenge, Lord ! thy slaughter'd saintfi, whose 

bones 315 

Awake, /Eolinn lyre, awake 730 

Awake, awake, my lyre! 121 

Awake, my soul, and with the sun 553 

Awake thee, my huly-lovc 178 

A warrior so bold, and a virgin so bright 871 

"Away! away!" cried the stout Sir John 421 

Away, away o'or the feathery crest 690 

985 



986 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 




PiOE 




Paob 


Away! let naught to love displeasing 


9 


Call for the robin redbreast and the wren.... 


638 


Aweary weed, toss'd to and fro 


465 


Calm me, my God, and keep me calm 


565 


A wee bird came to our ha'-door 


326 


Cam ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabcg 


326 


A well there is in the west country 


896 


Can I see another's woe 


589 


A wet sheet and a flowing sea 


695 


Captain, or colonel, or knight in arms 


315 


Ay, I saw her, we have met 


195 


Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night... 


778 


Ay, this is freedom ! these pure skies 


492 


Cheeks as soft as July peaches 


20 






Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry 


214 


Backward, turn backward, Time, in your 




Child, amidst the flowers at play 


564 


flight 


76 


Child of the sun ! pursue thy rapturous flight 


480 


Balow, my babe, lye stil and sleipe ! 


23 


Children of the heavenly King 


574 


Bards of passion and of mirth 


742 


Christians, awake, salute the happy morn 


532 


Beat on, proud billows; Boreas blow 


241 


Christ the Lord is risen to-day 


536 


Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! 


196 


Christ will gather in His own 


609 




783 
187 




463 


Before I trust my fate to thee ; 


Clear the brown path to meet his coulter's 




Before Jehovah's awful throne 


546 


gleam ! 


692 


Before the beginning of years 


746 


Close his eyes, his work is done 


279 


Before the starry threshold of Jove's court.... 


818 


Come, all ye jolly shepherds 


167 


Behold 


617 


Come away, come away, Death 

Come, follow, follow me 


197 


Behold the sun, that scem'd but now 

Behold this ruin! 'Twas a skull 

Be it ryght, or wrong, these men among 


556 
642 
112 


793 


Come from my first, ay, come! 


264 


Come hither, Evan Cameron! 


315 


Believe me, if all those endearing young 




Come hither, ye faithful 


534 


charms 


162 


Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire 


543 


Ben Battle was a soldier bold 


894 


Come, Holy Spirit, heavenly Dove 


543 




782 
497 


Come in the evening, or come in the morning. 
Come into the garden, Maud 


158 


Best and brightest, come away! 


177 


Better trust all and be deceived 


688 


Come listen to me, you gallants so free 


390 


Between the broad fields of wheat and corn... 


77 


Come live with me, and be my love 


140 


Between the dark and the daylight 


33 


Come, oh come! in pious lays 


551 


Beyond the smiling and tlie weeping 


595 


Come, thou Traveller unknown 


571 


Bird of the wilderness 


472 


Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken 




Blame not my Lute ! for he must sound 


190 


deer 


147 


Blest as the immortal gods is he 


192 


Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ! 'tis 




Blest be Thy love, dear Lord 


548 


at a white heat now ; 


693 


Blossom of the almond trees 


459 


Come sleep, sleep ! the certain knot of peace. 


778 


Blow, blow, thou winter wind 


438 


Come, Thou Fount of every blessing 


585 


Blow 3'e the trumpet, blow 


552 


Come to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee. 


13 


Blue-bird ! on yon leafless tree 


474 


Come unto these yellow sands 


794 


Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen 


833 


Come, we that love the Lord 


550 


Bound upon th' accursed tree 


536 


Come, ye thankful people, come 


558 


Braced in the sinewy vigor of thy breed 


491 


Comfort thee, thou mourner, yet a while 


273 




88 
535 


Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 
'tis early morn 




Brightest and best of the sons of the morning. 


149 


Bright flowers, whose home is everywhere!... 


456 


Condemn'd to hope's delusive mine 


245 


Bright shadows of true rest! some shoots of 




Consider the sea's listless chime 


464 


blisse 


560 


Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas. 


19 


Brother, thou art gone before us; and thy 




Crabbed age and youth 


758 


saintly soul is flown 


595 


Creator, Spirit, by whose aid 


544 


Burly, dozing humble-bee 


480 


Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a 




Bury the (jrcat Duke ,.. 

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride 


270 




234 


382 


Cupid and my Campaspe play'd 


101 


Busy, curious, thirsty fly 


481 


Cyriac, this three years day these eyes, tho' 




By coo! Siloam's shady rill 


575 


clear 


234 


By Nebo's lonely mountain 


580 






By our camp-fires rose a murmur 


322 


Daughter of Jove, relentless power 


779 




793 


Daughter to that good earl, once President... 


235 







INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



987 



Paox 

Dny, in molting purple dying ITU 

Dny of vengeance, without morrow! 611 

Day of wrath! day of mourning! 610 

Day-stars ! that ope your frownless eyes to 

twinkle 453 

Dear Chhic, while the busy crowd 4 

Dear chorister, who from those shadows sends. 476 

Dear is my little native vale 496 

Dear my friend and fellow-student, I would 

lean uiy spirit o'er you 104 

Deathless principle, arise! 596 

Deep in the wave is a coral grove 466 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 601 

Descend, ye Nino! descend and sing 729 

Dies Ir«, Dies Ilia!... 609 

Does the road wind up-hill all the way? 578 

Do not beguile my heart 585 

Down the dimpled grecu-sward dancing 41 

Down the Savoy valleys sounding 422 

Do ye hear the children weeping, my 

brothers 61 

I>rinlc to mo only with thine eyes 195 

Duncan Gray cam here to woo 144 

Earth has not anything to show more fair... 503 

K'en such is time; which takes on trust 228 

Eternal source of every joy 559 

Eternal .spirit of the chainlcss Mind ! 398 

Ethereal Minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky! 472 

Ever let the Fancy roam 498 

Every wedding, says the proverb 183 

Eyes, which can but ill define 751 



Faintly* as tolls the evening chime 

Fair Daffodils, wo weep to see 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree 

Fair stood the wiml for France 

False world, thou ly'st ; thou canst not lend.. 
Farewell ! but whenever you welcome the 

hour 

Farewell, — farewell to thee, Araby's daugh' 

ter! 

Farewell, life! my senses swim 

Farewell, rewards and fairies 

Farewell, thou busy world, and may 

Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell, my Jean. 

Far from the world, Lord, I flee 

Far in a wild, unknown to public view 

Father, I know that all my life 

Father of all ! in every age 

Fear no more the heal o' the sun 

Fhairshon swore a feud 

First time ho kissM mc, he but only kiss'd... 
Flee fro the prcs, and duello with sothfast- 

ness" 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes 

For ever with the Lord ! 



7/. 7 
455 
459 
300 
654 

85 

783 
637 
833 
493 
19.^ 
582 

or.fi 

567 
515 
f.:!7 
932 
135 

688 

515 

597 



Pace 

Fountain of mercy I God of love! 563 

Friend after friend departs! 638 

From all that dwell below the skies 552 

From beauteous Windsor's high and storied 

halls 504 

From gold to gray 675 

From Greenland's icy mountains 580 

From harmony, from heavenly harmony 728 

From his brimstone bed at break of day 915 

From Oberon, in fairy-land 808 

From out the grave of one whose budding 

years 742 

From Stirling Castle we had seen 510 

Full fathom five thy father lies 79t 

From the desert I come to thee 177 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow 438 

Full many a glorious morning have I seen.... 4.39 

GAMAnnA is a dainty steed 486 

Gano were but the winter cauld 638 

Gather yo rosebuds while ye may 123 

Genteel in personage .V..... 210 

Get up, get up, for shame ! the blooming morn. 432 

Gin a body meet a body r 214 

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet 578 

Give place, ye lovers, here before 154 

"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried 216 

Glories, pleasures, pomps, delights and case... 203 

Glorious things of thee are spoken 598 

God makes sech nights, all white an' still 889 

God might have bade the earth bring forth... 457 

God moves in a mysterious way 544 

God of the glorious Lyre 230 

God prosper long our noble king 301 

God rest you, merry gentlemen 532 

God save our gracious king! 355 

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes 23 

Go, lovely rose! 185 

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer! 475 

Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home. 657 

Good-morrow to thy sable beak 479 

Good people all, of every sort 926 

Good people all, with one accord 910 

Go patter to lubbers and swabs, do ye see 698 

Go, soul, the body's guest 655 

Goto dark Gcthsemano 535 

Go where glory waits thee 95 

Go, youth beloved, in distant glades 94 

Green he the turf above thee 253 

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass 480 

Grief hath been known to turn the young 

head gray 44 

Guide me, Thou great Jehovah ! 573 

Guvcner B. is a sensible man 920 

ITail, beauteous stranger of the grove! 479 

Hail. Thou once despinrd Jesus 539 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit 473 



988 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Page 

Hail to the Lord's Anointed 538 

Half a league, half a league 347 

Hame, hame. hame ! oh hame I fain would be! 367 

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick 851 

Happy me ! happy sheep 562 

Happy the man, whose wish and care 757 

Happy those early days, when I 92 

Hark ! hark ! my soul ! angelic songs are 

swelling 600 

Hark — hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings.. 439 

Hark! how all the welkin rings! 533 

Hark, my soul ! it is the Lord 542 

Hark, the glad sound! the Saviour comes 534 

Has sorrow thy young days shaded 744 

Has there any old fellow got mix'd with the 

boys? 82 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star.. 518 
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss 

shay 930 

Have you not heard the poets tell 21 

Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance 192 

Hear me, God! 544 

Hear my prayer, Heavenly Father 564 

Hear the sledges with the bells 767 

Hear ye, ladies that despise 169 

He is gone on the mountain 625 

Hence, all you vain delights 656 

Hence away, thou Siren; leave me 153 

Hence, loathed Melancholy 735 

Hence, vain deluding joys 737 

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling... 639 

Here rests, and let no saucy knave 946 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear 166 

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! here's a 

hearty health to thee! 214 

Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee 127 

Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with 

purple were dark 361 

Her suffering ended with the day 625 

He that loves a rosy cheek 180 

Hie upon Hielands 419 

High in the breathless hall the minstrel sate. 225 
His golden locks time hath to silver turn'd... 753 

Ho! city of the gay ! 268 

Holy, holy, holy. Lord God Almighty 546 

Home of the Percy's high-born race 513 

Home they brought her warrior dead 36 

Ho, pretty page with the dimpled chin 87 

" Ho, sailor of the sea! ' 51 

How are Thy servants blest, Lord! 558 

How blest has my time been, what joys have 

I known 4 

How calmly sinks the parting sun ! 441 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my 

childhood 76 

"How does the water 508 

How do I love thee? let me count the ways :.. 135 
How fresh, Lord, how sweet and clean 579 



Page 

How happy is he born and taught 661 

How hard, when those who do not wish 949 

Ho! why dost thou shiver and shake 715 

How many summers, love 17 

How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits 662 

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest 363 

How sweet it were, if without feeble fright... 745 

How sweet the Name of Jesus sounds 542 

How sweet thy modest light to view 449 

How vainly men themselves amaze 495 

Hush, my dear ! Lie still and slumber ! 25 

I AM a friar of orders gray 914 

I am as I am, and so will I be 191 

I am content, I do not care 660 

lam dying, Egypt, dying 292 

I am monarch of all I survey 679 

I am old and blind ! 235 

lanthe ! you are call'd to cross the sea ! 213 

I arise from dreams of thee 103 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers. 446 

I cannot eat but little meat 915 

I cannot make him' dead 36 

I climb'd the dark brow of the mighty Hell- 

vellyn 514 

I come from haunts of coot and hern 462 

I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair 148 

I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way 461 

I du believe in Freedom's cause 919 

If all the world and love were young 140 

If aught of oaten stop or jiastoral song 440 

If doughty deeds my lady please 161 

If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath 

stay'd 242 

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange 135 

If I live to grow old, as I find I go down 7ofi 

I fill this cup to one made up 178 

If life's pleasures cheer thee 577 

If the hard heart must be smitten ere the 

springs of life can flow fiS2 

If this fair rose offend thy sight 214 

If thou must love me, let it be for naught 134 

If thou shouldst ever come by choice or 

chance 406 

If thou wert by my side, my love 11 

If to be absent were to be 125 

If women could be fair, and yet not fond 190 

If you become a nun, dear 171 

I give immortal praise 546 

I hae seen great anes, and sat in great ha's... 3 

X have a bridge within my heart 683 

I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years 

old 38 

I have had playmates, I have had compan- 
ions 79 

I hear thee speak of the better land 598 

I in these flowery meads would be 467 

I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd. 765 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 


989 




Fade 




Paos 


I know not that tho men of old 


749 


I sprang to the stirrup, and ,Ioris, and he 


372 




fi.ST 


Is there for honest poverty 


704 


I liko a church, I like a cowl 

I look'd upon bi:^ brow ; no 8ign 


663 


40 


294 


Is this a fa.'it — to kee| 


587 


I love. And htive some cause to love, the earth. 


576 


It came upon the midnight clear 


533 


I loved him not; and yet now ho is gone 


141 


I think it was spring — but not certain I am.. 


950 


I loved thcc long and dearly 


171 


It is a beauteous evening, culm and free 


441 


I loved thee once, I'll love no more 


141 


It is an ancient mariner 


855 




7.i 


It is a place ivhere poets crown'd may feel the 
heart's decaying 




I lovo Thy kingdom, Lord 


574 


246 


I love to look on a scene like thi? 


79 


Itis not beauty I demand 


139 


I made a posy, while the day rnn by 


758 


It is not growing liko a tree 


679 




93 

20 


It is the miller's (Jaughtcr 

It was a friar of orders gray 


155 
117 




I m old, Qiy dears, and shnvell d with age, and 




It was a summer evening 


677 


work, and grief. 


892 


It was a time of sadnc.«.s, and my heart 


590 


I mourn no more my vanish'd years 

I'm sitting ahme by the fire 


615 




179 


207 


It was the calm and silent night! 


531 


I'm gittin on the stile, Mary 


86 


It was the time when lilies blow 


138 


636 


I've a letter from thy sire 


35 


In All ihc InnJ, range up, range down 


203 


I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking — 


308 


In ancient tiincH, as story tells 


897 


I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west 


lis 


In Clementina's artless mien 


214 


I've wander'd to the village, Tom, I've sal 




Id eddying course when leaves began to fly... 
I never gave a lock of hair away 


500 




80 


1.34 


I wander'd by the brookside 


169 


In form and feature, face and limb 


904 


I wander'd lonely as a Cloud 


454 


In good King Charles s golden days 


912 


I was a young fair tree 


460 


In her ear ho whispers gayly 


201 


I was thy Neighbor once, thou rugged Pile!.. 


505 


In Kiiln, a town of monk? and bones 


926 


I weep for Adonais — he is dead ! 


253 


In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes. 


457 


I weigh not fortune's frown or smile 


660 


In melancholic fancy 


8S4 


I will not let you say a woman's part 


188 


In slumbers of miilnight the sailor-boy lay... 


696 




213 


ofio 




402 


In summer, on the headlands 


8S3 


I wish I were where Helen lies 


403 


In the down-hill of life, when I find I'm de- 




I worship thee, sweet Will of God! 


566 


clining 


674 


I would have gone : God bade me slay 


591 


In the fair land o'erwateh'd by Iscbia's moun- 


883 


I would I were an excellent divine 


552 


tains 


277 


I would not live nlway — live alway below!... 


593 


In the greenest of our valleys 


871 








331 




186 


In the merrie moneth of Maye 

In the silent midnight watches 

In token that thou shalt not fear 


145 
575 


Jcsu, lover of mv soul 


541 
570 




563 


Jesus, I my cross have taken 


540 




411 
743 




538 
10 


In vain men tell us time can alter 


John Anderson, my jo, John 


In Xanadu did Kubin Khan 


848 


John Brown of Ossawatoraie spake on his 




In yonder grave a Druid lies 


244 




279 


I prithee send me back my heart 


171 


John Bull for pastime took a prance 


946 


I remember, I remember 


75 


John Gilpin was a citizen 


927 


I reside at Table .Mountain, and my name is 




Joy to the world I the Lord is come 


549 


Truthful James 


942 


Ju8t as I am, without one [>lca 


568 


I saw him last on this terraoo proud 


342 


Just for a handful of silver he left us 


263 




757 


Kkn ye aught of brave Lochiel ? 


.325 


I saw the young bride in her beauty and 




589 
220 
662 


King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid the 

trumpets sound 

King Francis was a hearty king, and loved n 


408 


I saw two clouds at morning 


I say to thee, do thou repeat. 


Is itcome ? they said, on the banks of the Nile 


750 




411 





990 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Page 

Labor is rest from sorrows that greet us 691 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere 210 

Laid in my quiet bed 657 

Lars Porsena of Clusium 285 

Late at e'en, drinking the wine 381 

Launch thy bark, mariner ! 579 

Laura, my darling, the roses have blush'd 16 

Lay a garland on my hearse 212 

Lead, kindly Light, amid th' encircling gloom. 569 

Leaves have their time to fall 630 

Let me move slowly through the street 647 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 21S 

Let Observation, with extensive view 649 

Let us go, lassie, go 496 

Life! I know not what thou art 615 

Like as the culver, on the bared bough 190 

Like as the damask rose you see 626 

Like as the waves make toward the pebbled 

shore 755 

Like the violet, which alone 179 

Like to the clear in highest sphere 123 

Like to the falling of a star 688 

Lips, lips, open! 27 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear 329 

Listen not when men shall tell thee. Here is 

work for thee to do 680 

Lithe and listen, gentlemen 368 

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloak'd 

clown 707 

Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day 323 

Lo ! He comes with clouds descending 611 

Lo ! here a little volume, but great book 586 

Lone upon a mountain, the pine trees wailing 

round him 172 

Long did I toil, and knew no earthly rest t>C^^ 

Look at me with thy largo brown eyes 21 

Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air! 184 

Lord, dismiss us with Thy blessing 612 

Lord, it belongs not to my care 566 

Lord Lovel he stood at his castle-gate 198 

Lord of the worlds above 583 

Lord, shall thy children come to Thee? 582 

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell 559 

Lord, with glowing heart I'd praise Thee 548 

Love in my bosom, like a bee 100 

Love is a sickness full of woes TOO 

Love is the blossom where there blows 100 

Lovely, lasting peace of mind 1 659 

Love me little, love me long 163 

Love not, love not ! ye hapless sons of clay !.. 187 

Love not me for comely grace 139 

Love still hath something of the sea 101 

Love thou thy land, with love far brought 363 

Love thy mother, little one! 26 

Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours 431 

"Lullaby, 0, lullaby!" 901 

Maidks ! with the meek, brtiwn eyes 64 



Page 

Maid of Athens, ere we part 145 

Maid of my love, sweet Genevieve 155 

"Make waj for liberty !" — he cried 299 

Malbrouck, the prince of commanders 946 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale 358 

Mary I I want a lyre with other strings 245 

Maud Miiller, on a summer's day 167 

Maxwelton braes are bonnie 199 

May! queen of blossoms 432 

May fhe Babylonish curse 917 

M'Kinnon's tall mast salutes the dj^y 878 

Men of England ! who inherit 3f)6 

Merry it is in the good greenwood S38 

Merry Margaret 223 

Methinks it is good to be here 633 

Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay. 471 

Midnight past ! Not a sound of aught 199 

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may 

roam 3 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! 454 

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour.. 240 

Mine be a cot beside the hill 8 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming 

of the Lord 354 

Miss Flora M'FHmsey, of Madison Square 708 

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains 520 

Morn on the waters ! and purple and bright.. 786 

Mortality, behold and fear 504 

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 327 

Much have I travelTd in the realms of gold... 741 

Music, when soft voices die..... 185 

IVIy beautiful ! my beautiful ! that standest 

meekly by 490 

My brother Jack was nine in May 938 

My coachman, in the moonlight there 707 

My country, 'tis of thee 354 

My curse upon thy venom'd stang 951 

My days among the dead are pass'd 739 

My days pass pleasantly away 753 

My dear and only love, I pray 193 

My earrings! my earrings I they've dropp'd 

into the well 183 

My eyes ! how I love you 162 

My faith looks up to Thee 539 

My God and Father, while I stray 566 

My God, now I from sleep awake 557 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness 

pains 476 

My heart leaps up when I behold 410 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here ?'^S 

My letters! all dead paper, . . . mute and 

white! 135 

My life is like the summer rose 618 

My little love, do you remember 85 

My Lord Tomnoddy got up one day 939 

My lov'd, my honor' d, much-respected friend. 5 
My love and I for kisses play'd 156 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 


991 




Paoi 




Pao« 




471 


happy soul, that lives on high 

hai>py Thames that didst my Stella bear !.. 


575 


My lute, be ns thou wert when thou didst grow 


736 


I'Jl 


My niindc to me a kingdom i? 


7.39 


Oh, breathe not his name ! let it sleep in tho 




My mother bore me in the southern wild 


50 


shade 


252 


My pipe is lit, my grog is mix'd 


9011 


Oh, lirignall banks are wild and fair 


176 


My prime of youth is but a frost of cares.... 


638 


Oh, England is a pleasant place for them 




My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook 


2on 


that's rich and high 


419 


My soul to-day 


784 


Oh, over skill'd to wear tho form we love! 


662 


Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew 


441 


Oh for a closer walk with God 


564 


My time, yo Muses, was happily spent 


173 




552 




My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 


127 


Oh for one hour of youthful joy ! 


897 






Oh, hadst thou never shared my fate 


11 




29 


Oh, had we some bright little isle of our own. 


194 


Near a small village in the West 


909 


Oh, happy is the man who hears 


575 


Nearer, my God, to Thee 


564 


Oh, hoiv much more doth beauty beauteous 




" Neeily knife-grinder, whither are you going ? 


933 




755 


211 
304 

6S7 


Oh, it is hard to work for God 


572 
403 
734 




Night is the time for rest 

Nobles and heralds, by your leave 


Oh, lull me, lull me, charming air! 


241 


*'0h Mary go and call the cattle home 


417 


219 




68 


No stir in the air. no stir in the sea 


378 


Oh, my Luvo's like a r«d, red rose 


1^' < 




252 


Oh never talk again to me 




Not as all other women are 


208 


Oh no, no, — let me lie 


t'l . 


Nothing but leaves; the Spirit grieves 


578 


Oh! once tho harp of Innisfail 


395 


Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 


754 


Oh saw ye bonnic Lesley 


115 


Now gentle sleep bath closed up those eyes.... 


156 


Oh, say, can you see by tho dawn's early light 


353 


Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom 




Oh, say what is that thing call'd Light 


51 


all glories are ! 


309 


Oh, sing unto my roundelay I 


147 


Now ponder well, you parents deare 


41 


Oh ! snntch'd away in beauty's bloom 


745 


Now poor Tom Dunetan's cold 


702 


Oh! take away my wig and gown 


919 


Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger 


431 


Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story... 


157 


Now there's peace on the shore, now there's 




Oh that those lips had language ! Life has 




calm on the sea * 


357 


pass'd 


17 


Now the third and fatal conflict for the Per- 




Oh the gallant fisher's life! 


468 


sian throne was done 


293 


Oh ! the pleasant days of old, which so often 








people praise ! 


749 




4"S 


Oh ' the snow, tho beautiful snow 


720 


day most calm, most bright! 


560 


Oh, the sweet conlcDtment 


494 


Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody! 


247 


Oh, timely happy, timely wise 


553 


O'er a low couch tbo setting sun 

faint, delicious, spring-time violet! 

fair and stately maid, whose eyes 


621 




103 


455 
217 




479 


Oh what can nil thee, knight-nt-arms ! 


865 


fairest of the rural maids! 


781 


Oh, what will a' the lads do 


161 


Of all the girls that arc so smart 


120 


"Oh wha will shoo my fair foot 


394 


Of all tho rides since the birth of time 


.371 


Oh, wherefore come ye forth in triumph from 




Of all the ships upon the blue 


952 


tho north 


313 


Of all the thoughts of Ood that are 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 


622 
126 


Oh, why left I my hamc? 


362 
«27 


Oh, why should the spirit of mortal bo proud ? 


Of Leinstcr, famed for maidens fair 


197 


Oh will ye choose to hear the news? 


953 


Of Nelson and tho North 


341 


Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West. 


1.36 


Oft has it been my lot to mark 


666 


Old girl that has borne me far ami fast 


491 


Ofl I had heard of Lucy Gray 


44 


Olil <f rimes is dead; that good old man 


910 


Oft, in the stilly night 

Ood of Bethel, by whoso hand 


79 




88 


.'■>87 


Old wine to drink ! 


751 


God I whoj^e thunder shakes the sky 


565 


Lord, another day is flown 


568 


Oh I a dainty plant is the ivy green 


458 


lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love tho 




happy day that fi.xed my choice 


562 


best! 


lOO 



992 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 




PlOE 




Faob 


Mary, at thy window be! 


147 


Prayer is the soul's sincere desire 


563 


melancholy bird! a winter's day 


471 






moon that shinest on this heathy wild 


448 


Queen and huntress, chaste and fair 


448 


mother dear. Jerusalem 


602 


Quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid 


.380 


Mother Earth I upon thy lap 


262 


Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares 


467 


On a day, alack the day ! 


141 






On a hill there grows a flower 


182 
161 




7S1 
769 
469 


Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow 

Restless forms of living light 


Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee... 


347 


Once, in the flight of ages past 


618 


Ride on, ride on in majesty ! 


535 


Once this soft turf, this rivulet s sands 


676 


" Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden 




Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pon- 




cushion down 


209 


dered, weak and weary 


849 


Rock of Ages, cleft for me 


541 


One by one the sands are flowing 


682 


"Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! 


295 


One day, as I was going by 


902 






One more Unfortunate 


719 


Sad is our youth, for it is ever going 


616 


One summer eve, with pensive thought 


784 


Saint Augustine! well hast thou said 


679 


One sweetly solemn thought 


587 


Saviour, when in dust to Thee 


540 


One time my soul was pierced as with a sword. 


31 


Saviour, who Thy flock art feeding 


541 


One word is too often profaned 


148 


Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing.. 


164 


nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray 


476 


Say over again, and yet once over again 


134 


On Leven's banks, while free to rove 


515 


Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have 




On Linden, when the sun was low 


340 


frown'd 


783 


nly waiting till the shadows 

the eighth day of March it was, some peo- 


639 




297 
435 


Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness ! 


ple say 


941 


See the chariot at hand here of Love ! 


160 


On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred 




See the course throng'd with gazers, the 




ninety-two 


413 


sports are begun 


486 


On yonder hill a castle standes 


385 


See with what simplicity 


240 


Paradise! Paradise! 


600 


Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ? 


220 


reader! hast thou ever stood to see 


460 


Shall I tell you whom I love ? 


123 




616 
584 




169 

793 






Thou, the contrite sinners' friend 


540 


She dwelt among the untrodden ways 


37 


Time, who knowest a lenient hand to lay... 


686 


She is a winsome wee thing 


11 


Our band is few, but true and tried 


331 


She is far from the land where her young 




Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud 




hero sleeps 


275 




701 




29 


Our God, our help in ages past 


549 


She is not fair to outward view 


172 


Our wean's the most wonderfu' wean e'er 1 




Shepherds all, and maidens fair 


493 




30 
680 


She's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie 

She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh 


218 
216 


Out and in the river is winding 


Out of the church she foUow'd them 


188 


She stood breast-high amid the corti 


144 


Over hill, over dale 


794 


She walks in beauty like the night 


743 




99 
629 


She was a Phantom of delight 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot 

Shout the glad tidings, exultingly sing 


12 

S3 

534 




wild West Wind, thou breath of autumn's 


being 


436 


Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more 


187 


World! OLife! Time! 


768 


Silent nymph, with curious eye! 

Since I did leave the presence of my love 


606 
190 




Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day 


215 


Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and 




Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 

Piping down the valleys wild 


369 
52 

717 
fillO 




170 


Since Thou hast added now God ! 


654 


Sing I pray, a little song 


17 


Pleasant are Thy courts above 


Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! 


469 




698 
755 




87 
23 


Poor Sou], the centre of my sinful earth 


Sleep, baby, sleep! 


Praise to God, immortal praise 


548 




24 





INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



993 



Paoi 

So cruel prison how could bctirlc. alas ! 224 

So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn 2fi7 

Softly e»8 

Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er 700 

Some dreams we have are nothing else but 

dreams 866 

Some murmur when their sky is clear 658 

Sometimes a light surprises 573 

Somewhat back from the village street 7S 

Some yeaf^ ago, ere time and taste 911 

Songs of praise the angels sang 588 

Souls of poets dead and gone 504 

Sound fife, and cry the slogan 319 

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea !. 550 
Spake full well, in language quaint and olden.. 450 
Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking north- 
ward far away 344 

Speak low ! tread softly through these balls... 740 

"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest 1 864 

Spirit that breathest through my lattice ; 

thou 442 

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleas- 
ant king. 431 

St. Agnes' Eve— Ah, bitter chill it was ! 127 

Stand! the ground's your own, my braves !... 329 

Stand the omnipotent decree ! 585 

S(. Anthony at church Bl.{ 

Star that bringest home the bee 449 

Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake 34 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God 1 664 

Still to bo neat, still to be drest 742 

Still young- luid fine, hot what a still in view. 445 

Strike the bells wantonly 766 

Such wa.4 old Chaucer : such the placid mien.. 223 

,Sun of my soul. Thou Saviour dear 555 

Survey this shield, all bossy bright 934 

Sweet and low, sweet and low 22 

Sweet are the charms of her I love 154 

Sweet arc the thoughts that savor of con- 
tent 660 

Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain.. 758 

Sweet baby, sleep ! what ails my dear? 25 

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes 210 

Sweet bird ! that sing'st away the early 

hours 475 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright 662 

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 63 

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well 517 

Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brerc 782 

.'^wcet nurslings of the vernal skies 450 

Sweet poet of the woods — a long adieu ! 478 

Sweet Saviour ! bless uB ere we go 556 

Sweet Spring! thou tum'st with all thy 

goodly train 429 

Swiftly walk over the western wave 442 



TiKK. oh take those lips away 184 

Tasteful illumination of the night 481 

63 



Paok 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean 91 

Tell mo not in mournful numbers 617 

T«ll me not, sweet. I am unkinde 124 

Tell me where is fancy bred 838 

Tell me, ye wing(>d winds 601 

Ternissa, you are fled 196 

That day of wrath, that dreadful day 610 

That time of year thou raay'st in me behold.. 219 

That way look, my Infant, lo ! 483 

That which her slender waist confined 185 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on 

the fold 285 

The blessed damozel leaned out 839 

The bonnic, bonnic bairn, who sits poking in 

the ase 53 

The boy stood on the burning deck 344 

The breaking waves dash'd high 310 

The castlc-clook had toll'd mitlnight 314 

The child leans on its parent's breast 573 

The chimes, the chimes of Motherland &0,J . 

The crackling embers on the hearth are dead... 777 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 6^0 

The day is cold, and dark and dreary 777 

The day is done, and the darkness 776 

The day of tumult, strife, defeat, was o'er 273 

The dews of summer night did fall 379 

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to 

blink 485 

The dale's i' this bonnet o' mine li)6 

Thee finds mo in the garden, Hannah, — cumo 

in! 'Tis kind of thee 53 

"Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed " 12 

The Emperor Nap he would set off 917 

The farmer sat in his easy -chair 8 

The farmer's wife sat at the door 699 

The forward youth that would appear 238 

The fountains mingle with the river 99 

The fourteenth of .luly had come 332 

The gallant youth who may have gain'd 5U 

The glories of our blood and state G23 

The Ood of Abraham ]irnise 583 

The groves of Blarney they look so charming. 516 

The hag is astride 875 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 362 

The heath this night must be my bed 186 

The hollow winds begin to blow 448 

The hosts of Don Rodrigo were scatter'd in 

dismay 292 

The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece! .360 

The Jester shook his hood and bolls, and 

leap'd upon a chair 914 

The king can drink the best of wine 705 

The king sits in Dunfermline town 367 

The kings who ruled mankind with haughty 

sway •*^' 

The king with all bis kingly train ' 

The Knight had ridden down from Wcniloy 

Moor 



994 



INDEX OF FIBST LINES. 



Pagb 

The lady lay in her bed 714 

The laird o' Cockpen he's proud and he's great. 890 

The lark now leaves his watery nest 4?1 

The lass of Patie's mill 155 

The little gate was reach'd at last 217 

The lopped tree in time may grow again 780 

The Lord my pasture shall prepare 561 

The lovely purple of the noon's bestowing.... 443 
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of 

the year 458 

The midges dance aboon the burn 4!0 

The mighty sun had just gone down 2ii8 

The Moorish king rides up and down 2117 

The Muse, disgusted at au age and clime 725 

The night is come; like to the day 056 

The night is dark, and the winter winds 14 

The night was made for cooling shade 785 

The noble king of Brentford 904 

The old mayor olimb'd the belfry-tower 415 

The Ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded 145 

*"he Orient day was fresh and fair 921 

■' ',0 pines were dark on Ramoth hill 84 

le play is done, the curtain drops 673 

' 'le poetry of earth is never dead 480 

1 here are gains for all our losses 766 

Xhere be none of Beauty's daughters 157 

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin. 359 

There is a calm for those who wee|» G41 

There is a dwelling-place above 599 

There is a garden in Uer face 1S5 

There is a happy land 599 

There is a land of pure delight 599 

There is music, there is sunshine 33 

Thereisno flock, however wateh'd and tended. 646 
There is r.ot in the wide world a vallc}' so 

sweet 517 

There lived, as Fame reports, in days of yore... 943 

There's a good time coming, boys 752 

There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly 

round trot 722 

There's music in the morning air 561 

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover. 69 
There's not a joy the world can give like that 

it takes away 656 

There was a jovial beggar 916 

There was a lady lived at Leith 894 

There was a niny, and a weel-fared may 393 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and 

stream 644 

There was heard the sound of a coming foe... 412 

ri ore was once a gentle time 156 

re were ninety and nine that safely lay 581 

e were three ravens sat on a tree 410 

' were thi-eo sailors of Bristol City 907 

were two sisters sat in a hour 418 

. '.h man's son inherits lan<l 705 

s grew sothiekly 458 

ire quiet when the winds give o'er.. 629 



Page 
These.as they change, Almighty Father, these. 427 

The sea! the sea ! the open sea ! 464 

These to His memory — since he held them 

dear 280 

The shades of night were falling fast 786 

The shivering column of the moonlight lies... 618 

"The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare 787 

The snow had begun in the gloaming 437 

The soote season, that bud and bloom forth 

brings 429 

The spacious firmament on high 545 

The Spearmen heard the bugle sound 392 

The splendor falls on castle-walls 500 

The stately Homes of England 3 

The strain upraise of joy and praise 546 

The summer and autumn had been so wet 409 

The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's 

hundred isles 311 

The Summer, the divinest Summer burns 435 

The sun has gane down o'er the lofty I!cn- 

lomond 163 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear 261 

The sun rises bright in France 358 

The tempest has darken'd the face of the skies. 464 

The tree of dcejiest root is found 619 

The twentieth year is well-nigh past 245 

The wanton troopers, riding by 499 

The warm sun is failing, Ihe bleak wind is 

wailing 436 

The wife sat thoughtfully turning over 14 

The wisest of the wise 753 

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall... 789 
The world goes up and the world goes down.. 782 

The world is very evil 604 

The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man... 615 

The wretch, condemn'd with life to part 787 

They are all gone into the world of light 597 

They come ! the merry summer montlis of 

beauty, song, and flowers 434 

They grew in beauty, side by side 32 

" They made her a grave too eold and damp. 521 

The young May moon is beaming, love 162 

They sat and comb'd their beautiful hair 788 

They that have power to hurt, and will do 

none 756 

This ancient silver bowl of mine, — -it tells of 

good old times 90 

This figure, that thou here seest put 230 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling.... 520 
This is the month, and this the happy morn.. 525 
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign.. 467 

This morning, timely rapt with holy fire 2.33 

This night is my departing night 650 

This only grant nie, that my means may 

lie 2.33 

This was the ruler of the land 291 

This winter's weather itt waxeth cold 899 

Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! 766 



INDEX OF FIRST LIXES 



•jas 



Thusc few pnic Autumn flowers! 449 

Thou art gone to the grave; but wo will not 

deplore the© 594 

Thou »rt, O (iod ! the life and light 531 

Thou hl'tssoni, bright with autumn dew 457 

Thou ehroniule of crimes! I read no more.... 350 

Thou hnpp.v, happy elf! 901 

Thou hast sworn by thy Hod, my Jcanie 157 

Thou lingerinf^ sti»r, with lessening ray 1.37 

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea 470 

Thou still uurnvish'd bride r»f f|uietncss! 748 

ThoUf t^> whom the world unknown 778 

Thou unrelenting Vast! 91 

Throe fishers went sailing away to the west... 699 

Three Poets, in three distant ages' bom 240 

Thrccseorc o' nobles rade up the king's ha*... 406 

Three years she grow in sun anti .shower 37 

Thrice, at the huts of I'ontcnoy, the Engljsh 

, column failM 321 

Thrice hajipy be, who by some shady grove... 658 

Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream 384 

Thy check is o' the rose's hue 202 

Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums 745 

Tiger! tiger! burning bright 492 

Timely blossom, infant fair 26 

Time wasteth years, and months, and hours.. 172 

" Tired of play ! Tire<l of play !" 33 

Tired with all these, fcr restful death I cry... 219 
'Tis midnight's holy hour, and silence now... 95 

'Tis sweet to bear the merry lurk 471 

*Tis sweet to view, from half-past live to six.. 936 

'Tis the last ruse of Summer 458 

'Tis the midille of the night by the castle- 
Hock 841 

'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night... 810 

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved 8^ 

'Tis twenty years, and something more 81 

To battle! to battle! 312 

To draw no envy (Shakespeare) on thy name. 228 

To fair Fidclc's grassy tomb 037 

To him who in the love of Nature holds 624 

To live in hell, and heaven to behold. .'. 212 

To me, fair friend, you never can be old 754 

Too late I stay'd, — forgive the crime! 781 

To one who has been long in city pent 497 

To praise thy life, or waile thy worthie death... 227 

To sigh, yet feci no pain 1S2 

To the chase goes Rodrigo, with bound and 

with hawk 291 

To the lonls of convention 'twas Claverhouso 

who spoke 318 

T'other day, as T was twining 103 

To these, whom death again did wed 635 

To the sound of timbrels sweet 220 

To thy lover , 126 

To Thy temple I repair 561 

Touch us gently, Time! 753 

To wako the soul by tender strokes of art.... 212 



Tread softly, — bow the head 721 

Triumphal arch that fill'st the sky 446 

Trust not, sweet soul, those curlild waves of 

gold 743 

"Turn, gentle hermit of the dale 139 

Turn I my looks unto the skies 156 

*Twas at the royal feast for Persia won 726 

'Twas at the silent, solemn hour 175 

'Twtts in the prime of summer-time 375 

'Twas morn, and beautiful the mountain's 

brow 518 

'Twas morn— but not the ray which falls the 

summer Ixiiighs among 264 

'Twas on a Monihiy morning „ 325 

'Twas on the shores that round our coast 908 

'Twas the day beside the Pyramids 343 

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all 

through the house 31 

'Twas when the seas were roaring 125 

'Twas when the wan leaf frao the birk trcu 

was fa'in 202 

Twelve years ago I made a mock 81 

"Two hands upon the breast 620 

Tying her bonnet under her chin 217 

Fnper a spreading chestnut tree 693 

Under my window, under my window -11 

I'ndemcath this sable hearse 233 

Uniler the groenwo<»d tree 459 

Under yonder beech tree standing on the 

green sward 142 

Up from the meadows rich with corn 348 

Up from the south, at break of day 349 

Up! quit thy bower : late wears the hour.... 497 

Up the airy mountain 794 

Up the dale and down the bourne 435 

Up to the hills I lift mine eyes 583 

Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 472 

Vais world, what is in thee? 592 

Versailles! — Up the chestnut alley 327 

Verse, a bree7c 'mtrl blossoms straying 94 

Victorious men of earth, no more 623 

Vital spark of heavenly flame 591! 

W'a.'JTOs droll, whoso harmless play 482 

Was it tbo chime of a tiny bell 628 

Watchman, tell us of the night 525 

'M'ay down upon do PwanneeRibbcr 68 

We arc all here 19 

Wo are born : we laugh ; wo wce| 017 

We are tbo sweet Flowers 431 

Wo are two travellers. Kogor and 1 717 

Wo count tho broken lyres that rest 62S 

Woo, modest, crimson-tippt'd flower 45fl 

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan 78S 

Woe, sleckit, cow'rin', tim'rous boa^lio 481 

AVco Willie M'inkio rins through tho tuwn...^ 2" 



99G 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Page 

We hail this morn 250 

Welcome, welcome, do I sing 125 

We meet 'neath the sounding rafter 789 

We parted iu silence, we parted by night So 

Were I as base as is the lowly plain 101 

Werther had a love for Charlotte 893 

We see not, know not; all our way 568 

We sing the praise of Him who died 536 

We the fairies, blithe and antic 794 

We watch'd her breathing through the night.. 625 

We were not many — we who stood 347 

What ails this heart o' mine? 199 

What are these in bright array 598 

What beck'ning ghost, along the moonlight 

shade 635 

What bird so sings, yet so does wail? 478 

What constitutes a state? 363 

What dire offence from amorous causes springs 795 
What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and 

cells 465 

What I shall leave thee, none can tell 233 

What is the meaning of the song 146 

What need my Shakespeare for his honor'd 

bones 230 

What's hallow'd ground? Has earth a clod.. 633 

What state of life can be so blest 213 

What was he doing, the great god Pan 725 

AVhen age hath made me what I am not now. 757 
When a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame 34 

Wen all is done and said 658 

When all Thy mercies, my God 547 

When as in faire Jerusalem 374 

When Britain first, at Heaven's command 355 

AVhen chapman billies leave the street 873 

Wlien coldness wraps this suffering clay 625 

Whene'er with haggard eyes I view 933 

When first I saw sweet Peggy 165 

AVhen Freedom from her mountain-height 353 

AVhen gathering clouds around I view 569 

AVhen God at first made Man. 662 

AVhen he whispers, " Miss Bailey 952 

AVhen hope lies dead within the heart 685 

AA'hen icicles hang by the wall 438 

AVhen I consider how my light is spent 234 

AVhen I do count the clock that tells the time. 754 

AVhen in death I shall calmly recline 766 

AA'^hen in disgrace with fortune nnd men's eyes. 219 

AA'hen in the chronicle of wasted time 220 

AVhen Israel, of the Lord beloved 550 

AVhen I survey the bright 777 

AA'hen I survey the wondrous cross 536 

AVhen I upon thy bosom lean 9 

AA'hen lovely woman stoops to folly 087 

f AA''hen Love, with unconfined wings 124 

AVhen maidens such as Hester die 743 

AVhen marsholl'd on the nightly plain 577 

AVhen May is in his i)rime, and youthful 

Spring 432 



Paos 

When midnight o'er the moonless skies 94 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young 732 

AVhen on my ear your loss was knelTd 638 

When our heads are bow'd with woe. 582 

AVhen silent time wi' lightly foot 93 

AVhen stars are in the quiet skies 218 

When that the fields put on their gay attire.. 475 
AVhen the fields were white with harvest, and 

the laborers were few 684 

When the hounds of spring are on winter's 

traces 430 

When the hours of day are number'd 775 

When the lessons and tasks are all ended 60 

AVhen the sheep are in the fauld 137 

A\''hen to the sessions of sweet silent thought. 755 
When troubled in spirit, when weary of life.. 487 

When we two parted 86 

Where are the swallows fled? .'. 684 

AVhere are you going, my pretty maid? 896 

Whereas on certain boughs and sprays 949 

AA'^here did you come from, baby dear? 22 

AA'here is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?.. 626 

Where shall the lover rest 176 

AVhere the bee sucks, there suck 1 794 

Where the remote Bermudas ride 549 

AVherever I wander, up and about 9 

AVhich I wish to remark 931 

Which shall it be? AVhich shall it be? 37 

While shepherds watch'd their flocks by night. 531 

AVhilst as fickle Fortune smiled 780 

Whilst Thee I seek, protecting Power 572 

AVhither, 'midst falling dew 471 

AVhoe'er she be 121 

Who is Sylvia? what is she 217 

AVho is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly- 

fix'd eyes 404 

Who'll press for gold this crowded street 675 

"'AVho's dead ?' Ye want to know 704 

Why, Damon, with the forward day 637 

"Why did you melt your waxen man 875 

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears 454 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 104 

Why thus longing, thus for ever sighing 768 N 

"Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? 134 

Wild rose of Alloway! my thanks 249 

With a glancing eye and curving mane 491 

With deep alTection 516 

With fingers weary and worn 716 

With how sad steps, Moon, thou climb'st 

the skies! 118 

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush. 474 

AVithin his sober realm of leafless trees 640 

AVithin the midnight of her hair 700 

AVilh little here to do or see 455 

With one consent let all the earth 545 

With silent awe I hail the sacred morn 439 

AA'oodman, spare that tree ! 77 

AA'ord was brought to the Danish king 420 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



9it- 



Woultlst *hou hcare what man can say 233 

Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart 124 

Ye banks, and braes, and strcama arouni< 120 

Ye banks and braes u' bonnie Doon 170 

Ye clouds! that far above mo float and 

pause SSS 

Yc distant spires, ye antique towers 504 

Y'c golden lamps of heaven, farewell 588 

Y'f Mariners of England 358 

Y'c nymphs of Solyma! begin the song 52y 

Y'c say they all have pass'd away 522 

Y'c shepherds so cheerful and gay 205 

"Yes," I answered you last night 138 

Y'et onoc more, yc laurels, and once more... 235 



FAOX 

Y'oB arc old. Father William, the young man 

cried 674 

" Too have beard. ' 4aid a youth to his sneet- 

boart, wl)0 st'od 182 

You knew, — wl, cw not Astrophel? 228 

You know »'" I'll I J storm'd Katisbon 341 

Yuu lay a wn^htb ii murder'd Lincoln's bier. 2S0 

Y'ou may give over plough, boys 620 

Y'ou moaner beauties of the night 185 

You must wake and call me early, call me 

early, mother dear 65 

Young IJcn he was a nice young man 895 

Y'oung Uory O'More courted Kathleen bawn.. 165 
Your horse is faint, my King — my Lord ! your 

gallant burse is sick 293 



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